From Here on, We Strike from the Shadows
Thorn rounded the corner of Old Peck’s Lane at pace, pursued by twenty or so dark-skinned Krieger warriors wearing lightweight leather-plated armour. This was the last of the four fallback positions for the Night Watchmen. Valravn had commanded well in defence of the city, but there had been too many enemy soldiers once control of the wall was lost.
Unlike the dozens of other Aksson soldiers and mercenaries fleeing the overrun docklands, when he reached the halfway point of the street, Thorn skidded and turned, crouching and holding his position.
The Krieger were upon him when a volley of arrows flew from the bows of Night Watchmen on the rooftops and in the windows of the buildings surrounding the narrow lane. All but five of the Krieger were felled.
Keeping low, Thorn drew his swords and prepared for the attack. The largest of the five remaining Krieger drew a branch-bladed ‘antler knife’ from the inside of his shield and hurled it at a City Guardsman. The blades dug deep into the man’s back, killing him. He ran past his victim and ripped his weapon from the dead man’s back without breaking his stride. He spotted the waiting cougari and let fly with the knife once more.
Thorn anticipated the attack and slashed out with the sword in his left hand, hitting the weapon and sending it spinning to the ground behind him. A second Krieger was then upon him, and Thorn spun inside the enemy’s spear thrust and attempted to drive the sword in his right hand up through the Krieger’s ribcage.
The attempt caused pain to explode through his damaged shoulder, and his sword fell from his hand. To counter, the Krieger brought up his spear, catching it in both hands at the back of Thorn’s neck and driving the cougari, face first, to the ground. He spun his spear several times, manoeuvring it into a position to stab downwards through Thorn’s back. The cougari rolled, grabbed the ankles of the dark-skinned warrior, and drove his clawed feet into the narrow gap between the upper and lower parts of the Krieger’s armour, finding the soft flesh of the man’s abdomen.
The Krieger screamed and opened his violet eyes wide when Thorn curled his toes and pulled the enemy forward. The ten small daggers opened the enemy’s stomach. The Krieger continued to scream as he toppled over and attempted to hold in his guts. In moments, Thorn was back on his bloodstained feet and readying himself for the next attack. The Night Watchmen had already dropped all but one Krieger warrior. Blood trailed his every step, slow and unsteady as they were. The large Krieger fell to his knees, seven arrows in his body including one through the neck. He placed both hands on his throwing knife, uttered some unintelligible words and drew the blade across his throat. He toppled forward, snapping some of the arrows or pushing them through his body.
Valravn appeared from the doorway of a bakery at the end of the lane and signalled to his men. Retrieving his sword, Thorn ran to the bakery. Moving inside, he could tell the building was a façade. The walls of the building were reinforced, and the thick door had more bolt locks than required. It was one of the many buildings the Night Watchmen referred to as ‘Fireplaces’.
Moments later, the fifteen or so remaining Night Watchmen were gathered. Two of them had suffered serious injuries and rested against a wall and on the floor. Another was clutching his left arm, the hand missing. It had been bandaged in the field. Valravn scanned the room.
“I know the battle is still being fought but the day is lost,” he said, addressing the Night Watchmen. “For Aksson, we need to be more than soldiers fighting in the light. The night has come and from here on, we strike from the shadows. Each of you will attempt to infiltrate the enemy ranks, gather as much information as you can, disrupt their operations, sabotage their war engines. You know your tradecraft and this city, so keep a watchful eye for Night Watchmen markings. I know we will not let our baron, the city, or our king down. Those of you who have been injured will be taken to safety outside the city, to stay there until you recover.”
Valravn moved to an undetectable lever at the side of the stone oven. When he pulled it, an opening appeared in the stonework, leading to a set of descending steps. “Although we have trained for this, we all hoped it would never come to pass. It is time to ‘burn the cloaks’. May we see each other again and may Oln keep you hidden.”
One by one the men stepped forward, removed their distinctive cloaks, and placed them on the table. Valravn grasped each of the men by the wrist before they entered the passageway. Not a word was uttered. The injured men were helped to the passage. After the final Night Watchman had left, Valravn moved across the room to Thorn, who had been sitting on the ground in the corner, trying to ease the pain. “What about you?” he asked.
“With all we have encountered this night,” said Thorn, “I have not seen another of my kind. I think it would be suspicious if a cougari was to suddenly turn up in a suit of Lattic armour.”
Valravn smiled.
“I have another mission to accomplish,” added Thorn, standing with a grunt. “And I fear it might be even more difficult than yours. I go to discover whether it is only a king who can get a knight of Gaelgara to retreat.”
“You will be needing this, just as a precaution,” said Valravn, handing the cougari a small vial of liquid. Thorn clasped Valravn’s arm and shook it. The Night Watchman removed his own cloak and laid it on top of the others, before stepping to the passage and disappearing into the darkness. Thorn closed the passageway door and locked it back into place. He left the ‘Fireplace’ and ducked through the narrow city streets toward the river.
The darkness of the night made it easy for him to skulk from one darkened alley to the next. A light rain fell, and the cold was seeping through his cloak. The sounds of battle bounced from every brick, and it sounded like the fighting was all around him.
The cougari noticed the open door of the building he was at. He tried to shut out the sounds on the streets and listen for movement or voices. There were none. He eased himself inside. Sniffing the air, he could detect the smell of bread somewhere in the house. In an alcove of the ground floor, he was disappointed to find the shelves bare except for the tiny remnant globs of cheese and crumbs of bread. He moved to the darkest corner of the room and slid to the floor, leaning his back against the wall. He could not tell how long he had been fighting, running, ambushing, counterattacking, killing or retreating, but the night had lasted long enough for Thorn to suspect the world had stopped turning and the sun would never rise again. He was exhausted, in more pain than he had been in decades, and he had a knotted stomach from the lack of food or water. Despite it all, there was a certain familiar comfort to the desperation of the situation.
Thorn counted to two hundred while he gathered his breath, thoughts, and resolve. Delaying no longer, his body protested as he stood once more before climbing to the next floor to view the surrounding area.
He could see the final bridge of the city, known as the Voyage Bridge. Beyond it, a number of empty boats were snared on the river-mouth Fish Hooks. Movement drew his attention back to the bridge – Aksson soldiers fleeing the north side of the city. A handful at first, then larger groups, after which scores of men running for the bridge. He suspected the North Dock had been taken. With another building blocking his view, Thorn could not tell what had caused it, but the Aksson men reversed their course to the bridge from the south side of the river. The enemy was pushing the men back to the bridge. Aksson soldiers were still trying to flee the north of the city and crashed into the retreating men – there was nowhere for them to turn. Arrows flew from both sides of the bridge at the Aksson soldiers. There were so many on the bridge that Thorn guessed it was more difficult for the archers to miss them than hit them.
In desperation, men jumped for the water but were soon drowned, dragged down by the weight of the armour they failed to rip from their bodies. Thorn climbed the ladder to the building’s loft and opened the garret doors.
Around sixty Brytonic bowmen were forming in ranks and shooting in a continuous cycle into the panic-stricken Aksson men from the south side of the river. Officers were shouting orders on the bridge but were being ignored by the men. Volley after volley found their targets. Thorn’s instinct was to jump into the fray, but he knew he would have no chance of survival or even affecting the inevitable outcome.
A horn sounded around the left corner of the building where Thorn stood, followed by the rumbling thunder of hooves clattering along the wide avenue past the numerous quays of the riverbank. Twenty or so riders in two ranks charged into view, the deadly points of their lances and spears aimed at the unit of bowmen. A knight was galloping at the centre of the line, the light of many fires bouncing off her plate armour.
She’s still alive.
The sounding of the horn startled the bowmen, giving some respite to the Aksson soldiers on the bridge as the riders became the new target of the disciplined unit. Arrows flew at the cavalry, taking down several soldiers or horses as they stormed forward.
The knight was roaring a battle-cry, echoed by the other cavalry moments before the horses smashed into the lightly armoured bowmen, some of whom scattered before many were impaled or trampled. A squad of Aksson spearmen came rushing past the building along the avenue, a mixture of thirty or so uniformed City Guardsmen, merchant house mercenaries and unarmoured townsfolk. The Slithers charged in the front line, their spears out in front of them as they ran.
Thorn moved faster than his aching body would have preferred. He raced down the ladder and stairs. He exited the building, drew his swords, and joined the charge. Roslind was by the Dock Wall, forming another line with the remaining cavalrymen to break the last ranks of the bowmen.
Dark figures silhouetted against the flames licking the far side of the Dock Wall emerged on the battlements of the wall through the crenels.
“Roslind. Above you!” roared Thorn as he met the first bowman opponent. He spun and swept the legs of the soldier. The terrified man fell on to his back, his arrows spilling across the cobblestones. In an instant the cougari had his foot on the man’s throat and he raked it from the body. The dead enemy forgotten, Thorn found the knight again as dozens of figures leapt from the wall at the mounted Aksson soldiers.
One attempted to land on the knight but Roslind turned her horse, using her shield to redirect the attacker to the ground. Roslind ran him through with her lance before it was wrested from her grasp by three other sealskin-covered warriors. Only four other horsemen were still on their mounts as a Zadesti fighter dived from the wall at the horseman closest to Roslind, taking down the rider and mount. A bowman thrust his sword at Thorn. He almost hadn’t seen the attack, and the sword dug deep into the leather armour on his chest. The bowman swung again. Thorn blocked the short sword with his own, then plunged it into the armpit of the bowman where there was no armour to save him.
The Zadesti warriors were driving the Aksson men to the Voyage Bridge, apparently unconcerned about the final bowmen troop being caught up in their net. They rushed forward, causing a throng of soldiers from both sides too thick for the knight to turn her horse, forcing her onto the bridge with the others. Roslind pulled on the reins but the attempts to find a gap failed. She was forced to the left wall of the bridge. Thorn watched in horror as two of the loose horses galloped wildly toward the bridge. They sped into and over the soldiers, causing a panic. Roslind was struggling to maintain control of Solstice as the stallion reared and kicked or bucked and kicked with its rear legs at anything near him, hitting enemy and ally alike. The wave of human terror smashed into the knight and her horse. The stones of the wall gave way, sending Roslind and Solstice tumbling into the river, followed by dozens of Aksson soldiers.
Thorn rushed to the riverbank, quickly dispatching two Zadesti who attempted to stop him. Arrows flew over his head from the enemy soldiers on the north side of the bridge. Thorn scrambled down onto the loose stones of the bank. He could see the knight’s horse struggling to stay afloat as two men frantically grabbed at it to keep themselves from sinking. The horse let out a loud whinny as a third soldier fell on top of it, dislodging one of the men clinging to the saddle. Both men disappeared into the river as the powerful animal swam to the shore. Casting his cloak and swords to the stones of the riverbank, Thorn waded into the frigid water. The muscles of his right shoulder burned as he swam to where Roslind fell. Several frantic splashing soldiers attempted to grab onto the cougari to keep their heads out of the river, and he was forced to kick them away.
Thorn exhaled and inhaled rapidly, and with a deep breath he dived into the dark water. The swim to the riverbed took an age but was aided by his armour, the weight of which he had been fighting on the surface. He pawed in the murky dark silt for as long as his breath would allow when he spotted a shimmer from Roslind’s shield. The blurred image of a snarling bear shone for the briefest moment in some firelight from the surface. He reached out and found Roslind’s hand jerking hard at her armour. Thorn drew his curved dagger, found some leather straps, and cut them. Her helmet, greaves, and one of her gauntlets was already gone. He could feel a sharp pain at the back of his head and his lungs were aching. The shield was bound fast to Roslind’s arm, but her breast- and back-plates came loose and fell into the soft muck. Thorn needed to act before he passed out.
Grabbing the knight and hauling as hard as he could, he pushed away from the bed. They were still too heavy. He dug his clawed feet into the bottom of the river, dragging the knight behind him. Trying again, this time aided by the knight, who found solid purchase on some rocks, they rose. The upwards momentum was short-lived, and Thorn felt the weight dragging them both back down. He kicked with what strength he had left. The break in the surface came quicker than expected, shocking him into taking a breath. Roslind gasped as she broke the surface but was immediately back under the water. Finding some loose stones, he dragged her out under the first arch of the bridge, where Solstice stood. Several Aksson soldiers were clambering from the bank or onto the jetties. One had managed to climb onto a jetty before taking an arrow through the back. Roslind was still half in the water, gasping and crawling, when she vomited. All that was left of her armour was her right gauntlet and shield. She coughed up some more water and looked at the scene before her.
Despite Thorn’s deep breaths, the pain at the back of his head remained, making the cougari feel dizzy. Even with the fighting still raging on the bridge, he was inclined to lie there until morning. It was only when he saw Roslind stagger to her feet and unsheathe her sword to lean on that he was moved to action.
“We need to keep fighting,” said the knight, as she half stumbled towards her horse, another bout of coughing taking her to one knee. “The enemy…took the Dock Wall, the North Dock and…the Dock Garrison. Not long before those on the far side of the bridge come in force. Hrókar is taking the last of our men to the house – we will make a final stand there.”
Roslind’s eyes rolled back before she blinked and shook her head.
“You can’t fight, you can barely stand. We need to leave the city while we still can,” said Thorn. He moved to help her, only to find his legs unsteady. When she stood again, he hurried to where his cloak and sword belt had fallen.
“I will fight to my last breath and take as many of the bastards with me as I can,” Roslind argued. “I go to join my mother, father, Ulrik, and all the dead soldiers of Aksson in the Sanctified Lands. I will have done my duty. Now move!”
Thorn examined his cloak and moved his hand to one of the pockets. “Please reconsider, Roslind. Make for the South Gates. We can live to fight again, gather with the king’s armies. They need to know what they are facing here. Your reason must tell you the city has fallen or at the very least, it is about to.”
“You can run,” said Roslind, as she passed the cougari toward Solstice, lost her footing and dropped to one knee. “While the fight continues, I continue to fight,” she recited as she recovered before mounting the horse.
Thorn buckled on his sword belt and leapt up behind her. His cloak was still in his hand. “If that is your final decision, then I am truly sorry, riddari,” he said.
“What are you d–”
Thorn clasped a doused portion of his cloak over the knight’s face, covering her nose and mouth. Roslind struggled, but Thorn held fast. At first it took all his strength to keep the cloth in place as she tried to rip it from her face. It pained Thorn’s heart to do this. Every passing moment he wished he could release her, but he knew it was the only way he could save her life. Eventually Roslind’s efforts subsided and she slumped in the saddle. Thorn gathered the reins.
The former Night Watchman sought an area free from fighting and urged the horse up the bank, onto the narrow streets and into a gallop. He steered the sprinting horse deeper into the city, taking a familiar route. Rounding the corner of Highview Arch, he was faced with a mass of flames. It startled the horse, which came to a sudden halt, almost throwing the two riders from its back.
The cougari regained control of the animal, and he heard a loud and shrill dirge as somewhere horns sounded in a sustained note, somewhere near the docks. When the clangour died, there was a moment before the piercing noise was heard again.
What is that?
Whatever the keening horns meant, he still needed to get Roslind out of the city. He rode until he could see the Traakerra Tower Barbican at the Southern Gates, then slowed to a trot.
There were still townspeople fleeing the city, but the City Guardsmen were gone from the open gate. The sound of the hooves drew people’s attention, and everyone gathered was staring at them as they attempted to move through the crowd. No one stood in their way.
The horns sounded again, drawing Thorn’s attention back to the city. Even with the dark rainclouds above, light was returning. The sun was starting to rise behind them. In the dull light, and from this vantage point, the sea gate of the North Dock appeared open, and the fortified dock was now full of enemy troopships. There was a rush of movement from the streets ahead. People rushed toward the gate, some dropping their belongings as they ran. From beyond the closest building, shouts and screams could be heard. The enemy was reaching the Southern Gates.
When the fleeing people saw the first groups of armoured men, panic ensued. As wide as the South Gate was, Thorn guessed within moments that the way would be blocked by the terrified city-folk. There was no time for other options.
The cougari wheeled the horse and kicked the mount into a full gallop for the gates. Although he screamed at them, some people were not fast enough to get out of the way and were knocked to the ground by the powerful animal. The horse made it through the gate and clear of the throng. Thorn did not look back. He could not bring himself to see what damage or injuries he had just caused to dozens of innocent people.
The city was lost, there was no denying it. He was saving Roslind’s life but there was still a part of him which hated running from the fight, a part which sickened him when he thought about leaving Hrókar and the others to their fates. Interference with a knight’s duty to her king was also one of the more serious of the crimes he was committing. While it did not bother the cougari, he knew it would be troubling for Roslind when she woke. He had saved her life, but he knew he would not be thanked for doing so, or for the manner in which he had achieved it.
What’s done is done, nothing can change it now, thought the cougari. The horse galloped on. The horns sounded again.
Hrókar stood on the battlements of the Lord’s Estate in the gloomy dawn light and looked at the gathered forces filling the open area and surrounding the grounds on Captain’s Island. In the cold morning rain, a cut to the side of his head was still bleeding down his face and into his beard. An arrow had been removed from his left thigh and another from his right forearm. The pain and fatigue were visible on the big warrior’s face, mirroring the faces of his men.
The hired soldiers had deserted as soon as the fight turned against them. They fled when the tower-ships breached the Dock Wall in two places through relentless bombardment. At dozens of points, the enemy soldiers used ladders to scale the wall. The soldiers of Aksson who stood to fight had been slaughtered.
In a bid for time, Hrókar had led a company of volunteers to the overrun Dock Wall, ordering the rest of the men, the wounded, and the Physic from the Olnsraum at the Isul Street Granary to retreat to the only fortified area not in enemy hands – the Lord’s Estate. Reports stated the escape routes out of the city had been cut off by enemy forces. Messages were still getting through to and from the Lord’s Estate; and the Tocsin, to be blown in the event of an attack on the estate, had not yet sounded.
Hrókar had led the volunteers. The remaining men of Captain K’ron’s company were exhausted but had been the first to step forward to answer the call, much to the pride of the first commander. A mishmash of men from other companies brought the number of volunteers to over two hundred. They held the streets in front of the granary, and the narrower lanes and alleyways which led to the area. Positions were taken up behind the barricades erected since morning. They only had to hold the line until they heard the Tocsin at the Lord’s Estate sound twice, the signal the wounded and others had made it inside the estate’s walls.
Hrókar and the volunteers were to hold off the enemy advance long enough to give the rest a chance to evacuate. The fight had been brutal but K’ron’s men had fought bravely and ferociously. Hrókar’s lines faltered again and again, driving them back or scattering the men, to be picked off by pursuing enemy. They were all but beaten when a din rose from what the first commander assumed were damaged horns blown at the docks.
The Lattican soldiers they had been fighting ceased their advance, reformed ranks, and joined their tower shields together. It had been like looking at some ominous and elaborate sculpture. Hrókar signalled his men to retreat. He was surprised when the enemy did not follow. The racket continued from the broken horns. When they were far enough from the Lattican regiment, the first commander ordered everyone to run for the Lord’s Estate.
The hordes of enemy soldiers could have taken the walls, but the big warrior accepted he was glad of the respite, however long it would last. Anyone who could still stand and who was not treating the wounded were lining the walls. There were less than three hundred. The house and other buildings were filled with wounded or dying, but still others gathered in the courtyard.
“Commander Hrókar, movement!” came the call from Stefan, one of the last Shielders at the gate of the Lord’s Estate. Hrókar rushed to the wall and then to the top of the stairs. All eyes were on the large formation of soldiers at the front of the gates. Their ranks were separating at the rear and two individuals were passing through their middle. The soldiers parted in front of them and closed ranks behind them. The people watched as two figures emerged from the wall of enemy soldiers. As the last two men gave way, there was an audible gasp from those who recognised the individual in front.
The two men crossed the open area, unaccompanied, without their hands bound, without a knife at their backs or arrows aimed at their heads. Hrókar could hardly believe what he was seeing. Ulrik and the Shielder Arngeir took some tentative steps from the enemy front line. As the men drew closer to the gates, Hrókar could see they had been beaten. Ulrik looked like he had been bathed in blood. He looked up to the wall and found Hrókar. The men stopped in front of the gate.
“First Commander, the gate, if you please,” said Ulrik, his voice weak and croaked. “There is much to discuss.”
Still somewhat in disbelief, the first commander gave a signal to the men at the entrance. The steel gates were ratcheted open enough to allow in one person at a time. Ulrik limped forward into the courtyard, followed closely by Arngeir.
Hrókar bounded down the stairs to receive the baron. There was a hum of chatter from all those in the estate. “My lord, what happened to you?” was the most prevalent question on the commander’s mind.
“Later. My sisters?” asked Ulrik.
“Kitsvanna is said to be at High Rock. Roslind has…not returned,” said Hrókar, lowering his head.
Ulrik attempted a nod of understanding and gestured for the big warrior to move closer so he could whisper. “I am about to collapse. I can feel it. I need to get to the house,” said Ulrik, slowly stepping forward again. “I have surrendered the city to Sebastian Laventis of Staghaven Reaches. Like me, you will just have to swallow it. I believe I have the measure of this admiral. As he accepted my surrender, he did not realise in my very first act of submission that I defied him. I have already avenged my father’s murder. I carried out Rullo’s sentence for treason and assassination. The darkness is upon us, giving us an entirely different terrain upon which to fight. And fight we will, but not yet. We face an enemy among us. Part of my terms of surrender was for this Shielder and I to be allowed to walk freely into my home and reassure every person on these walls and behind them that there was no further need to fight. To tell the brave survivors of the Battle of Aksson that their loyalty was humbling and will be rewarded.”
Hrókar noticed that Ulrik’s pace of speech was notably slower than he was accustomed to. There was a flash in his eyes as he spoke of some future fight, but it felt to the first commander that Ulrik was smiling at defeat as only a madman would. The door of the house was thankfully within reach. Ulrik stopped to rest the damaged muscles in his back.
“We have lost the battle, but even in defeat we will have our part to play in all of this,” said Ulrik. “Our enemy is intelligent, focused, and has warped the minds of the scattered and desperate Zadesti people. They fight for him as if he were a prophesied redeemer. Their delusion will be difficult to counter.”
“What of us, my lord?” asked Hrókar.
“I have done what was necessary to save as many people as I could. It is not the path my father would have chosen but it was by far the best choice. My surrender of Aksson means the city’s cooperation in the next stage of Laventis’ campaign – nothing can alter this. It also means I and those who follow me will be branded as traitors to the king and Gaelgara. I would ask for your trust. We are not done yet and we are not alone. We will sabotage, disrupt, and harass our enemy with every breath we still have. I will honour my family by retaking control of the city.”
Hrókar nodded and moved with his baron. Every step the baron took was an effort for the young man, but the first commander knew he could not help him in front of so many people. Such was the relief when he crossed the threshold of the house that Ulrik almost collapsed right there. He took hold of Hrókar’s arm and continued further inside.
The Baron of Aksson and Baron-Lord of Gaelgara was home.
