Chapter 327: The Gatehouse Watch |
The Gatehouse Watch
Monastery Gatehouse
Beneath the battlements, in the lower level of the gatehouse, surrounded by thick stone and narrow passages that made the place easy to defend, seven Monastery Guards settled into their watch. The door to the windlass chamber stood ajar. Two men stood near it, listening, while two others sat on the flagstones to keep each other company. Inside the chamber, three slept close to the mechanism. Wicker mats lay over the cold floor, and a few of guards even had folded thick wool blankets underneath for extra comfort.
The large windlass sat quietly in the chamber, its drum and chains running up into the ceiling to the portcullises above the gate passage. The grates were down, and the drum was locked, but that did not make the chamber any less important. The Guard Captain still considered it vital and had assigned this small group to keep it under watch.
The four awake guards kept their voices low, talking to ward off sleep.
An iron brazier sat below a narrow window. A pot of black herbal brew simmered over the heat, sending up a thin, fragrant mist that mixed with the smoke and the cool draft slipping in from outside. The quiet crackle of the fire and the orange glow of embers made the corner feel almost cozy, helped along by a distant nomadic melody drifting from beyond the walls. Foreign, but not unpleasant.
“To think the enemy will give us proper time to rest,” one joked.
“Aye. Even a tune to savor the night,” another replied.
The group chuckled.
The four were so cozy, so assured by the quiet night, that they failed to notice how the air gradually grew still. The smoke from the brazier rose toward the narrow window, but curled back.
Of the four, one finally felt something was amiss. A light headache came on, and his throat suddenly felt raw, but he simply took a drink and ignored it.
Another eyed the firewood in the brazier with suspicion, but it was burning fine, even better than usual, judging by the smoke rising toward the window. There was no immediate cause for concern, so they continued their quips and banter to carry them through the night.
They began to cough as they chuckled, but that seemed natural. They thought they had simply overdone it. Not to mention, after two days of constant alertness and lack of sleep, nobody could claim they were not under the weather. A guard spat into an empty earthen urn and took another drink.
After a while, one swallowed dryly, another coughed, and another yawned.
Without noticing, they talked less and less. One had already fallen asleep.
The men felt the light headache and discomfort, but quietly blamed it on tiredness.
More coughing.
"Well, this doesn't work," one of the standing guards quipped, commenting on the black herbal drink that was supposed to keep them awake.
The other two chuckled.
"Maybe the beans are too old," one said slowly, half asleep.
"Or the merchants fooled us with some fake crap."
"They wouldn't dare. Not to the Monastery." He yawned again, eyes already closed.
"Oi, don't all fall asleep. The commissarius will whack our heads," the standing one joked about the patrol leader.
"The commissarius can kiss my arse," the half-asleep guard replied, prompting weak laughter.
More soft coughing, and then stillness.
By then, the air tasted foul, harsh on the throat.
The two standing men turned to each other. "Do you feel it? It feels stifling."
"Probably bad firewood." The other walked toward the brazier, expecting to find damp wood, but it was burning strongly. Yet his knees suddenly went weak, and he dropped hard, gasping.
"Oi, what happened?" the last guard stepped in, but he too suddenly felt suffocated. He tried to fight it, forced himself upright, only to stumble and fall again.
Soon, there was only the cracking of firewood in the brazier, sending thicker and thicker smoke that went nowhere. The narrow window might as well have been sealed, held shut by an ethereal force.
...
At the far end of the corridor, a door eased open and air rushed through the gap, pulled hard into the emptied chamber. Three men in darkened armor and inconspicuous cloaks slipped through and rushed toward the fallen guards, crossbows leveled against any potential threat.
With haste, the SAR Captain and two of his men dragged the unconscious guards into a small chamber meant for storage and locked them inside. The rest were tied and gagged. They did not need to, but hostages might be useful if they were cornered in this place.
Sir Morton came in after them, saw the place was secured, and finally released his wide-area vacuum and the ethereal shield from the narrow window. The choking smoke from the brazier streamed outward at once, and fresh air surged.
Gregory, who followed behind, saw him do it and said, "To think a blocked window would be their weakness."
Sir Morton turned to him. "It's easy to suffocate men in a place like this."
"I never knew magic could do this," the girl on Gregory's back muttered, her amazement genuine.
Sir Morton's predatory eyes softened briefly as he looked at the girl. "With a good teacher, you'll learn."
They needed only minutes to secure all the guards. Without pausing, the SAR moved on to the windlass chamber.
"Then," Sir Morton said to the SAR Captain, who nodded back.
They needed no discussion on how to proceed with their plan.
Another SAR, a cranequin slung across his back, took his friend's Xbow with him and carried a small concealed lantern, following the Mage Knight.
The two headed for the small spiral staircase and soon disappeared.
Meanwhile, in the windlass chamber, the two SAR familiarized themselves with the mechanism and began to crank the portcullis up. The windlass answered with a low groan of timber and iron, chains rasping as the drum turned. Gregory lowered the girl and went with the men to heave the handle.
Now, time was ticking. Many inside the gatehouse stirred in their sleep, blinking as they questioned what they had heard. Something was amiss. And more began to wake.
***
Gatehouse, Gate Passage
Sir Morton and one SAR went down the small spiral staircase meant for sentries to move between levels in the gatehouse. Sir Morton went first, using the darkness as cover. The SAR followed a step behind, one hand on the inner wall, his eyes still needing the lantern’s thin hooded glow to judge the tight turns and worn steps.
As he stepped out, he saw Sir Morton had stopped. As the Mage Knight did, he too froze.
In front of them, almost two dozen men in gambesons met their gaze. Stares hardened. Frowns followed, suspicion plain on their faces.
All their planning, and they had failed to predict that some Believers would rest inside the gate passage to ensure no enemy slipped through. These men's fanaticism and devotion to the Living Saint had fouled their plan. Time was running out. The gate needed to be open.
"Ghouls," the SAR with two crossbows whispered, voice tight.
Sir Morton noticed the men reeked of that sweet, pungent, intoxicating incense. Talking would be a waste of time.
Lanterns lifted. The Believers rose and looked up at the two men in blackened armor, trying to make sense of them in the dim light. Hands went to spears and sword hilts. They had heard the heavy mechanical sound as the first portcullis slowly rose, waking them. Now they saw armored men they did not recognize.
"Meisters, why is the portcullis open?" one asked, his tone wary in the mixed light of lanterns and the brazier.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
But another already shouted, "They're not one of us. Arm yourselves, brothers. They're demons!"
Before the rest of the Believers could decide, a roar erupted. Loud, harsh, like a wolf’s howl.
The men took a step back, shocked. It was not the loudness that deterred them, but the killing intent that hit them in the gut.
"My name is Sir Morton," the howling figure said with deep conviction. "Send my regards to the Ancients."
Then he surged forward, too fast to track in the dim light. He moved like a panther, a black shape gliding over stone, and his pounce became a wide sweep of steel.
The men in front could only gasp and raise arms and weapons, but it was to no avail.
A lone metallic flash shone in the passage leading to the gate. Men screamed. Limbs were cut clean. Blood spilled across the stones. Four men in front gritted their teeth and either knelt in shock, collapsed, or retreated, clutching wounds and stumbling. One had lost both wrists and held up his mangled arms, crying out. Panic and disbelief had only begun. Sir Morton did not stop. Without needing to orient himself, he swung his ochre-stained sword in a murderous arc. A new wave of screams followed. The rest of the men backed away in terror.
Sir Morton reoriented himself for another strike when a courageous man leaped in with a spear thrust. Even mid-motion, the Mage Knight blocked it with one hand, sweeping the spear shaft aside near the point, then cut through the man’s neck with a single, clean move of his sword.
The bold Believer only managed to stall the Mage Knight for the span of a breath. His head struck the floor with a dull thud while the decapitated body stood for a moment amid the red mist of blood before the knees buckled and it fell sideways.
Despite the carnage, one, tears in his eyes and wild fanaticism in his stare, rallied his brothers. “This is it. The moment of salvation!”
“For the Living Saint!”
Fourteen roared and charged in unison, spears and swords raised. Stubborn. Fearless.
***
The Gatehouse Hall
More than a dozen Believers inside the hall awoke to the echo of mechanical cranking that did not belong to the night. They did not know the portcullis was being hauled up, but they knew that sound was not supposed to happen. Men pushed themselves upright on their rough mats, blankets slipping from shoulders, and stared at one another in the dimness, each face asking the same question.
Twenty more stirred. Eleven were bothered enough to rise, glancing around and meeting wary eyes as the cranking continued.
“Something is wrong,” one said.
“I’ll go and check,” another declared, pulling on his helmet and taking up his spear.
“I’ll follow,” a third said.
Before long, amid the soft snores, twenty-one men were ready. A third of the hall had awakened, but the rest slept on, tired from the previous fighting or weakened by their wounds.
As the twenty-one Believers began to move, one man near the door woke as well. He wore a tattered cloak, but his tall figure was hard to miss. “I’ll join,” he said in a gruff voice.
Nobody argued.
“The Living Saint’s call to bravery works in every heart,” one muttered in a welcoming tone, repeating a line he had heard from a Candidate almost daily.
Leaving his wounded friend behind, the tall man joined the group.
Now the twenty-two headed out. Outside, the mechanical sound grew more noticeable.
“I don’t see a patrol,” one said.
“Where to?” the man in front asked, facing the stairs.
“The gate passage?” one suggested.
“No, we have men down there."
“Then the windlass chamber,” another said, and they went that way.
Climbing the stone spiral staircase, the tall man positioned himself in the middle. The stairway was narrow, as most castle stairs were, only wide enough for one man at a time. When they were halfway up, he feigned a slip and his massive frame shoved the man below. The others tumbled after him, cascading down the steps in a brutal crash.
“Fuck,” one cursed as others groaned in pain.
“What is it?” someone up front asked, spooked.
“Someone fell,” the tall man explained over the pained grunts and muffled cries.
“Oi, you all right down there?” another called, suspicion rising.
“Hk!” someone cried and collapsed.
“Enemy!” one yelled, but the word cut off as a dagger struck him in the heart. More shocked cries and pained grunts erupted as confusion and panic spread.
In the flurry of stabs in the near darkness, men stumbled and piled on the steps, gaping wounds opening across their bodies. Seven gasped their last breaths as they bled out.
“Enemy! Enemy at our back!” the group up front realized. Many tried to turn around, but the tall man was already coming for them, left hand raised to guard his face with a bloodied dagger, sword thrusting forward in his right.
The nearest man could only scream as the blade struck him squarely in the chest. The layers of his brigandine tore as the edge forced its way into flesh. Blood spurted, staining and darkening his linen.
He barely registered that he was skewered when a strong hand grabbed his neck and shoved him backward with a force that flung him like a doll.
“Saint—” The word broke into a gag as he struck the stone stairs.
Three others brandished their swords, while one clumsily tried to bring his spear to bear, the point scraping stone and striking the staircase wall.
The tall enemy gave them no time. He charged, batted aside the swords aimed at him, and drove a savage body blow.
It was one man against ten, but his strength was like an ox. He drove into them, and the group could only shriek and gasp as he forced them up the stairs. His left hand viciously stabbed at the man in front, who grunted in agony.
Warm blood ran down the steps, and the stairs grew slick underfoot.
The tall man, arms and body finally aching, eased the pressure, and men tumbled down. The few still on their feet raised their weapons and rushed against him.
“Betrayer of the Saint!”
But they were no squires, and they had never trained to fight on a spiral stair like this. Their movements were imprecise.
Observing this, the tall man drove a hard parry into the first man, forcing him to lose his balance. The mistake was met with a fist to the head so brutal the eyes nearly left their sockets. The second man found an opening and launched a daring thrust. The tall man caught it on his armored wrist with a clank, then seized the bold attacker by the arm and hurled him down the stairs. Skull cracked as the man slid and tumbled over the blood-slick stone.
The third man hesitated, but the tall man’s eyes turned on him, cold, almost mesmerizing. “Yield,” he demanded.
Panicked, the four nearest to him dropped their weapons, which clanked hard on the stone steps.
“We yield,” they said, knowing it would be futile to resist.
The rest fled upstairs, thinking they would find guards who could help them against this infiltrator who had come out of nowhere. They cleared the stairs and ran toward the long corridor, passing the glowing brazier, when bolt after bolt slammed into them. One fell, then two, and they realized it was an ambush.
“Go the other way!” one cried.
Too late. There was nowhere to hide. The crossbow bolts were relentless and accurate. More men went down. While men did not normally drop unconscious at once from a bolt or an arrow, shock did its work, and the Believers were not in their best shape. The last man took two bolts before collapsing face down. Two tried to crawl to safety, but they lost consciousness before reaching the stairs. Nobody was left standing.
Even as darkness took them, a few refused to believe the windlass chamber had been taken.
“The Living Saint protects…” one muttered as he coughed and slipped into unconsciousness, hazy eyes fixed on the stone ceiling.
A moment passed before unsteady footsteps were heard.
From below, four surrendered men appeared with hands raised. They were quickly shaken, faces frightened and aghast at the sight of their brothers riddled with bolts.
“Keep moving,” the tall man behind them ordered, the bloodied sword still in his hand.
They took nervous steps into the corridor, wide-eyed at the slaughter.
Then, from the darkness ahead, a figure appeared with a complex-looking crossbow. The brazier’s glow caught his silhouette as he neared. He recognized the tall man. “I did not expect you here so soon, Sir.”
“Opportunities came up,” the tall man replied.
Hearing that, the four unarmed men could only trade fearful glances among themselves.
...
Sir Harold
With his cloak and clothes bloodied, the Banneret said to the SAR Captain, “Bind them. They beg for mercy.”
The SAR captain did not question it. He turned to the four with his Xbow leveled. “Pull your cuffs down until you cannot see your hands.”
They obeyed. Then, one by one, he knotted the ends of their sleeves, leaving the four unable to grab at anything.
“Sit,” he ordered. Then, with a long rope, he tied their ankles together, immobilizing them.
As the SAR captain worked, unseen by the others, Sir Harold carefully pressed his left hand to his stomach, just above his right hip. He gritted his teeth as the pain from the stab wound pulsed upward, right into his head.
Fighting in such a tight place without a breastplate, because of the disguise, had cost him that wound and several other cuts. At least his wrist had stayed armored. Otherwise, he would have taken worse.
Letting his sword rest on the stone wall, his palm still warm with his own blood, he lifted his sweat-soaked, bloodied padded jack slightly and pulled a clean strip of cloth from his pouch. He folded it over itself into a thick pad, then shoved it tight against the wound. After that, he cinched his belt and let the jack and leather hold the pressure in place. Judging by the pain, he thought it had not gone deep enough to kill him. Sweat slicked his whole body.
To think he could die from a moment of carelessness reminded him how little battle forgave.
If only they had a guild that knew how to make a trebuchet, they wouldn't need to resort to this dangerous plan. Yet even in Midlandia, only one guild could make a siege engine, and it was mangonel meant to hurl small stones, nothing that would make a dent in thick walls. It was useful against thin-walled keeps, or to batter roofs and wooden work. They had already put in an order, but it would take two to three months to have it ready. By then, it would be winter.
Worse, with the monastery on high ground and the approach steep, they would have to haul the machine in pieces. And to assemble it again, even without needing to shape the wooden parts on site, the guild meisters would still require days, if not weeks, to set one up. And even then, one mangonel would take far too long to make any difference against thick stone.
The only way, as the Lord had said, was to raze it, but they had talked him out of it. For Midlandians like Sir Harold, the monastery, filled with healers, was still too precious to be destroyed.
He exhaled through his teeth as the wound throbbed. Sir Harold’s lips turned to a thin smile, imagining Clementine’s reaction when she saw it.
Despite the pain and the near-fatal stab, there was no regret. After he had become a Banneret, many, including his deputy, had asked whether he would step away from the front line. He had simply said no. While he could not quite explain it, it was a way to stay true to himself. No amount of gold could make him change his code. Harold the Banneret was the same man as Harold, the poor wandering knight who upheld justice. Still on the path to become a perfect knight, just slightly older, and wiser.
The SAR Captain finished securing the four and warned, “One move, and I’ll put a bolt between your eyes.”
The four nodded, some reluctantly, others without hesitation, frightened.
The Captain then loaded fresh bolts into the magazine box. Behind him, the windlass still creaked as the other men worked the second portcullis. Yet there was no sense of victory, only a feeling of impending doom. Through the walls, they heard it and felt it. Doors thudded open, boots hurried, and distant shouts began to answer one another. The monastery was stirring.
Standing straight, Sir Harold asked, “Where’s Morton?”
“Below. I heard fighting,” the SAR Captain reported, his voice tight.
Sir Harold’s eyes twitched as he stared in disbelief for a moment. Nobody had predicted they would need to fight in the gate passage. The area should have been clear, save for a sentry or two. The fact that Morton needed to fight meant something had gone truly wrong. He thought to lend a hand, but there was a greater urgency. He had to stall the enemy, or everything would fall apart.
He made his decision. “I have to go."
“We’ll be with you after we secure both portcullises and jam the door,” the SAR Captain said, strong as an oath.
“No. Hold here. This is the only defensible spot we have.” Sir Harold, with his sword sheathed, turned his cloak inside out to hide the worst of the blood. Then he hurried downstairs.
“Virtus et honor. The Lord and Lady watch over us,” the SAR captain said as the Banneret left.
Sir Harold planned to sow confusion when they found bodies on the stairs. If he were lucky, he could spread misinformation in the hall as well. If it failed, he thought he could still take out a dozen men even in his condition, then slip away in a different direction and draw them off to buy time. Yet he knew even that would mean nothing if the whole monastery rallied.
They had been fortunate at the start, even finding a guide. After that, trouble had followed trouble. Time was running out. Six men and a Mage Knight could not stop the whole monastery and all its Saint Candidates.
***