There would be no sleep on this night.
Watching the multitude approach, he immediately recognized that the fire trenches they’d dug were too thin by half. The mongolbeasts would ride right over them, while the rest of the army would use long planks they carried on their shoulders—makeshift bridges—to span the gap.
He bit his tongue, feeling the warm, coppery taste of blood in his mouth.
What can we do? he thought, backing away from the edge of the wall. Panic seized him, and he had the sudden urge to flee to the inner portion of the castle, to find his father, to beg him to protect him.
Why did he want to fight anyway? What honor was there in dying? What honor was there in killing?
“My son,” a voice said from behind. He turned to find his mother, garbed in small white armor. A short sword was sheathed in a leather scabbard.
“I—Mother? What are you doing here? And why are you dressed like that? You must hide. The Crimeans are coming.”
She smiled, though it was the saddest smile he’d ever seen. “They are already here,” she said. “And I’m not bound by your father’s promise either. I will fight, and die, if necessary. I will defend the loyal servants of the castle, from the scullery maids to the stable boys to the serving women. They deserve our protection, don’t you think?”
“I—yes. Of course, Mother.” Verner felt like a coward. Here he was considering fleeing from the battle before it had even started, and his mother was charging into it.
“Did you speak to your father?”
“About what?”
“About what we talked about before. Strategy. Defenses. Knights and Dragons.”
“No. I mean, yes. He already had a plan in place.” His cheeks flushed when he remembered all he’d left unsaid.
“Is it a good one?”
Not good enough. “It’s…sensible. Standard defenses for such an assault.” As if to illustrate, a shout burst through the darkening evening, carried from tower to tower by castle callers. Hundreds of flaming arrows soared through the air, a display so magnificent it took Verner’s breath away for an instant. He ran to the parapets once more, watching as the arrows landed well short of the enemy, lighting the trenches in numerous places, the flames shooting up and racing along the pits until it was a single unbroken line of fire.
“Standard defenses?” his mother echoed, making him flinch. He hadn’t seen her approach to stand next to him.
“Yes,” he said. “He’d given all the commands before I’d even spoken to him.”
“As long as you’re satisfied.” He could tell by her tone she was disappointed in him, but she would never say as much to him.
In that moment, as he watched the Crimean army approach the pits of flames, he felt useless. Weak. More a boy than a man grown.
And then, as they looked on, the Crimeans passed over the trenches as easily as fording a shallow river, on the backs of their beasts and bridges, as unstoppable as a giant black and green wave.
“Son,” Viola said, gripping his arm. “There is no shame in hiding. Go, be with your father. He will appreciate the company.”
Verner was halfway to his father’s quarters when he stopped, clutching the wall, bent over his knees. He threw up the little he’d managed to eat for supper, his breaths coming in waves.
He felt like a skeleton, his bones picked clean of muscle and flesh, devoid of blood or organs, his heart having shriveled up and fallen away, along with his brain.
He’d failed the city twice now. First, when he refused to contradict his father’s strategy. And second, when he’d run from the battle. The urge to curl up in a ball right here and now was so strong it was like a set of powerful hands on his shoulders, forcing him down. Where was his sense of glory? Where was his honor? Was I born without a backbone?
He sank to the floor, his head in his hands, his entire body wracked with sobs.
His eyes flashed open when strong arms lifted him up, crushing him in a clanking hug. His father’s plate sang against his, even as his fierce eyes bore into him. “Father?” he said, tears still blurring his vision. “What are you doing?”
“Breaking a fifty-year-old promise,” Tomas said. He wiped away his son’s tears with a finger.
“Are you certain?”
“As certain as anything in my life. My father wanted me to live, to be safe, but he was wrong to make me promise this thing. No man should be required to hide away while his people fight for their independence. Will you fight alongside me, son?”
All of Verner’s fears and self-doubt rushed back. “I don’t know if I can.”
“That’s how you know your soul is alive,” Tomas said. “The fear is what makes you human. Now come, we have a victory to seize.”
Seeing the confidence and determination in his father’s eyes gave him the strength he needed. “Thank you, Father.”
“Thank you, son. You reminded me that some things in life are worth fighting for.”
The doors shook, sawdust and wooden splinters raining down on the helms of the soldiers standing in wait for their enemy to break through the gates. Rather than using a battering ram, the Crimeans simply charged several of the mongolbeasts into the thick, wooden door again and again.
Up above, on the castle ramparts, archers loosed wave after wave of arrows into the invading army, hoping to cull their numbers as much as possible before they breached the walls. Hot oil was dumped from large vats. Boulders were tumbled over the sides. The screams of soldiers dying assaulted Verner’s ears like ill-tuned instruments. Not all were the enemy. The Crimeans loosed arrows of their own, killing dozens of archers, many of whom tumbled inside the castle walls, landing on the soldiers beneath them.
Verner gritted his teeth, waiting beside his father. In some ways, the waiting was the worst part. He had the strong desire to urinate, but he held it back, focusing on the blade of his sword, which was tinted green with moonlight.
He’d told his father about his mother’s plan to fight, and Tomas had only shaken his head and offered a rueful look. “She has her own mind, just as we do.” At least she’s not at the front, Verner thought. She would be the last line of defense, along with a group of castle guardsmen ordered to protect the inner sanctuary, where the servants had been gathered. All other nonfighting city dwellers had been told to stay inside.
THUD-THUD! To Verner’s ears it sounded like two mongolbeasts had hit the door at the same time. Something cracked, though the damage was invisible from the inside.
THUD-THUD! A seam rippled across the wood, and the jagged tip of a horn poked through. Several soldiers tried to hack at it, but mostly got in each other’s way. One of the captains barked an order for them to back up, and the entire mass seemed to move as one, retreating enough so that they wouldn’t be crushed when the doors came down.
THUD-THUD-CRAAAACK! A thin gap appeared, widening as weapons and fists were shoved through, pulling, tearing, wrenching each half of the door to the side.
“Attack!” the captain at the front shouted, and his force charged, stabbing through the breach. The cries of death resumed. One of the soldiers was pierced by a blade in his shoulder, and stumbled back to be treated by the healers waiting well away from the fray. He brushed past Verner as he retreated, and he could see the pain on his face.
Pain is nothing next to oppression, Verner thought. The idea seemed to steady his legs beneath him, and for a moment he managed to drag his mind away from the thick of the battle, to a higher place—like looking down on a Knights and Dragons’ board.
He frowned. If this were a game, they were about to engage in a strength on strength battle to the last soldier, last horse, last knight. Which would be fine if they had more pieces remaining on their side. But they didn’t, which meant a different strategy was required.
“Drop back,” he whispered, the idea taking shape in his mind.
“What was that, son?” his father asked, looking at him sharply.
Verner didn’t look at him, staring
ahead at where the Crimean infantry had moved back, making room for the mongolbeasts to charge once more. Another direct hit and the doors would give way. There was no time to lose.
He turned to his father, grabbing his shoulders with both hands. “Give the command to drop back. Have each captain set up in a different part of the city. They can hide in alleys and buildings, taverns and marketplaces. Make them come to us. And then we’ll make them pay for it.” He said the last sentence with a growl, certainty flowing through him. This could work. This would work.
Tomas shook his head. “I won’t give that order. I won’t bring the wolf into our home.” He shook his head again. “No, we stop them here, at the gates, before they can destroy all we’ve built.” With that, he strode forward with his sword raised, just as the doors burst inward with a final thud.
War was even more brutal and chaotic than Verner could ever have imagined. He watched as a soldier was gored by a mongolbeast, the breath gasping from the man’s lungs. The enormous creature thrust its head back and forth, trying to dislodge the corpse.
Verner ducked, and the body flew past.
A Crimean soldier bearing a red captain’s seal on his helm leapt from the beast and charged him. Verner found his feet, slipped on the blood and ichor that filmed the stonework, and barely managed to raise his sword in time to block the slash of his enemy’s weapon. The man, who wore a grey, well-trimmed beard, followed through with a shoulder to his chest, knocking him back. For a moment they struggled for an edge, while all around them the sounds of similar battles created a cacophony that seemed to dim with time.
Verner remembered a trick he’d once used on the practice field when training with his father. It had worked then, and he’d impressed Tomas, a man who wasn’t easily impressed.
He dropped his shield. His foe’s eyes widened in surprise, but Verner was already moving his free hand, gouging the man’s eyes, and then sliding his hand down to secure his opponent’s sword hand. The entire maneuver took less than a second, and before the man could react, Verner thrust with his sword, slipping past the now-lowered blade of the captain.
His aim was true, and the blade met little resistance as it sliced between plate and mail, sinking deep.
The man’s fingers lost all strength and he dropped his sword.
It was the first man Verner had ever killed.
It would not be the last, not on this night.
Verner was proud of the soldiers of Knight’s End, but alas, it was not enough. They’d fought valiantly, many men losing their lives to defend their city, but still they’d been pushed back down the main thoroughfare, where the fighting became even more fierce in the larger area. Mongolbeasts used the extra space to stampede, smashing anything in their path, whether man, horse, cart, or building. Shattered stones and cart wheels littered the streets, along with bodies. Too many bodies, both enemy and ally.
Another round of retreats had recently been called, and for several brief, precious moments, Verner was beside his father and the men who’d served under various captains, now fractured into one single group.
The last stand.
The Crimeans were regrouping, the surviving captains shouting out commands and formations.
A healer tugged at Verner’s arm, bandaging a slash across his hand that was bleeding profusely. Verner hadn’t even known it was there. He was having trouble seeing out of one eye as well, the swelling fierce. He wasn’t certain what had struck his face amongst the press of bodies and carnage, but there was little he could do for it now. One eye would have to suffice.
“Son,” his father said. “I’m proud of you. So proud.” Sweat and blood beaded on his forehead, dripping from his brow. A ragged gash ran from temple to temple, a glancing blow that might’ve killed him had it landed squarely.
“We’ve lost,” Verner said.
“It is no fault but mine. My strategy was flawed. I didn’t give us a good enough chance. The trenches should’ve been wider, the attack more spread out.”
“No, Father. You did everything you could. You fought. That’s what matters.” It wasn’t entirely the truth, but the grim smile that formed on Tomas’s face was worth the white lie.
“You must flee. Find your mother and escape to the sea. Take a boat and sail somewhere safe. There is no dishonor in living.”
Though it was as great a temptation as Verner had ever faced, he shook his head. “I shall not. I shall fight, by your side. I shall die, by your side.”
There were tears in Tomas’s eyes now, but he didn’t argue. Only nodded sadly. “You are a better man than I.”
“I have known no better than you, Father.”
They turned as one to face the enemy, who were rallying down the wide cobblestoned street, war cries on their lips. They were so close now that further retreat would be futile. Verner gritted his teeth, raised his shield and sword, and prepared to die a glorious death.
A chorus of cries and shouts rang out from above, from both left and right, back and forward. Verner frowned, swiveling his head to locate the source. Heads appeared at windows and rooftops. Women, children, the elderly. They screamed at the Crimeans, uttering curses and taunts. Soon stones flew through the air, some from slingshots and others from fists. Arrows and crossbolt darts too. Hot water and flaming bottles followed next, and soon the enemy was forced to huddle beneath their shields under the onslaught.
Tomas laughed a mirthless laugh, slapping Verner on the back. “Knight’s End will not go quietly into the night, it seems. They have given us a chance. Well, half a chance, but we’ll take it just the same. Men! Soldiers of the west! Attack! Attack! Attack!”
With a roar, the soldiers launched themselves from where they were hunkered behind cart and barrel, charging for the enemy, who were just starting to creep toward the building doorways, as if they planned to search the houses for the women and children who assaulted them.
Verner fell on the first soldier he came upon, smashing his shield into his side, knocking him sprawling. With renewed energy, he sprang upon him, stabbing him. The other soldiers were fighting with just as much passion as he, and soon the Crimeans began to scatter, falling out of formation as they fled. Townsfolk continued to harry them from above with anything they could throw or shoot, from stones to arrows to cook pots, the latter of which was surprisingly effective.
Verner and his father ran with the other soldiers, though Tomas’s aging legs soon fell behind. They didn’t stop until the enemy was well and truly gone from the city, the damaged gates shut and barricaded. Archers flocked to the walls and fired upon the retreating Crimeans, disavowing them of any thoughts of regrouping for another attack on this night.
“A war of independence is not won with one battle,” Tomas said, his eyes roaming up and down the men seated at the council table.
“But what a victory it was!” one man said. “The bards will sing of it till time itself lays down for the final sleep.”
There were chuckles around the table, and even Tomas smiled. Verner knew the speaker well. He was an aging man, Horam Grim, but had been one of Tomas’s best friends for years. In fact, he was one of the original explorers from Heinrich’s company when they discovered these very lands. Too old to be a soldier anymore, he claimed to have thrown an entire washbasin out the window during the battle, killing two Crimeans and knocking a mongolbeast senseless. Verner didn’t doubt the old man’s story; he was just glad he hadn’t started throwing women and children out the windows too.
When the moment of lightness had run its course, Tomas said, “As our scout ships were returning to the bay, they spied two-dozen warships approaching from the west. They flew green and black flags. The next attack will come from the sea.”
Verner’s heart sank. Though he knew their fight for independence was far from over, he’d expected more time to prepare for the next attack. Perhaps they could try to make peace with the Phanecians or Calypsians—request their aid. But now…warships were already headed their way? We’re doomed
, Verner thought.
“We are down to less than a thousand soldiers. Each warship will likely contain two hundred to three hundred men. That outnumbers us by at least five times, if we’re lucky.”
“Bethany’s ships are less than a day away,” Alvin Corscott said. He was one of the surviving captains, a stern man with a clean-shaven face and bright blue eyes that cut sharply from face to face as he spoke. “That’ll add at least a thousand to our numbers. And we just received a pigeon from our southern colonies. Each of the four border towns are sending five hundred able-bodied men.”
Verner did the math quickly, his lips pulling into a smile. Three thousand more soldiers brought the total to almost four thousand. They were still outnumbered, but it sounded a far cry better than just a moment ago.
Tomas rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Right now we are a gnat on King Streit’s backside. Given his lust for expansion, he’s probably spread thin, fighting wars on half a dozen different fronts. Defeating him won’t be enough. It will only turn more of his military attention toward us. Next time he’ll send two hundred warships.”
Verner felt like his heart was on a string, being tugged up and down by each new piece of information. Was there hope or wasn’t there? Had his grandfather been right all along? Was bending the knee the only option besides death?
“What are you suggesting, Lord Protector?” Captain Corscott asked.
Tomas slammed his fist down on the table, making Verner jump. “Our victory must be decisive. We must crush them like the spiders they are. King Streit needs to believe it will be more profitable to give us our independence on our terms, so that the trade route might be reopened.”