Chapter 329: The Lord’s Bannerets |
The Lord’s Bannerets
Monastery, Battlements
Blades and bolts sang in the corridor’s dim glow, lost in the shouting and cursing of men. Like a tide, the Lord’s men, led by the two Breacher Teams, swept into the Monastery gatehouse and met fierce resistance. Blood from both sides smeared the stone walls and floor. Yet the Lord’s men held every advantage, skill, weaponry, experience, and a hard resolve to end the Believers’ fanaticism. Many were Midlandians, and they had seen enough with their own eyes to know it was too dangerous to ignore.
The defenders’ stubbornness met the attackers’ ferocity. The Lord’s men drove through halls and corridors as if the Monastery had already been measured and marked. Guards and Believers were cut down as soon as they were found, leaving only pockets of resistance scattered through the connecting corridors, halls, and chambers.
Before the hour was out, the gatehouse was mostly taken by the invaders. Ironically, the main body of Monastery Guards who held the battlements was now trapped above the wall.
Realization set in as fewer and fewer men streamed down to fight, and more and more were pulled up onto the battlements instead. Soon, even the guards who had been holding the stairs were fleeing upward, scrambling for the battlements.
A senior guardsman slumped against the stone, his bleeding left arm held tight while several men tried to help.
“How many men are still fighting down there?” an officer asked amid the chaos.
The guardsman gritted his teeth as he answered, “A man in gray robes whose name I don’t know, and a Believer. They likely won’t make it.”
He took a dozen steps down before three bolts snapped toward him in quick succession. He jerked back and hurried up the stairs. Reaching safety, he turned to his Captain and reported, “I see no man of ours below.”
Standing tall, the Captain commanded, “Throw the rocks. Don’t hesitate.”
The guards, the volunteer Candidates, and the Believers all obeyed at once. They threw rock after rock down the stairwell to halt the attack coming from below. Crossbowmen took positions to the left and right, watching for threats, while the rest rotated in turns behind the throwers.
It was not a strategy, only a desperate bid to block the enemy from gaining access. They knew that if the attackers broke through, it would be their doom.
More than anyone else, the Captain realized it was their only choice. To stall, to block, to exhaust the Lord’s men. If they succeeded, they could bargain for their lives. The Monastery was finished, but they still had their lives.
For once, nobody suggested fighting boldly in the name of the Living Saint. Not the two Sisters. Not even the Believers. Many of them had bled, and the taste of war had sobered them. After all, they had been thoroughly defeated.
One moment of lapse, and the enemy had descended on them in their sleep.
Amid the steady thud of stones being hurled down the staircase, the Captain and his officers gathered and spoke in low voices. They tried to hide it, but they were thoroughly demoralized, seized by the thought that this might have been what the Black Lord had planned from the start.
The Captain did not utter a word at his officers’ concerns, knowing it would only confirm it. To them, the Black Lord was truly the most frightening figure in this dying Imperium.
Still, hope remained. The men worked in unison without bickering, hauling and shoving stones and boulders by hand from piles spread along the walls. Even the gray-robed Candidates did their part, pushing rocks until their delicate scribal hands bruised.
But something impossible happened. A rock shot back up the stairwell.
Heads turned as one, caught by the sudden motion.
“Watch out!” someone yelled, but it was too late.
The rock came up like a catapult shot and slammed into two men. One was flung sideways, blood pouring as his shoulder was crushed on impact. The other took it square in the lower leg, and the weight drove down, crushing bone all the way to the foot.
“Gah!” The man with the ruined leg shrieked. A few rushed to help, but the rest were too stunned to move.
“How could a boulder that big get thrown back at us?” one of the Sisters asked, gripping a shield tight in front of her, voicing what they were all thinking.
“Prepare your spear, Sister,” the older Saint Candidate urged, her eyes red, fear in her voice.
More rocks came up, pelting the immediate area, and the defenders scattered helplessly to escape.
“Get the shields!” an officer shouted.
“Crossbowmen, loose bolts at will!” the Captain commanded, his calm breaking.
More and more rocks flew up, small and large. Even the brazier was struck, its firewood scattering across the stones and throwing harsh light over the battlements. Under the constant barrage, they were forced to give ground, retreating farther from the stairwell opening.
“Captain,” his staff called, their voices tight, begging for guidance. They could only raise their weapons, bracing against an unknown threat.
The old Captain could do nothing but stare at the staircase, still spitting stones up at them.
Then, amid the flying rocks, something huge burst out of the stairwell and landed on all fours.
“By the Living Saint,” one man gasped.
The creature rose onto two legs, showing its full height. Its long snout was unmistakably not human. Its arms were massive, wrapped in thick furs, and the ringmail on its body made it look every bit as imposing as a war beast.
For a moment, many could only wonder how it had even fit through the spiral staircase.
“That’s the Lord’s half-beast. Take it down!” the Captain yelled, snapping his men out of their daze.
In quick succession, crossbows creaked, and seven bolts snapped toward the creature. But the huge beast nimbly sidestepped as it rose its massive arms, ringmail clinking, to bat aside the few bolts that reached it.
As the crossbowmen hurried to reload and more men raised weapons behind them, the creature spoke. “I heard you talk of my kin as if we’re some hairy human.” It seized a boulder the size of a man’s torso. “You’re going to regret that baseless assessment.” With both hands, it hurled the stone in a brutal, overhand throw.
The boulder flew with terrifying speed and smashed into the line of spearmen and shield bearers. Several men were sent tumbling, sliding across the battlements under the crushing force. Bones broke. Limbs crumpled. And blood smeared across the stones.
But that was not the worst of it. The Captain and several of his men saw more figures climbing the staircase.
“Under the name of the Lord of Midlandia, lay down your arms!” one bellowed as a dozen men in heavy armor poured onto the battlements.
Bright white light flooded the battlement, so harsh it robbed men of their sight. Several bolts were loosened and went wide, striking stone and wood instead.
“Parley!” the Captain shouted, earning shocked, confused looks from his men.
The fighting faltered and then stilled. Everyone hesitated, unsure what would come next.
“Who am I speaking to?” came a voice from the attackers. The voice did not wait for an answer. “Fall back twenty steps. Then we’ll negotiate your surrender.”
The Captain looked back along his own line. He refused to explain.
Distraught by this development, the defenders, especially the Believers, shifted their attention to the two Sisters, who carried more authority than the Captain.
The Sisters merely looked at each other but gave no objection.
“Grant us a guarantee that you won’t kill us,” the Captain finaly responded.
“We guarantee a fair trial,” the man replied as more of his men stepped onto the battlements behind him.
The Captain knew he had nothing left to play. He turned to his staff and his guards, then finally faced the two Sisters. “My apologies,” he said.
Neither woman nodded. Yet after a brief, suffocating stillness, the older one spoke. “We are healers. We do not actively hurt people. Surely that means something to the Lord’s justice.”
At those words, many of the Believers wept. One by one, they finally lowered their weapons. Some needed time to grasp that they had just lost the Monastery.
“Oh, the Sacred Wall,” one lamented.
Others followed. “It never fell from the outside, but from within.”
Not all were ready to yield. A few stubborn men still tried to fight. They edged back, clenching their weapons, snatching crossbows from the racks. The half-kin noticed at once.
The massive creature sprinted to build speed, then leaped the distance in a single bound and landed behind the Monastery crowd. Gasps rose. With every eye on him, he turned to face the stubborn few, claws extended, fangs bared. “Does anyone still want to play? I have to feed my friends, the ducks. Please, I beg of you, do something stupid so that I can take you as a volunteer.”
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His voice was playful, but it landed as a solid threat.
The men in the rear finally threw down their weapons. They truly had been defeated.
The Lord’s men rushed in and disarmed them one by one.
“Leave the Sisters alone,” someone dared, as a few formed a human wall around the two Sisters. It was the last act of resistance on the battlements. A moment later, hands raised, the Captain and his officers surrendered. The wall that had withstood three days of assault finally fell.
...
While the gate, the wall, and the gatehouse had been taken, fighting still raged inside the Monastery, through its many halls, corridors, and hundreds of chambers. The compound was vast, built with defenses in mind, whether against thieves, bandits, or even a siege. Clearing the pockets of resistance would take time, slowed by bottlenecks at every section. Worse, the corridors were dark, and most of the attackers did not know the full layout. Even not getting lost was a tall order.
Only the Second Breacher Team, led by Sir Stan, gained ground consistently. The Baronet knew the Monastery better than anyone else, and his white gemstones of light made fighting in the dark almost as clear as day. Facing him were the most stubborn Believers, remnants of the Guards, and the Saint Candidate's patrol.
Brutal fighting broke out chamber to chamber.
Even with Sir Stan leading and Big Ben driving reinforcements forward, progress slowed to a crawl. Injured men piled up, and only through sheer numbers, skill, experience, and tenacity did the attackers overwhelm the Saint Candidate’s patrol and the remaining guards.
Soon, it became clear that only the Inner Sanctum would remain untouched.
On the other side of the Monastery, away from the din of war, a measure of quiet returned. Inside one of the guest halls that had been kept locked until tonight, furnished with wooden beds and mattresses, the Lord’s injured men were being treated. Since the moment they secured it, the hall had been turned into a makeshift infirmary.
The choice was no coincidence. It had been planned in advance. Following the advice of former Saint Candidates, they already knew the hall would serve well as an infirmary. It had the space they needed, and, nearby, a scullery where cauldrons could be kept boiling to provide hot water for cleaning and disinfection.
Three chandeliers gave the hall strong lighting, and the plastered white walls reflected it back. Above an operating table in one corner, screened by drawn curtains, a gemstone of light glowed steadily while the field physician treated battle wounds.
In another corner near the entrance, the boldest few who had come in by glider rested. Some were receiving treatment. Not all were injured. A few sat with drinks in hand.
Their relaxed air did not bother anyone. Everybody knew these valorous few had earned their respite.
A goblet of strong wine, taken from the Caretaker’s Chamber, rested half empty on a low wooden stool beside Sir Harold. He lay flat on his back on a mattress, receiving stitches for his wound. Fortunately, it had not cut any deeper.
On another mattress, Sir Morton sat, goblet in hand. He suddenly asked, “Do you know why I let only one Black Knight accompany me this time?”
Sir Harold frowned, biting back a grunt, sweat beading on his brow as the physician and his assistant worked. Needle and thread pulled at his skin while a clean cloth dabbed at the bleeding wound. He had several guesses, but he merely shook his head, not seeing the point in blind guessing without any benefit.
“After so many daring raids, I want them to enjoy their retirements,” Sir Morton explained. “This mission was near suicide, so I only took the youngest knight.”
Sir Harold snorted despite the pain, finding the Mage Knight’s concern for his men’s well-being a rare contrast to his cold image. “And yet we made it, my friend.”
“The Lord will be pissed that you’re in tatters, though,” the SAR Captain chimed in from nearby. A grin tugged at his tired mouth as he continued, “You two are his bannerets. And we promised it would be easy and low risk.”
The Mage Knight's mouth twitched, amused. “I think we can keep this quiet between ourselves.”
Sir Harold chuckled between pained grunts. He would still report it, but discreetly, so the Lord understood the group was quietly embarrassed by the little debacle. Knowing the Lord, he would handle it delicately. After all, they had won big and gained him a valuable method to besiege a well-fortified compound.
The physician finally finished his work. While the assistant laid clean linen and bandages over the stitching, Sir Harold asked, “How is the wound?”
“You’ll be just fine, Sir. Just don’t move it too much. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I still have patients to tend,” the senior physician said, already turning away. He moved to the washing station, scrubbing his hands with strong wine vinegar and medicated soap before rinsing them with clean water. His assistant followed, carrying a fresh set of knives, needles, and other tools, newly boiled in case the next wounded man needed them.
Sir Harold watched the ritual without comment. Others did too. The Monastery’s supplies and facilities felt familiar, and its routines aligned with the Lord’s doctrine, as if they had sprung from the same teaching. Yet the Lord had pushed it further, with medicated soap and a robust doctrine that warned of cross-infection. In past battles, physicians swore it had cut death down to a level they had never seen before.
Knowing that, even the wounded carried a sense of relief. Their chances of walking away from their wounds were better than ever.
Sir Harold sat on the mattress, checking his bandage. He motioned for an attendant to assist him with his clothes and padded jack. As he dressed, a group of men rushed inside, carrying more wounded. It was a grim sight, a reminder that the battle was still ongoing.
A moment later, the young Black Knight came in through the guarded entrance. He returned to Sir Morton’s side with assured footsteps. “Sir, I’ve escorted Gregory and twenty men to secure the hospice.”
“Well done," Sir Morton replied, satisfied.
The whole team felt a shared warmth. They had succeeded in upholding their oath to the old lady at the hospice, who had trusted them enough to lend them her young assistant as a guide. Without her aid, they would have been in far greater trouble.
“Come, sit down,” the SAR Captain invited, patting the mattress beside him.
“Gratitude,” the young knight replied, sitting down beside the SAR Captain.
Of them all, the young Black Knight had seen the least action. Sir Morton had ordered him to search for the patrol and stalk it. He only joined the fight when the patrol rushed toward the main team’s position. His strike from the rear shocked and stalled them for a time, buying the group precious time to act. Then he slipped away by the longer route, using a stolen gray robe as a disguise to get clear.
As he wound down, his gaze fell on the SAR man with the broken leg, lying unconscious on the bed beside them. He was still in his black clothing, only without his armor. His face was pale, and his eyes, nose, and mouth were reddened.
The young knight’s brow tightened. He knew his brother-in-arms had been knocked out with a heavy dose of poppy milk. The physician needed to set the bone before it hardened, and that meant undergoing a risky operation. One mistake, and he might end up crippled.
“How is he?” he asked the SAR Captain beside him.
“He’s fine. Let him rest. Even with a broken leg, he did a great job,” the SAR Captain answered, pride clear in his voice.
“That man has balls,” Sir Morton said, feeling the need to praise.
At that, the rest of the glider riders let out quiet chuckles. The young knight breathed a sigh of relief.
In their direst moment, when the gate was still unopened and Sir Harold was fighting on the staircase, the man with the broken leg did the impossible. Even alone, stuck in the hall against more than seventy Believers, he calmly devised a plan. When the noise of fighting grew too loud and began to alert the rest of the Believers, he quietly took out his bag and started rolling canisters of Burning Dust along the floor toward the entrance.
The sudden combustion, the burst of smoke, and the choking pain turned the restless hall into a chorus of terror. Men snatched up their belongings and ran for the other exit. But he wasn’t finished. He lobbed his remaining canisters to the center and far corner of the hall, trying to choke everyone, himself included.
Amid the coughing, screaming, and frantic rush of bodies, he dropped to the floor and calmly put on his mask. He pulled his cloak over his head, then pressed himself into the corner, hugging the wall to keep clear of panicked feet. In the chaos of the gas attack, he breathed slowly and carefully. He knew the seal was not perfect, that a slight leak might still reach him. Even the filtered air carried an acrid sting, but it was far less dangerous than drawing the fumes in raw.
For a long time, the man fought tears in his eyes and a persistent tickle in his throat. Yet there was no fear, only the hard certainty that he had contributed to the mission.
Not even a broken leg would keep him from earning merit. To be in this group was already the highest honor, and such a rare opportunity, that he feared it might be his last chance to serve beside respected figures like the two Bannerets.
In the end, he endured the full force of the gas attack, surviving by keeping his face close to the floor, where the draft left the air less fouled. Yet the gas, trapped in a nearly enclosed space with so few windows, lingered for a long time. It remained so potent that both sides avoided that hall. It could make even the strongest men weep and vomit uncontrollably.
When the assault force arrived, Sir Harold and the SAR returned to the hall, certain they had lost him, only to find him after the gas began to thin, assisted by Sir Morton’s magic. There, in the grimy corner, they found him alive, almost unscathed.
Sir Harold let out a breath and commented, “Nobody knew he had that much Burning Dust on him.”
“I gave him mine, but I thought he was only trying to lighten my load, since we wouldn’t need it in the windlass chamber,” the Captain said.
“Captain,” one of the SAR called, his fingers bandaged from the fight. “You know what he said when I found him?”
“No. What?” the Captain said, his interest piqued.
“He admitted to me, I probably used too much gas.”
The men laughed, a rough, tired sound. They knew others were still fighting, but for veterans, even the bleakest moments could not stop a quick laugh when it came.
From the guarded entrance, a messenger hurried inside. He spotted them and rushed over, stopping in front of Sir Harold, breathless. “Report.”
“Speak,” Sir Harold instructed.
“Sir Stan and Big Ben have taken down three Saint Candidates, along with tens of guards. The defense of the Inner Sanctum is crumbling as we speak. The door won’t hold for long.”
“The Monastery is nearly ours,” the SAR Captain shouted down the hall, and the men around them, even those busy with medical emergencies, cheered.
“Blue and Bronze!” they shouted.
“Down with the Saint!”
Amid the cheering, Sir Harold kept his focus. “Is there more to the report?”
“Yes. The First Breacher Team reports that the fighting in the north-side corridor has stopped. They began securing the Candidates’ living quarters.”
“That’s already more than half the Monastery,” the SAR Captain exclaimed, a flicker of surprise in his tone.
Sir Harold nodded calmly. The informal Breacher Team, made up of the most physically able men in the Vanguard, was proving itself worthy tonight. “Perhaps the Lord will formalize them,” he muttered to himself.
Then he looked back at the messenger. “How about the fighting. Where is it the hardest?”
“There’s some spillover into the courtyard, but the information is still limited. The officers won’t commit men to chase them.”
“They’re doing the right thing. We’re battling for the Monastery, not gardens and pretty pavilions. That can come later,” Sir Harold replied, restating his intent.
As his men nodded in acknowledgement, a second messenger hurried in, young enough that his helmet looked oversized on him. His face was brighter than the first. “Report.” The messenger swallowed, breathless.
Sir Harold motioned for him to speak. New information took priority.
“Sir Stan has successfully held a preliminary talk with the Inner Sanctum,” the messenger said, his words carrying across the hall. “They agree to send a representative at once to discuss terms.”
At that, dozens of pairs of eyes turned to Sir Harold, expectant.
For a heartbeat, the commander did not move. Then his mouth eased into a genuine smile, the weight in his shoulders finally giving way with it. The burden of command, and of the entire campaign, was lifting.
It was Sir Morton who sprang up from where he sat, the motion sharp enough to pull the hall’s attention in an instant. The Mage Knight raised his voice to the room, lifting a clenched fist in a rare show of triumph. “Ever Victorious!”
The chamber erupted. Men, physicians, and even patients took up the cry like a spark finding dry straw. “Victor, victor, victor!”
The sound shook the hall and spilled into the surrounding corridors, rebounding off stone until it felt as if a sermon was being preached in the Monastery tonight. Faces that had been hollow with fatigue brightened. Men grinned through grime, sweat, and dried blood.
After days of brutal assault on ladders, after the gnawing anxiety of being held back as reserve while others bled at the front, they had finally done what they had come for. Months of waiting and preparing had paid off.
Sir Harold rose from the mattress in one steady motion. The noise fell away, not because the men were finished, but because every eye turned to him. The tall Banneret unhooked the scabbard from his belt and slung it across his back, tightening the straps with practiced pulls until the weight sat right.
He found his lieutenant and instructed, “Get the men in the camp around the hill to double their patrol. Tell the riders to mobilize the ducks. I want a tight net. We’re not letting anyone escape.”
“Sir,” the lieutenant acknowledged.
Sir Harold then looked over his men in the hall, meeting their gazes one by one, before speaking as calmly as if he were stepping out on an errand.
“Time to drag the bitch out.”
***
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