Dead sprinting forward, my boots pounding against blood-slick stone, my eyes locked with the enemy before me. Every muscle pulled taut as I watched him draw his bow, tracking me, calculating—and loose.
His arrow shot straight for my chest. But I'd seen the release coming. I dropped to the ground hard, my armor scraping against stone as I slid under the projectile. The arrow whistled over my head, close enough that I felt the displaced air.
Kicking off the ground, my boots finding purchase, I lifted my longsword and slashed horizontally for his neck in one fluid motion.
The man was quick, clearly well-trained. He dropped his bow without hesitation and stepped backward smoothly, evading the killing blow by mere inches. My blade cut only air. With a grimace on his face, he drew his own blade with practiced ease and brought it to bear with a thrust that forced me to pull up short, my momentum halted.
I took him in quickly. Decent half-plate armor covered his chest, actual greaves protected his legs, and a fancy-looking locket hung from his neck, glinting in the firelight. He was likely some sort of squad leader or minor officer.
One on one, he probably could kill me. After all, I was merely poorly trained militia with barely three months of experience and scavenged gear.
But unfortunately for him, I wasn't alone.
"Get that bastard!" one of my comrades yelled before rushing past me, striking upward with a vertical swing of his shortsword that whistled through the air.
Following my zealous brother in arms, I ran in from the side and aimed for the unprotected back of his leg, my blade low and angled for the hamstring.
The enemy managed to dodge both of our swings with ease. Pivoting on his boots, he ducked another swing from the Highserker with fluid grace, then lashed out at me with his blade in a sharp riposte.
Bringing my sword up and tilting it at an angle, I slid his strike off the flat of my blade before pushing forward and attempting to gut him in close quarters. But that proved unnecessary as my backup punched through the side of his throat with his own sword, the blade erupting out the other side in a spray of blood.
The officer gurgled and collapsed, his fancy locket clinking against the stone as he fell.
"Alright! I killed an officer! I call dibs on his loot!" My ally yelled out while patting me on the shoulder enthusiastically, grinning beneath his blood-splattered face.
"All yours, brother," I said, already scanning for the next threat.
More Highserk soldier had already begun rushing past us as we took down the officer, boots pounding on stone, voices raised in battle cries. The familiar clashing of steel echoed ahead of us, but it was thinner now, more sporadic. We were getting down to the last defenders of this section, and the gate tower loomed ahead, so close I could see the murder holes in its base.
It seemed the mages on the enemy side had exhausted themselves, retreated off the wall, or died. No magic projectiles were bombarding us anymore, and few arrows were being fired from the enemy side. Just scattered resistance, pockets of desperate men making their last stands.
Krantz walked past me, his twin blades still dripping blood, before he actually noticed who I even was. He did a double-take, his eyes widening slightly.
"Oh damn, Ethan! You're alive, that's good." He clapped a bloody gauntlet on my shoulder, his grin manic. "Come on, we've still got more Libertoan dogs to slaughter. At this rate, I'll surely impress the company commander if I can take that gatehouse."
Of course that's what you're thinking about.
I almost rolled my eyes, instead merely nodding my head down so my helmet covered my features from his perspective and hid my expression.
"Yes, Squad Leader," I intoned with just enough passion to not sound like I was mocking him.
Krantz didn't notice, or didn't care. He was already turning away, pointing his sword toward the gatehouse like it was his personal prize to claim.
"Good man! Rolf's still alive too, saw him bashing in some poor bastard's skull a minute ago. Let's finish this!"
He charged ahead, and I followed.
At least he fights on the frontline, I reminded myself. Glory-hungry asshole or not, Krantz didn't send his men to die while he stayed safe. That counted for something… maybe.
—
I stumbled over another body as I dodged the poorly aimed stab from my current dance partner, my boots slipping slightly on blood-slick stone. Gritting my teeth and practically snarling, I recentered myself before charging at the man.
The man before me had a pale complexion, sweat pouring down his face. There was fear etched into his features, and it only grew worse as he saw me rush toward him, sword raised.
He was poorly trained militia, meant to use his spear in a formation with other men, not fight one on one. It was just bad luck that I happened to have a little more experience than him—three months of surviving when others hadn't.
He thrust for my chest one more time, his movements telegraphed and desperate. That's all he would get. I slipped past his desperate counter, my blade plunging into his unprotected lower torso, just above his hip where the chainmail didn't reach.
"Guh! AGHHHHH!" He let loose a gurgling, strangled scream as I pushed him backward and he fell onto the rampart with a heavy thud, his spear clattering from his grip.
Ripping my blade loose with a twist, blood spraying across my gauntlets, I quickly looked up to see if anybody was coming to enact vengeance for this poor fool. But it seemed his allies had begun withdrawing into the gatehouse, abandoning this section of wall entirely.
With nobody around to stop me, I clenched my teeth to bite back the mild disgust and carefully aimed my blade, positioning the point over his heart. Then I pushed down.
The screaming stopped after one last gasp, a wet exhale that seemed to deflate him entirely.
I quickly turned away, not looking at his face, and joined the push toward the now-unprotected gatehouse. My hands were shaking slightly, but I kept moving forward.
In the stairwell of the gatehouse were plenty of Libertoan soldiers packed in like sardines. A forest of spears faced our troops, the points gleaming in the firelight, as we stared at them in silence. The defenders' faces were pale, sweat-streaked, desperate. They knew they were trapped.
That is, until one of our mages stepped forward, his appearance no different than the average Highserk soldier, and with a contemptuous wave of his left hand, set them all on fire.
The flames erupted instantly, a rolling wave of orange and red that consumed everything in the stairwell. The screams started immediately. Men thrashed and writhed, their spears clattering to the stone as they clawed at their own burning flesh.
I imagined that the screams echoed across the fortress city, carrying over the walls and through the streets. A grim announcement to the people living here, and the soldiers still fighting, that their wall had just officially fallen.
As the fire burned a little brighter, flames licking hungrily at charred flesh, and the smoldering bodies finally stopped writhing in agony, another mage stepped forward. With a gesture, he doused the entire room in water, the liquid materializing from nothing and crashing down like a wave.
The steam hissed violently, billowing up and warming the air until it was almost suffocating. The smell got worse somehow, wet ash and cooked meat mixing into something that made me feel sick.
But it allowed us to enter the building.
Krantz didn't hesitate. "Forward! Secure the gate mechanism!"
Soldiers began filing into the gatehouse, stepping over the charred corpses that crunched under their boots. Some of the bodies were still smoking, curled into fetal positions, their faces frozen in final screams.
I followed, trying not to look too closely at what I was stepping on.
—
As the gate opened with a groaning creak of ancient wood and iron, our reserve troops, along with any additional men who hadn't made it to the walls, poured into the city like a flood, it quickly became apparent to the Libertoan defenders that there was no winning.
On the ground level, I could see soldiers below beginning to throw their weapons down, spears and swords clattering against cobblestones. Some fell to their knees, hands raised. Others simply stood there, defeated, praying that if they surrendered they would be allowed to at least survive.
With resistance quickly dropping, orders came down the chain to begin accepting surrenders. What little pockets of resistance continued to fight, isolated squads making desperate last stands, soon began to accept that defeat was at hand.
Then the main castle, or whatever the large central building in the middle of the city was, exploded outward.
Stone and debris erupted into the air. I felt the shockwave from here, a pulse of pressure that made my ears pop. Dust billowed up in a massive cloud.
A booming yell echoed from within, carried by the wind in a manner that allowed the entire city to hear the following declaration. The voice was everywhere, in the streets, on the walls, reverberating off stone.
"LIBERTOANS, I AM GELLART CLAUDIUS. REGIMENTAL COMMANDER OF THIS HIGHSERK ARMY. YOUR COMMANDER LIES BEATEN AND CRYING AT MY FEET. SURRENDER WHILE I STILL FEEL MERCIFUL."
The silence that followed was deafening.
"OOOORAAAAH!" The Highserk war cry erupted around me, thousands of voices raised in triumph.
Fort Reddrin had fallen.
—
Resting with my boots dangling off the rampart, I took in another huff of the cold late-night air, my breath misting before my face. For once, Krantz hadn't been a hardass and let the squad relax, or what was left of it, anyway. That meant me and Rolf got to rest, because everybody else was dead.
Rolf had slunk off somewhere else, probably to find some wine or get in on the looting. And so I sat alone on the ramparts of the fort, staring down at the city pockmarked with signs of destruction.
Boulders from earth magic lay embedded in buildings, their walls cracked and crumbling around the impact sites. Smoke rose here and there from stray fireballs that had set structures ablaze, and corpses lay sprawled all over the place. In the streets, on doorsteps, piled against walls where defenders had made their last stands.
The city was a mess. We'd won, but we'd broken it in the process.
Sniffling, I lifted my gloved hand and wiped my nose. The cold air was beginning to chill me now that the battle was over and my body wasn't kept warm by running all over the place, fighting for my life.
The adrenaline had drained from my body and left me exhausted, but I couldn't find it in me to sleep just yet. Too wired. Too many images playing behind my eyelids when I closed them.
Adjusting my bloody and slightly torn cloak, I shifted the hood over my helmet further and pulled my gray and dirty scarf up to cover my face against the cold.
Down below, I watched as Highserk soldiers patrolled the streets in organized groups, torches bobbing in the darkness. They were looking for anybody not paying heed to our martial law, or hunting down soldiers who hadn't surrendered yet. The prisoners who had surrendered were already being put to work, digging mass graves for all the corpses around. Their faces were hollow, defeated.
The rattle of armor made me shift my head to the side, hand instinctively moving toward my sword before I recognized the figure as just another soldier walking the walls. I'd said I was alone, but that wasn't really true. There had to be at least a hundred of us walking every section of the ramparts, keeping watch in case any desperate fools tried something stupid.
The war wasn't over. This was just one fortress on the border of a sprawling nation.
But for tonight, we'd won.
I let my hand fall away from my sword and went back to watching the broken city below.
"Haaah..." I sighed, my breath misting in the cold air, before pushing myself to my feet. My legs protested, stiff and aching. If I wasn't going to be able to get some sleep, then I might as well make myself useful.
Making my way down one of the large cobblestone staircases that descended from the rampart, worn smooth by decades of boots, I found myself wandering through the streets.
I was a bit lost, honestly. None of the Highserk soldiers were recognizable considering the sheer amount of troops we'd pulled together for this siege. Faces blurred together in the night, all wearing the same mismatched armor, all looking equally exhausted.
Walking into a plaza, I found the opening to an aid station that our army had set up. The smell hit me first, blood, shit, the acrid stench of burned flesh mixed with herbs and alcohol. People were constantly being carried inside on makeshift stretchers, or laid out on bloodstained cloth outside while medics ran here and there, their hands red to the elbows.
The battle might have been over, but I knew that over the night the death toll would rise from our wounded. Men who seemed fine now would succumb to infection. Others would bleed out internally, their injuries too severe for our limited healing magic.
A priest off in the corner of the plaza was saying final rites for scores of dead Highserk soldiers. Their bodies were laid neatly on the ground in rows, hands folded over chests, weapons placed at their sides.
The priest bowed low, his voice a low murmur I couldn't make out, before walking slowly around and sprinkling holy water over the bodies from a small silver censer.
It was a common sight on all the battlefields I'd been to. Undead were a real threat in this world, and if the dead weren't properly dealt with and sanctified, even with just a small amount of holy water, then former allies and dead enemies would rise to try and drag more of the living into the afterlife with cold, grasping hands.
I'd not had the displeasure of witnessing such a sight just yet, but in the Highserk Empire that was constantly at war, I had no doubt I would eventually have to.
Wandering around a bit more, my boots scuffing against the cobblestones, a random soldier cheered with his buddies before spotting me. His face was flushed and he pushed a warm mug into my hand without asking.
The unknown liquid sloshed in the cup, dark and steaming. I leaned down to take a cautious whiff of what was, pleasantly, only coffee. Strong coffee, the kind that could keep you awake for days, but coffee nonetheless. Not whatever rotgut alcohol they'd probably been passing around before.
"Cheers, mate," I said, patting the man on the shoulder as he pulled me into his group with a friendly arm around my neck.
"Another survivor, eh?" one of them said, raising his own mug. He had a nasty cut across his cheek that someone had hastily stitched. "What squad you with?"
"Krantz squad," I said, taking a sip. The coffee was bitter and scalding, but it was good. "Or what's left of it."
A few knowing nods around the circle.
"Parth squad here," the first soldier said, slapping his chest. "Lost half our boys on the south wall. Fuckin' nightmare getting up those ladders."
"North wall wasn't much better," I muttered.
"But we took it!" another soldier chimed in, grinning despite the exhaustion written across his face. "Four thousand strong, and we took this whole damn fortress in one night!"
They raised their mugs, and I found myself raising mine as well.
"To the fallen," someone said, more soberly.
"To the fallen," we echoed, and drank.
Standing around with these men only lasted about five minutes before what must have been a company commander walked by, an older man with graying hair and a nasty scar across his jaw, and pointed at us.
"Oi, you lot. If you're not gonna sleep like reasonable men, then get your asses to work. We need more troops patrolling the residential district." He gestured vaguely toward the wealthier section of the city, then grinned. "Get out there and 'maintain order.' Maybe find something shiny in a nobleman's house if you're lucky, eh?"
The soldiers looked around at each other, grins growing on their faces as they nodded to one.
"Yes, Commander! Parth squad is on the job!" the man whose name I didn't know but whose arm was still slung around my shoulder exclaimed with enthusiasm.
I merely nodded my head before giving a light salute with my free right hand over my heart, playing along.
"Good lads. Keep your wits about you, yeah? Don't get gutted by some filth who tried to hide from us. Would be a sad way to go after surviving the assault." The commander looked us over appraisingly, then nodded. "Parth squad... I'll remember that name and put you boys up for light duty tomorrow."
I felt myself smiling at that despite the exhaustion. Not every high-ranking member of the Highserk army was a douchebag like Krantz. Others, like this commander, knew how to motivate the men while getting things done. A bit of recognition, a promise of rest, and suddenly soldiers were volunteering for extra duty.
Just a shame that you're not actually in Parth squad though, isn't it, Ethan? No light duty for you.
I mocked myself as the company commander was already walking away, his boots clicking against the cobblestones.
"Alright boys, you heard the man!" the soldier with his arm around me said, finally releasing me. "Let's go maintain some order!"
The others chuckled, draining their mugs and setting them aside.
I took one last sip of my coffee and followed along.
What else was I going to do? Go back to sitting alone on the wall?