Chapter 328: Battle for the Gate |
Battle for the Gate
Sir Morton, Gate Passage
The thick rope and chain creaked as the heavy portcullis was drawn up. A sword scraped stone. Men swore as fourteen charged at a lone Mage Knight in the dimly lit passage. Within seconds, armor rang, wood cracked, and men shouted over one another. Even outnumbered, Sir Morton was undeterred. A brutal, one-sided fight ensued. After a flurry of blocks and parries to keep himself from being surrounded, he gave ground, retreating the way he had come.
Five pressed after him, eager and confident in their Midlandian swords, spears, and sturdy bucklers.
Just like that, Sir Morton had drawn a few ahead of the rest. He blocked two spear thrusts as he stepped back, then, without warning, stole a step forward. The Believers blinked in disbelief as he delivered a powerful low cut. Like a bad dream, two men had their legs taken from under them. The nearest could not believe their eyes as the pair went down screaming.
The Mage Knight recovered his stance almost without a pause, found an opening, and drove a thrust into a third man’s face. A terrifying wet sound followed as the strong-bodied Believer staggered, then went limp in an instant, his spear clattering to the floor.
Amid the agony of the two with severed legs, the group, now down to two men, gritted their teeth in hesitation. They wanted more space, but the rest had pressed up behind them, eager to fight. The passage was packed so tightly there was no room to retreat. Worse, the Mage Knight in front of them was not done. He yanked the long, wavy blade free and let the dead man crash face-first near his boots. With the same motion, he shifted into half-sword, gripping the bloodied blade, and stepped in. Too fast to follow, the pommel smashed into the fourth man’s head. Teeth sprayed across the stones as he dropped.
The last man recoiled and tried to scramble back, pushing with his heel, desperate to slip past the press behind him. But there was nowhere to go.
“Salvation!” one of the nine chanted, voice raw with fear and fanaticism.
The fight in the dimly lit passage continued. As before, with their greater numbers, they pressed in and believed they were steadily whittling down the lone opponent.
Sir Morton coldly parried the attacks, but behind him a Believer rose unsteadily. The man had survived the first slaughter with a deep gash across his chest that had failed to bite through his gambeson. He gripped his sword and was about to strike Sir Morton from behind when a crossbow snapped. The man jerked. A bolt had buried itself in the back of his head. He crashed down, and the Believers who saw it faltered.
They had wondered why they could not bring one man down. Now they remembered there was another one.
“The Living Saint protects,” someone chanted, but with less conviction than before.
“Not from death,” Sir Morton answered, and then he took a step forward.
His advancing footsteps made the Believers recoil. They stepped back, no longer attacking. The sight of his wavy blade, smeared with blood, froze them in place. Before long, they began to shove other men to the front in a bid to save themselves.
Only then did Sir Morton realize he was not up against the infamous ghouls.
These men felt pain and fear... Had the monastery run out of that forsaken drugged incense?
The second portcullis was rising now, and muffled shouts echoed from the corners of the gatehouse as it awakened.
Sir Morton cut down the man who faced him, sending him crashing to the side, and flicked blood from his sword. Without taking a breath, he launched himself again like a beast. His swift advance ended in a lunge that skewered a man, the spear slipping from the victim’s hands. Before the rest could stab him, the Mage Knight put his enhanced strength into a swing and heaved his flamberge, still lodged in the victim. Blade and body slammed into the men around him, sending several crashing into the wall.
There were immediate groans and whimpering cries.
The blade tore free, spraying blood. Sir Morton coldly recovered his stance while the remaining men scattered. He proceeded to corner them against the second portcullis, which had not yet risen enough to let them crawl through.
“Father!” one cried as his father seized him and used him as a shield.
“We surrender!” the father begged.
“Mercy for us!” another demanded.
The Mage Knight gave only a look of disgust and readied his flamberge. Soon, there were only the sounds of gurgling blood. The last few fell where they stood, scattered across the stones. One man had an arm trapped in the second portcullis as he tried to claw his way through, until a blade skewered him from behind.
Sir Morton hauled the body down at once, not wishing the portcullis to jam.
The body that had fallen to the ground recoiled, still breathing, and muttered weakly, “Mercy…”
Sir Morton looked down. “It’s too late. I am a blunt tool, unleashed on those who refuse to listen to sanity.”
He gave a quick, merciful death.
Behind him, the man who had lost a leg tried to crawl to safety, but the lone SAR knelt in front of him. The man tried to plead, but a blade swept too fast to follow in the dim light, opening his throat. He went limp at once, shock taking him before he even understood what had happened.
In the end, nineteen were killed.
The second portcullis continued to rise. Its heavy timber grille, reinforced with iron, groaned as chains and ropes hauled it higher and higher.
The SAR approached Sir Morton with a cranequin in hand, his Xbow slung across his back. “I hear movement at the far end,” he reported, concerned.
Sir Morton, his armor, face, and curly hair coated in blood, turned and looked back toward the monastery side. The gate passage led into a stone corridor that opened onto an inner courtyard, with access to the prayer hall, the wash chambers, storehouses, and the stables farther in. Somewhere deeper inside, boots and voices were gathering.
“Buy me time,” Sir Morton instructed as he ducked under the half-raised portcullis and headed for the gate.
The lone SAR went to the rear, trying to secure a good place to snipe.
The gate passage was dark. When the portcullis was lowered, no one could light a lantern near it. Sir Morton did not care. He studied the wide wooden gate. A smaller wicket door stood to the right, locked with a key he did not have. Ignoring it, he examined the main gate. Two solid wooden bars sealed it, one at chest height and another lower.
With his sword back in its scabbard, he set a hand on the first gate bar.
The Mage Knight felt the weight of the solid wood and began to lift it.
“Nh,” he grunted through clenched teeth.
The timber was as thick as a man’s thigh and as heavy as a horse. The plan had been for two other men to help him here. Even the monastery assigned five men to lift such a solid bar, but Sir Morton alone wrenched the upper bar free of its iron sockets. Sweat trickled down his forehead as he lifted enough to free one end, then heaved it aside. The bar hit the stones with a heavy crash and rolled, thudding against the wall.
He did not pause. He reached for the lower bar and wrenched it up in the same brutal way, dragging it out of its sockets and tossing it aside. It struck hard and bounced once before settling with a final, dull thump.
Now clear, he unlatched the cold iron bolt. It fought him with a catch of rust. Finally, the thick metal clacked as he used too much force. Then, with a burst of strength, he set both hands to the reinforced gate and shoved.
The wood groaned, but it moved outward. A slit opened, allowing a burst of cold night air to replace the damp, stale, rotting air.
Sir Morton drew a breath as the gate swung wide. He had freed the gate.
Behind him, more shouting rose, and the quick, desperate rhythm of crossbows followed. The gatehouse guards were nearly here.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
***
Monastery Guards, Battlements
Amid the sudden noises from below, the guards were alerted and began checking their surroundings. The first group had already been sent downstairs before the two Saint Candidates were fully awake.
“Sister, the portcullis likely has been drawn,” one guard reported to the still-groggy Saint Candidate.
“What? On whose order?” the Sister asked, startled.
The first guard shook his head. “We don’t know.”
Meanwhile, the other Sister, barely asleep for an hour, grabbed her iron spear and scanned the night sky for an airship, eyes red with fatigue. She saw nothing suspicious.
“Wake everyone!” a voice shouted from one of the towers, having noticed the same thing.
“We’ve sent thirty men downstairs. They should find the issue and fix it quickly,” a second guard said, trying to keep hope alive.
Before they could think of anything else, the lookout at the far corner, the one who could see the gate from their position, shouted, “The gate!” He screamed until he had everyone’s attention. “It’s open!”
The first guard quickly leaned over the parapet, risking his head, and saw it was true. He turned, his face pale, and said, “The gate is open. The gate is open.”
The Sister panicked. “Who ordered the gate opened?”
“Sister, we do not know,” the second guard answered. “Nobody would give that order.”
“Find the Captain,” she ordered.
“I’m here.” The Captain replied as he climbed onto the battlements. His eyes swept over his men and the two Sisters, then he said, “Prepare your defense. We’ve been breached.”
...
The Blue and Bronze, Advance Camp
A few moments ago, the narrow window above the gate had begun to give off an orange glow that blinked on and off. It was the agreed signal, and the Lord’s men in their camp readied themselves for the plan’s fruition. Concealed lanterns and torches were lit, and everyone took a sip of water before the coming action. The wind was cold, yet it did not rob them of their fiery vengeance. The Living Saint’s followers’ rebellion had humiliated the men tasked to protect the Lord, and they were eager to restore their honor.
A short distance from the gate, beneath canvas and foliage that served as camouflage, devised by Lady Valerie, two Breacher Teams had been waiting. She knew the Saint Candidates had weaker night vision.
Finally, after minutes of tense waiting, the gate was pushed open. One man stood in the middle, waving at them as calmly as a father beckoning his child closer.
“Sound the trumpets!” the Vice shouted at his men.
“For the Blue and Bronze!” the officer and men shouted back.
Chaos broke loose. Torches flared. Horses neighed. Trumpets blared, and the rough, feral bronze buccina sounded hard against the dark.
The whole camp came alive as column after column rushed out onto the field. Two thousand men surged toward the Monastery gate.
Now, the nomads’ morin khuur played quick, driving melodies as their riders answered with battle cries.
In front, two Breacher Team members left their camouflaged nest and sprinted across ground that had been a battlefield for three days.
At the very front, a half-kin charged, pushing what looked like a battering ram. But it was not meant to crush the gate. It was meant to carry men. Streamlined, compact, and low to the ground, it was built for speed. Its four wheels spun so fast, yet produced no squeaky noise. Its momentum was like horses at a gallop. Even over the bumpy terrain, it kept its charge, as if it meant to ram the already opened gates.
“Go Big Ben, go!” the men inside the vehicle cheered, as if this were a race.
“Men of Toruna, go faster!” Sir Stan bellowed to the second group.
Their silhouettes moved fast, eating up the distance to the gate. The Saint above spotted them and directed crossbow bolts toward their position. But they moved too fast, and they had shields above their heads. In great speed, the four-wheeled vehicles slipped through the Monastery’s panicked defense, passing sporadic crossbow bolts and scattered stones dropped from above.
The first vehicle skidded when it hit the cobbled stone near the gate, but its tires, wrapped in a hard rubbery layer, still let it steer true.
It was dark inside the gate passage, with only a dim light at the far end, but it did not stop them. They moved as if they did not need to slow down.
Sir Morton broke into a smile as the first vehicle slipped past him at great speed. “Careful. Watch for obstacles.”
Big Ben, who pushed the first vehicle from behind, opened wide its jaw, breathing in the air as saliva trickled down.
The vehicle soon slowed and crashed into the wall. It had a rubbery layer in front, both as protection and as a crude brake. Despite the impact, a dozen men readily jumped out, ready with swords and shields, and also a gemstone of light. Its highly polished silver dome reflector flared, flooding the area ahead with bright white light.
The officer found Sir Morton and saluted. “First Breacher Team reporting.”
“Second Breacher Team repor—” The report was cut short as their vehicle spun and crashed into the wall near the brazier, nearly toppling their only light source.
“Careful, don’t break your neck,” Sir Morton replied. There was a rare gentleness in his voice. “Also, watch out for bolts.”
As he warned, bolts sang through the air to greet them.
“Fuck,” a man cursed. They raised their shields, and one by one they moved for the staircase leading to the windlass chamber, ready to fight their way inside.
A dozen men crawled out from the second crashed vehicle, including Sir Stan. A few sustained light injuries, and one vomited. The baronet activated his gemstone of light. “Morton, may I assume command?”
“Such is the plan,” the Mage Knight confirmed under the bright white glow. His ethereal shield was already up, protecting them from the sporadic bolts.
“Second Team, follow me. Remember, kill the men, but leave the women alive,” Sir Stan commanded.
His men grinned. One commented, “Pretty women only, right, Sir?”
“Damn right,” Sir Stan confirmed jovially, just as a bolt ricocheted off the wall and struck his helmet.
“You okay, sir?” one of his men asked, alarmed.
“I’ll skin that wretch. Follow me!” Unfazed by the hit, Sir Stan surged forward toward the guest chamber ahead, his red kite shield raised, matching the red of his armor.
Behind them, the rest of the army rushed forward, a dark mass running for the gate.
***
Monastery
The silver-haired Candidate awakened in complete darkness. He realized his younger brother must have fallen asleep and forgotten to keep their lantern going. Yet from the lingering, rich scent of Nicotiana, he had not been asleep for too long.
Why am I awake? He asked himself.
As his eyes adjusted, he turned toward the window and listened. He caught a few faint echoes, but that was it. Their chamber sat near the edge of the hill, far from the gate and the wall where the fighting had been. Still, if there were a major attack, they would have heard the clash of battle. So far, there was only echoes.
Around him were soft snores from several people. More than the usual three.
Despite encouragement to join the guard, the three preferred to prepare for the inevitable in their own way. For two days in a row, they had smuggled five women inside, promising the hungry and weakened Believers food and a little entertainment.
In truth, they laced the wine and had their way with them.
Not that the silver-haired man found them particularly beautiful. The ones who stayed were usually the calm type. The beautiful ones were, more often than not, fiery, and they almost always volunteered for the most dangerous missions. Many had been lost or captured when they tried to storm the Lord’s camp a few days ago.
In the dark, he reached out for the girl sleeping beside him, careless and entitled, as if she belonged to him.
There was no response. The girl was still out.
Drugged wine on an empty stomach was a powerful combination. One cup, and they were gone for half a day.
Not strong enough to make them fall asleep, but strong enough that they could not resist or even think of escape. It was a powerful drug and cost a fortune. If the situation were not so desperate, he would never use it on common Believers. The plan was for him to keep it for the most valuable guests who came to the monastery: A lesser noble’s daughter, a widow, or even someone else’s wife, the kind of chance meeting that could be turned into a lifelong illicit affair.
The women could be his way to a good retirement.
Although the monastery was powerful, he was only a small cog in the machine. Even as a silver-hemmed elite, he was ultimately replaceable, and he had no true power.
With the money he embezzled, he would be better off as a wealthy esquire. And one of those women could provide him with that willingly.
He knew just how addictive some of the drugs were, more potent than the strongest wine. One dose, and many would crave more for the rest of their lives.
As if to bless his plan in life, the siege had turned out well in their favor. The Lord’s assault had been blunted, and since morning, there had been no new attack. Tonight, there seemed to be nothing to worry about. So, to celebrate, they drank even harder. Yet somehow he had awakened.
Had I heard a trumpet?
Despite the haze in his head and the pounding in his skull from drink, he forced himself to stay awake. He did not have to wait long. Outside, in the long corridor, footsteps sounded suddenly. They were hurried, with metallic clatters that meant armor.
“Has the battle joined again?” another voice rose inside the chamber.
Even in the pitch dark, he recognized that unserious tone, always edged with mischief. It was the man the other Candidates called Uncle. The silver-haired man rose from his bed and replied, “I hear no fighting.”
He nearly stepped on someone on the floor and realized it was one of the women. He covered her with a blanket. He did not want her to fall ill. Then he headed for the door, moving carefully.
Uncle seemed to think the same. He had brought a lantern, hoping to borrow light from the corridor where the patrol should have kept the lanterns lit.
When they opened the door, they saw a dimly lit corridor stretching away into the dark.
Only then did the two catch muffled shouts from an intersection farther down. The voices were panicked, and they seemed to be coming from the gatehouse direction. A moment later came sharper sounds beneath it, steel clanging on stone, and a sudden, pained scream that cut through the corridor.
“Infiltrators,” the older man said.
“Can’t be,” Uncle retorted out of habit.
“The fighting isn’t coming from the battlements.” The older man snatched the lantern from Uncle’s hand and hurried to the nearest wall sconce. “The enemy is already inside.”
“The gate breached?” Uncle remarked, panicked. “Then what should we do?”
“Wake our brother. Slap him if you need to,” he replied. The chubby youngster who was still dead asleep from too much wine.
“And flee where? The Inner Sanctum?”
“Forget the Inner Sanctum. They don’t have the authority. Go to the lower level,” the older man replied, carefully borrowing flame from the wall lantern.
Uncle recoiled. “The Saint? Fuck that.”
His curse echoed in the long corridor.
Lanternlight burned bright orange as the older man turned toward Uncle. He looked haggard from too much wine and too little food. Stepping closer, he said grimly, “The place is compromised. Unless you ask the Saint to rally all her Saint Candidates, there will be no monastery by morning.”
Uncle coughed, shivering, whether from cold or fear. “Why can’t I stay while you go to the lower level?”
“You don’t have what it takes. Are you ready to die to halt the Lord’s men?” he said as he reentered the chamber, walked between the sleeping figures on the floor, and began to don his clothes and his pristine gambeson.
Still at the doorway, Uncle hesitated, sweat forming on his back. “Fine. I’ll convince the Living Bitch.”
“Then wake our brother. Let him go with you. You know the Saint tolerates the chubby boy, but not sorry men like us.” He latched his belt and took his sword.
Uncle rushed inside, ignoring the girl lying beside the plump younger brother, and began to slap his face. The chubby man groaned, and Uncle hissed, “Oi, wake up. Don your armor and get your shield. The enemy is coming!”
Outside, the sound of battle drew nearer. The monastery guards were breaking.
***