Horizon of War Series

Chapter 162: Fading Lights

Fading Lights

East Tiberia, Besieged City, The Aggressor's Side

As the morning sun climbed higher, it bore silent witness to the brutal scene unfolding below. Hundreds of hardened Inglesians, leading reluctant but coerced Arvenians, launched their assault on the besieged city. The air quickly thickened with the stench of blood and guts.

The clamor of metal against stone echoed through the air as ladders clanged against the ancient walls, while a relentless hail of crossbow bolts flew from both the attackers and the desperate defenders above. Loud shouts and screams followed as the two sides clashed; for many, it was encouragement, but for some, it was their last cry as they fell to their deaths before even reaching the battlements.

Hundreds from the attacker's side had lost their lives in the opening hour. It was a high cost of life for such a small city. But the stubborn assault was not without reason; they had run out of time. With a sudden change in weather, the winter's chill could be felt to the bone, and without wintering quarters, the large army would suffer.

"Arvenians, follow the Inglesians," the Captain commanded at the foot of the city walls, where they had built a makeshift structure for protection from arrows.

"Trust your training. Don't slip, and you should be fine. Half the battlements are already ours," one of the lieutenants tried to reassure the frightened Arvenians.

Despite the words of encouragement, the Arvenians were not convinced. They had camped with the King, enjoying music and agreeable food, yet they had also seen a steady stream of deaths in their ranks. The campaign had left them thin and ragged, aged beyond their years.

Even when the food was plentiful, not all found pleasure in the feast. Some were burdened by the deaths and destruction they had caused and chose to drown their sorrows in wine or other intoxicants. Now, facing a new threat, their faces turned pale; every scream or bolt that flew near them utterly shocked them.

"The Inglesians are using a different ladder; they're not being pushed from below," one Arvenian muttered beneath his shield, covering his head as they formed their line.

"This is suicide. We should wait for the siege tower to arrive," another raised his voice.

"Hans, keep it down," a short-haired man behind tried to calm his friend.

"But, Marc, this is suicide—"

A loud crash happened just beside them, enough to make them cower. Swirling dust clouded the air, and only afterward did they realize a ladder had fallen, bringing down dozens of men in a gruesome display. Their heads were crushed, and limbs broken. One survivor could only cough and groan in pain, while another's hand reached toward the sky before his body jerked, and the hand collapsed.

"I'm not doing this!" the one named Hans, cried and broke from the group. Four ran in panic but were caught by the Northerners and were brutally subdued in front of everyone.

"Who else wants to become an embarrassment?" came a grim challenge from a morning star wielder and his comrades, all armored from top to toe. The blood of their latest victim served as a stark reminder to those who had second thoughts.

The group shuddered and dared not respond. They knew there was no stepping back; there was only the choice to climb and fight or face certain death as deserters. This was a trap set by the Northerners, as they deemed their vanguard too precious to be wasted in this kind of battle.

But the worst was yet to come. Their assigned leader, an Arvenian too stubborn and too ambitious, returned from the command post and said, "Today is our day. Let's march!"

There were pained sighs and mutters around them. With ten thousand people waiting and only dozens of ladders, there was a good chance that they wouldn't need to climb. Yet, they seemed to have lost the lottery.

"What do you want?" the group leader asked a man who grabbed his arm.

"They got Hans and Darren; can’t you do something about it?" asked a man clad in a helmet and wearing a weathered gambeson.

"That's their own fault—"

Tightening his grip on the leader's arm, he interrupted, "How can you say that? You're Connor's friend."

"Look, Marc, everything is amendable after the victory. I didn’t volunteer for nothing," he vented in frustration.

"Volunteered?" one bellowed in surprise, while other men in the group gazed sharply at their leader—some with suspicion, others with clear bloodlust.

Facing the brewing trouble, the leader stared back at them. "Can't you all see?" he pointed to the top of the wall. "They're losing big time. Look, no more bolts," he tried to reassure them. "I tried so hard to convince the Captain to sign us on the eve of victory. I even bribed—"

One man approached, shouting, "This is madness!" He would have started a brawl if not for the others who held him back.

The leader, his temper flaring, began, "You shall see that the reward—"

"Form a line on your ladder, no more talking! Don't falter, or else the defenders are going to regroup," the blond lieutenant, who commanded the ladder, barked, cutting him off abruptly.

The Arvenians could only grip their swords tighter as they queued up to the ladder assigned to them. Many were accustomed to wielding spears or poleaxes, but these weapons were useless while scaling the ladder. At the base of the ladder, the earth was muddy and blackened, reeking of piss. The place was filled with constant shouting and screams from above, alongside the clashing of metal.

"Marc, you take the front!" the leader instructed as he shoved him with a circular shield.

"But I don't—"

"You're the most able among us. Claim the glory," he insisted.

The one named Marc gazed at the men around him and took the shield. "You're going to pay for this," he spat to the side as he moved to the front, waiting for the last of the group still in front to climb.

The leader smirked to his group. "After this victory, you can take it out on me over the victory banquet."

But he didn't get the response he sought; instead, they were suddenly pushed from behind. The Northern men in thick accent shouted at them, "Get on, get on! Climb the ladder!"

The last group before them had climbed the ladder, and Marc finally came face to face with it. Tall and imposing Northern men holding the ladder stared at him; one motioned for him to come forward, his face bored, if not annoyed. To them, it seemed just another boring day job.

Then there were other men who maintained an eerie silence and relaxed faces, seemingly trying to convey that everything was going to be alright. "Strap the shield to your right wrist. Do not draw your sword unless you're on top," one of the calm men urged.

Marc did as he was told and gripped the ladder, which wobbled under the weight of the men on top and failed to instill confidence. "Will this hold?" he asked.

"A manned ladder will always hold," came the careless reply from the tall Northerner. Another patted his back and motioned for him to climb. As Marc nervously ascended, darkened blood quickly accumulated in his right hand, as if to forewarn him of the dangers above.

"Don't falter. Our crossbowmen will cover your ascent," other Northern men instructed in clear but high-pitched voices as Marc and his group began their climb.

A chill wind greeted Marc as he climbed higher than he ever had before. He gritted his teeth and followed his instinct to climb faster to close the distance with the group ahead. The rest of the group quickly followed, the ladder rocking and shuddering beneath them.

"For the King of Brigantes!" one shouted from below, only to be answered by four men falling from the very top, screaming as they plummeted to their deaths.

Marc was sweating profusely, his life in Bellandia flashing before his eyes. Yet, there was nothing he could do but follow the men in front. When someone above urinated in fear, it didn't even anger him.

"Climb faster!" someone from their group yelled. "I have an appointment with the Ancients to ask why this world is so messed up."

"He's dead!" came a retort from above.

"Oi, that's the Ageless," another countered.

After a pause, the man above responded, "Forgive me, my mum never told me the stories."

This prompted a chuckle from everyone around them. "No offense taken. We're going to die anyway."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"Don't jinx us. And why is this wall so damn tall—"

The Arvenians enjoyed their last respite, fortunate that the defenders could no longer attack them with arrows or stones. From their vantage point, they could see that the group above them had entered the fray and was holding their own. To their left, the Inglesian crossbowmen on the ladder provided cover for the assault with bolts.

Against all odds, the group on top had actually secured a foothold on the battlements. Marc rushed the last twenty or thirty rungs as quickly as he could, disregarding his shield as the path opened before him. The man in front even lent him a hand, and he climbed over the small parapet walls in one piece.

He did it—Marc arrived at the battlements, and this achievement emboldened him. Breathless, he caught a faint, nervous smile from a man noticeably younger than himself. "Gratitude," he said to him.

"Good luck," replied the helpful youth, who then rushed to aid his comrade on the left. He almost slipped but quickly regained his footing.

Marc drew his sword and instinctively turned to the right, noting that two of his comrades had followed him up.

The view through his helmet revealed a scene of carnage: the ground was dyed ochre red, dead men were scattered across the narrow area, and the stone floor was slick with blood and guts. Marc fought the urge to vomit and stood firm to allow his group to climb. Then he saw a dozen defenders regroup and advance toward his position with brandished spears and poleaxes.

"Help them, get them up fast!" he urged to his comrades, who were already furiously assisting their allies on the ladder.

"For the King of Brigantes!" the group leader shouted in excitement as he climbed onto the battlements. But his excitement was short-lived as a dozen defenders charged, forming a formidable wall of spears.

...

The Defender's Side

After many days of siege, the surviving defenders had mastered numerous tricks. Their poleaxe and spear users were adept at surprising attackers, seemingly only offering lightly defended areas before suddenly appearing in force, ready with their killing blows.

Sometimes, they ignored the shield users at the top and attacked the climbers below using their long-reach weapons. Other times, they allowed the attackers to climb before rushing at them with brandished spears, a tactic the attackers found hard to counter.

The defenders' only issue was their small number: a mere ninety against a host of ten thousand, who swarmed at them like endless waves of ants. However, the Northerners' command was far from incompetent; they knew they aimed to overwhelm the defenses. By steadily sending more men to the top, despite the apparent lack of success, they were slowly grinding the defenders to the breaking point.

Now, the defenders were on the verge of being overwhelmed at any point in the assault. With just ninety, supported by a group of youngsters and frail but brave old men, they clung to life. Yet, each loss was a heavy blow, with their numbers dwindling and fatigue and injuries piling up.

In contrast, for every attacker that fell, another seemed to take their place; the besiegers, numbering in the tens of thousands, were not about to run out of manpower.

"We're out of crossbow bolts," one reported, and the commander, Bald Eagle, could only nod grimly. The small stockpile of bolts they had was mostly scavenged or crudely fashioned from whatever materials the beleaguered city could muster.

He gazed at his remaining personal guards who had fought bitterly at every corner, rushing to each new wave of assault as their battlements were besieged. "With me," he commanded the few with him to move to another section that seemingly needed help. There, he bumped into his trusted guardsman, who shouted from his helmet, "Sir, today the bastards are a little different."

"I've noticed," said Bald Eagle as he surveyed the immediate area. "They're getting desperate because of the weather."

"It would be nice for snow to fall now," the guardsman replied before thrusting his poleaxe into the second man scaling the ladder. The faces of the men below were filled with terror. An experienced defender like him never bothered with the first man, who was trained to use a shield; he aimed for the middle of the group.

His swordsmen stalled the advance, the poleaxe wielder counterattacked, and the only threat was the crossbowmen on another ladder who could take out a careless defender.

"South side overrun," one warned, and Bald Eagle, tired as he was, turned his head toward it. There, he witnessed another wave of attackers climbing over the small wall onto the battlements.

"Ten with me," Bald Eagle said, preparing his poleaxe since they had run out of personnel.

"Let's move out, spears in front!" the guardsman commanded.

On the near southern ramparts, the dozen who were holding there gave their best before slowly retreating, allowing Bald Eagle and his group to hit the attackers from the other side.

"Spears out in front," the experienced guardsman commanded the small group as they engaged a six-man group, who obviously did not know what they were doing.

"Steady... steady... Charge!" Bald Eagle yelled hoarsely as he launched himself forward with several men.

Panicked screams echoed as they repeatedly and mercilessly drove the six-man group to the bitter end. Someone even tried to scale down the ladder, only to be pushed aside by their own group.

Several more quickly became victims as the defenders rushed the men still on the ladder. For a brief moment, things were under control in their section.

Bald Eagle plunged the end of his poleaxe into the back of one of the fallen men struggling to survive. He knew better than to kneel and use his dagger, conserving strength instead. They also did not bother to throw the dead over, as it would exhaust them. Instead, they let the dead scatter around the ladder to discourage attackers and create a gruesome battlefield.

"More are climbing," a crossbowman, who had resorted to using a poleaxe, pointed out.

"Wait, this one isn't as sturdy," the guardsman observed.

Several quickly withdrew their poleaxes and placed them against the ladder. Following the guardsman's lead, they pushed with all their might. The ladder wobbled despite the Northern men below holding it with great effort. Then, a joint somewhere in the middle snapped and failed. The men who were on the ladder screamed as they fell to a crushing end in a heap of wooden rubble and gore.

The guardsman lost his poleaxe as it stuck to the ladder, but he and everyone else were satisfied with the result. That moment of carelessness almost cost him his life as a bolt narrowly missed him. Bald Eagle grabbed him by the arm, forcing him to duck low before passing him his poleaxe.

"I'm not paid enough for this," the guardsman quipped as he unlatched his visor to release heat and catch his breath.

"No, you're enjoying the thrill," Bald Eagle commented as he peeked over the small wall.

"More are coming... They're different," the crossbowman blurted out.

"It's the Inglesians; they're on the move," Bald Eagle confirmed with a stern and sweaty face.

The guardsman and their men stared sharply at Bald Eagle. "They must've sensed that we're slowing down."

"They're going to end this," someone said nervously.

Bald Eagle was yet to reply when the guardsman urged, "Sir, better get down and lock the door. It's going to get ugly."

"And do what? Commit suicide?" Bald Eagle quipped while more crossbow bolts tried to deter them from regrouping. The defenders around their vicinity scrambled for shields and cover.

Despite the desperation, the men chuckled. The guardsman sighed, "I don’t know, I’m not smart enough to think a few steps ahead."

"Just don't die," Bald Eagle instructed as he took a shield from a fallen attacker and whose chest was soaked in blood.

The men followed his example, taking waterskins and trinkets from the dead. Intrigued by the handle, the guardsman picked up a knife from a nearby fallen man just as the supposedly dead soldier suddenly coughed. The thin figure, draped in a blood-stained gambeson, lay immobile but stared at him with bloodshot eyes. His face was smeared with blood that had seeped from his short hair.

"You won't be needing this anymore," the guardsman said indifferently.

The man gave a weak nod. "T-take good care... my brother gave it to me."

"Where's your brother?" the guardsman asked, eyeing the fine quality of the knife. "If the world finds peace, I might return this."

"He... probably with the Ancients now."

"That's a shame," the guardsman paused and looked him in the eye. "Should I make it quick for you?"

The man gazed back and said, "I feel no pain, just let me be."

"Suit yourself." The guardsman left to peek over the battlement's small wall.

Bald Eagle, who had been watchful of the encounter, said to the fallen man, "Where do you come from?"

He weakly gazed back. "Bellandia," he replied, swallowing dryly.

"Where is it?"

"A week's walk to the south... from Alba Castle," his voice withered away.

"You're Arvenian, a subject of the Imperium," Bald Eagle remarked.

"I was, before my village was invaded."

"Your end is nigh and the Ancients will judge you fairly. So, tell me, is there anything you can say to help us defend the Imperium?"

"I wish I had," he said with a tone of regret.

Bald Eagle exhaled deeply. Slowly, a chorus of war began to rise from beneath the wall. Boots clanked against wooden rungs in a steady, relentless rhythm, punctuated by the occasional scrape of armor or shield against the ladder's frame. Unlike the reluctant Arvenians, the Inglesians, eager to prove themselves worthy allies to the new king, were fully invested in this struggle.

Many of them hungered for recognition, prize money, and status. Each man's ascent was marked by the rhythmic jangle of ringmail the soft thuds of fabric-clad limbs pressing upward. Over it all, the grim determination of the men was audible in their heavy, disciplined breathing and grunts of exertion.

"The Inglesians are coming," warned another group of defenders who chose to join Bald Eagle.

"Time to prepare our welcome," Bald Eagle said.

"It's an honor to fight alongside you, Sir," said a bearded man from that group.

"Hmph, you've said it almost half a dozen times already," the commander quipped.

They all chuckled, but the bearded man sternly said, "I mean it this time."

They had no time for more jokes; their laughter died as the first Inglesian reached the parapet and jumped over into the battlements. The guardsman who had readied his group charged at them.

"Don't delay, crush them, their crossbowmen wouldn't dare to shoot!" Bald Eagle commanded.

And the battle for this small walled city began anew.

...

Marc

Lying on his back, the dying man bore witness to this struggle. The Inglesian assault came fast and hard, far surpassing what the Arvenians could ever have dreamed of. Despite the defenders' stubborn resistance and a great number of casualties on the attacker's side, the Inglesians managed to establish a strong foothold.

Their attack also occurred simultaneously in several places, achieving similar success. Now, more and more men were coming from below. The fighting turned into a chaotic duel as the Inglesians began to overrun the defenders at every point.

There was a stalemate for a while as both sides traded blows with little ground gained. However, when the Inglesians brought up their crossbowmen, the battle quickly turned into a one-sided massacre. The defenders, including those who had spoken to him and taken his shield and knife, along with many of their comrades, were hit and struggled in vain to defend themselves.

It was a massacre, and Marc, despite his hostilities, couldn't help but feel pity for them, knowing that if he had been born in Tiberia, he might have fought alongside them. In truth, he didn't support the new king. He didn't believe that the Ageless had died, and more importantly, he felt he was every bit an Imperium subject, just like his father before him.

However, it was all a moot point now. His lungs felt heavy and painful; each breath was like choking.

As he closed his eyes, his mind was tormented by the harrowing scenes he had faced over the past several weeks. He had scavenged the battlefield, cleared bodies from captured sites, and buried people in mass graves. The worst came when he was ordered to keep watch and kill anyone attempting to escape while the Northerners plundered the villages.

Then images of his group flashed before him, ending with the youth who had helped climb the wall. The realization that even he had died made him restless. It would have been over just like that, had thoughts of his family not suddenly surfaced.

"Mother," he muttered in pain amidst the loud clashes of iron and steel. "Tanya," he whispered his sister's name.

A smile formed at the corner of his mouth as he remembered their simple lives together. The loss of blood had finally sent his body into shock; his pulse weakened, and the light of life nearly faded from his eyes. His pupils stared emptily into the sky, seeking the foreigner who, for a brief time, had called him a brother.

Only then did Marc notice the white flakes falling from the sky. One landed on his cheek, making him blink at its coldness.

***