Serpent's Strike (The Chronicles of Adalmearc Book 2), page 21
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Philon mumbled, regaining some colour in his face.
It was late in the evening when Leander returned; bells had chimed and announced an end to the second day of the siege when he stepped inside the palace. He was wearing the garb and gear that he brought with him to the walls, and there was dirt on his coat and weariness in his steps, but no blood or otherwise wear upon him.
The hallways were busy with servants and courtiers alike moving in every direction, and numerous norns with their acolytes, novices, and lay brothers were everywhere as well. Leander paid them no heed but moved as if in a daze; walking in full arms with the crest of Hæthiod upon his chest that designated his royal rank, all were quick to get out of his way. Thus he reached his room before he realised something was afoot; glancing around, he found it all but empty. Only the bed remained, stripped of linen and reduced to its mattresses.
Leander stood a while with a confused look. Finally, he shuffled outside and caught the attention of a servant hurrying past. “What has happened to my chamber?” he asked.
“All your belongings have been moved to the queen’s chamber, Your Majesty,” the servant maid said with a touch of anxiety. “By the queen’s order,” she hurried to add.
“Right,” Leander nodded absentmindedly, turning towards the royal wing. With a tired gait, he began walking again, once more, without paying heed to the turbulent activity around him. When he reached the royal bedchamber, he found the queen already in her nightgown. “I seem to have lost my room,” Leander said, becoming aware of his surroundings again.
“I told the sibyls they may tend to the wounded here in the palace, but we required more space. I thought you would not mind simply sharing my chamber,” Theodora explained, cocking her head as she scrutinised her husband.
“Of course, I would stay here regardless,” Leander nodded. He glanced around until he found his armour rack, which had been given a corner of the room. He moved over towards it and stood in front of the contraption; rather than begin stripping himself of his arms, however, he ended up sitting down in a chair and staring blankly for a moment.
“Leander?” Theodora said carefully, moving over to kneel down by his side. She placed both hands on the edge of his shield. “Shall I help you remove this?” she suggested.
“Oh, right,” Leander nodded yet again. The shield was of the slightly elongated shape used by riders or for singular close combat as opposed to the longer, much more elongated shields meant for fighting in ranks. “It is rather peculiar. Soon, you forget there is a shield strapped to your arm. It is as if your left arm is just a bit heavier than the right, and you learn to raise the heavy arm when things are flying through the air,” he explained, still gazing at nothing in particular.
Theodora moved to unfasten the leather straps lashed around his arm that kept the shield in place. When it was undone, she groaned a little under the effort and her awkward lifting position but managed to put it aside against the wall. Then she unbuckled his belt, pulling it away from him. “Do you not have a sergeant?” she asked.
“Never even had a valet since I was old enough to get rid of them,” Leander smiled, his attention returning to the present momentarily. “Thank you, I can manage,” he added, standing up and removing his surcoat, his mail shirt, and the tunic below. “I should wash,” he said in sudden realisation, looking around the room until Theodora pointed out a bowl with water. Standing only in his undergarments, Leander dipped cloth in the water and began washing his upper body with slow, imprecise movements as his gaze grew distant again.
“Allow me,” Theodora said softly, taking the cloth from him. She dipped it in water again and started over. As she ran the rag over his face, it seemed to wake him from a dream, and he blinked. His gaze turned downwards at his wife while his lips curled upwards.
“I forgot where I was,” he said awkwardly but with a genuine smile. “My mind keeps returning to the battlements for some reason.”
“Was it hard today?” she asked, her voice growing even softer, if possible.
“No,” Leander shook his head. “They still have not attacked. Just the catapults, raining munition down upon us. The marshal said they are trying to wear us down before they make their assault.”
“I see,” Theodora replied. “Well, tonight you are here with me,” she told him.
“Yes,” Leander nodded slowly. “Let us go to bed,” he added, and she took his hand, leading him to rest.
The siege began in earnest on the third day after the ultimatum had been rejected as the outlanders marched out their infantry in force. The call went out from the defenders, summoning the available reserves; heathmen armed with bows or swords and shields hurried to the battlements. Some had mail shirts, others only leather jerkins. Many wore the tabards with the emblem of Hæthiod, typically tattered in some way. They filled the walls, staring south with grave eyes.
Barrels full of arrows were distributed along the fortifications by boys old enough to haul yet too young to wield arms. Many remained to peer between the crenellations in frightful fascination of the amassing enemy before they were ushered away. From the ranks of the outlanders came the sound of a horn being blown, an instrument made of some unknown alloy or taken from some beast not known in western lands. The sound pierced the marrow of the defenders, not merely due to how alien it was to them, but because it signalled the beginning of an advance.
Thousands of red robes began moving across the open plain towards the city. Those with sharpest eyes caught glimpse of siege ladders being carried by many of the outlanders; the great wicker screens they had erected and plated in animal hides were also being pushed forward, providing cover against arrows. Lastly came the primary instrument of the assault, the reason they had required several days before their attack could commence. Moving on numerous wheels and pushed by scores of men came a great battering ram. It was built in the shape of a small house; the ram itself was shielded by screens and a roof, all of it resting on a great base onto which the wheels were attached. The roof was covered in animal hides to protect against fire; all things considered, the many men inside were well protected.
Murmurs spread among the men on the walls seeing this beast approach, and the marshal bellowed several orders. As usual, Leonard was standing on top of the gatehouse with its superb view of the defences; the wall was crowned on either side by several towers before connecting on both sides with the mountain that served as Tothmor’s back. Each tower was packed full of archers while men armed for close combat defended the rest of the fortifications. The air was occasionally torn by the voices of men calling out orders, but otherwise, a hush lay over the defenders and attackers alike.
Finally, the red-robed Anausa warriors, whom the Mearcians had learned to respect at the battle of Sikyon, came within bow range. The silence was splintered across the area. Hundreds upon hundreds of arrows were launched from the walls and struck like serpents onto the attackers. They, in turn, stormed forward with loud battle cries in their own tongue, protecting themselves by raising their shields and rushing towards the walls to take cover below them.
Many of them fell carrying the ladders since they could not properly wield their shields at the same time, but enough reached their destination. They sank the heavy spikes into the ground, stabilising the ladders and keeping them from toppling; as they were pushed up against the walls, iron hooks at the top of the construction helped grab on to the wall between the crenellations.
Soon, numerous ladders were deployed, and scores of outlanders ascended. They were met by swords and axes, and many more fell as soon as they had scaled the walls; in a few places, however, they gained a foothold for more of their comrades to follow them up the ladders. Where such spots of red took hold, Mearcians kept in reserve came to reinforce, and the archers upon the towers concentrated their arrows upon the outlanders waiting to make the climb as well.
The outlanders had previously shown their familiarity with the bow, and now they put their skills to use. Standing behind the wicker screens, many of the archers pulled out arrows prepared in a specific way. Near the arrowhead, a small strip of cloth had been tied and soaked in pitch. Lit on fire before being shot, its arch flew high, aimed at the buildings beyond the walls. Quickly, scores of such fire arrows streaked through the air, drawing defenders away to quell the flames.
The assault born by siege ladders and the fire arrows deflected attention, scattering the defenders along the walls as intended. Now the battering ram bore down upon the gate; if breached, it was by far the best point of access. The ram moved slowly but inexorably forward, surrounded by soldiers hoping to take advantage of when the gate would be smashed open. As the great construction finally reached the gatehouse, the heathmen unleashed one of their defences. The near-boiling content of two great cauldrons was tipped over, flowing through grooves and spilling down onto the siege machine. Its roof protected those inside, but great quantities of the liquid spilled over and landed on the men surrounding. It seared fabric and leather, melting flesh and spreading a terrible stench.
One of the defenders hurled a torch over the wall, igniting the hot oil and pitch. Great heat rose up, and further screams could be heard among those unfortunate enough to be caught near. However, while small flames did manage to latch onto the roof of the battering ram, it was not enough. The wet animal hides would not ignite properly. The archers on the wall shot their arrows desperately, but no angle would allow them to hit the men operating the ram. Then it began to strike.
As the battle commenced, Leander had chosen the gatehouse as his vantage point; being in the centre of Tothmor’s walls meant that he could, with equal speed, move east or west, reinforcing the soldiers and raise their morale with the knowledge that their king fought amidst them. Therefore, long before the battering ram came into play, the king had departed with his ever-present guard, Count Hubert, and they had descended to the walls. From time to time, they retreated into a tower to gain a view of the battle and locate their next point of engagement. It was on such an occasion that as Leander looked west towards the section of wall between them and the next tower, he saw threatening circles of red expanding; the Anausa soldiers were pushing the Mearcians back in conquest of the wall.
Leander threw his head towards the danger to signal it to Hubert; in the maelstrom of battle, such gestures were easier for communication than words. The captain of the Blades nodded and followed his charge down the stairs as they descended from the gatehouse onto the wall section. A handful of outlanders had formed a circle around where the ladder had latched onto the stonework. “For Blood and Blue!” Leander yelled as loudly as he could, calling out the battle cry of his house. It, along with the blue flower upon his crest, had been chosen by his ancestor; the same man who had defeated the last outlander invasion five hundred years ago and been granted the kingship of Hæthiod as reward. Storming forward upon the walls of Tothmor in defence against red robes and black boots, it seemed there had never been a more appropriate time to let it sound.
The hearts of the pressed heathmen were lifted as they recognised the royal emblem upon Leander’s shield and armour, and they roared in renewed battle lust. “For Blood and Blue!” they repeated, pushing forward against the outlanders. Swords hammered against shields and armours, and blood was shed. Although leading the charge to retake the small area of the wall, Leander did not keep at the forefront. He mostly used his shield to defend himself while Hubert surged past him. Any signs of age were invisible as the count of Esmarch threw himself into battle. His shield denied any attacks against him, and his blade struck down enemies with each blow. Spurred on by his example, the Mearcians retook the wall and slaughtered any remaining Anausa soldiers.
Turning towards the ladder, Hubert found it too firmly planted to be pushed down, and already more outlanders prepared to scale the wall. Taking sight of this, the count jumped up to stand between the crenellations where the siege ladder hooked onto the wall. Forgetting about the top piece made of iron, Hubert crouched low and aimed numerous blows against the wooden framework below as well as the steps of the ladder. It demanded several intensive strikes with the sword, and towards the end, Hubert was hacking away almost blindly until, finally, the wood shattered.
With the top steps destroyed, the ladder was rendered useless. Arrows aimed at him made it clear to Hubert that he was an obvious target standing between the crenellations, and he jumped down behind the wall to loud cheers from the defenders. For good measure, a few of them grabbed the remaining top piece of the ladder, now severed from the rest; once clear of the stonework, they were able to throw it back over the wall.
“That belongs to you!” some wit yelled, eliciting a few coarse laughs.
“How in Hel’s name did you survive past the age twenty?” Leander asked in disbelief.
“You are never more alive than when killing a man before he can kill you,” Hubert replied with a grin.
The laughter and morbid mirth evaporated as the king, the count, and the soldiers glanced out against the enemy. For a moment, they had forgotten about the battering ram, but even from a distance, they felt the tremors of its assault. The king and his attendants ran towards the gatehouse, but they were too far away to reach it in time to stop the siege machine from its task.
It could not be stopped; arrows, oil and pitch, fire, stones being thrown down from above, nothing had an effect. The outlanders pressed together close by, waiting eagerly for the breach to be made. The gate began to break under the endless assault; the hinges bent and became distorted, unable to keep their charge in place. The first cracks ran across the timber; then they spread swiftly with each subsequent strike. Finally, the crossbeams keeping the gate together fell to the pressure. With a thundering noise, the gate burst open.
As this happened, the marshal’s countermeasure was revealed. In the yard stood the remaining horses in the city, mounted by riders with long spears. The marshal himself rode in front, followed by the handful of knights that had escaped with the army following the battle. They spurred their horses forward the moment that the gate was breached. It required unparalleled equestrian skills through the narrow opening below the gatehouse and at such speed, but the marshal and the knights who remained after Sikyon were up to the task.
With fierce war cries, the Mearcian infantry surged forward as well, conquering the area around the gatehouse. Several men with axes attacked the battering ram itself, severing the ropes that allowed it to swing, and then turned their weapons on the beams that kept the roof up. Within a few moments, the meticulously assembled siege machine was demolished. Accompanied by great cheers and clamour, the Mearcians retreated inside the wall.
Timber lay nearby, intended for repairs of the gate. As it was all but destroyed, such was impossible. As the defenders lacked better options, the timber was simply piled up below the gatehouse in the shape of a barricade many feet thick. With a satisfied expression, the marshal walked up the gatehouse to take in the sight of the outlander assault. In front of him rose smoke from the burning battering ram, forcing him to cough and cover his face; nonetheless, he was able to smile. The destruction of the siege engine and being constantly thrown down from the walls had extinguished the outlanders’ lust for battle. The eerie sounds of their horns gave a long, drawn-out note, and the red robes retreated. Although the assault had only lasted some hours, it had taken its toll on both sides; it was a promise of days to come.
When the outlanders made their next attempt, they showed greater caution. The catapults were pushed into range, and they began sending showers of stone against the defenders forced to endure this. Only when the sun was near noon and the heat intensified did they sound their horns and signal a new attack.
The catapults became still, only to be replaced by arrows unleashed from both sides. New siege ladders were brought forward; once more, the outlanders attempted to scale the walls. “Fire arrows!” somebody shouted as the outlanders repeated their method from before; volunteers stood ready with blankets and barrels of water, risking themselves to put out the fires.
The storm upon the walls was less fierce. Any section not being scaled was subjected to a heavy barrage of arrows instead, and the shields borne by many of the defenders soon resembled porcupines. It was still relatively safe atop the towers and the gatehouse, where few arrows could reach. Leander watched the scenery from this position, flanked by the count of Esmarch on one side and the marshal on the other.
“They are approaching us,” Hubert pointed out in the loud voice necessary with the sounds of battle raging. A contingent of the Anausa with wicker screens and large shields moved cautiously towards the gatehouse, protecting themselves from the defending archers.
“They have nothing with which to climb our walls,” Leander pondered. “All they achieve is being exposed to our archers.”
“They brought fire,” Hubert replied. “I saw men with torches. Prepare for fire arrows!” he bellowed behind him to the men gathered in the yard below.
In front of them and below, they witnessed ranks of outlanders breaking into a sprint, leaving the relative safety of their archery screens. They hastened forward to reach the minimal cover under the walls and directly below the gatehouse, where the angle did not allow the defending archers to strike them. Apart from their typical weapons, some of the Anausa carried long spears, others had axes, and curiously, some had torches and jars with an unknown substance.
“Prepare the oil!” the marshal yelled, turning to some of the soldiers.
“It will not be hot in time,” shouted one of the men in return. They had lit a fire below to heat up the cauldron, but it was slow going.
“Never mind, just keep it ready to spill, and fire, too,” Leonard ordered. “But do not release before my command!” he specified and ran down the steps into the yard, already bellowing further orders to his men.
