The Siege of Redrock
By: Lance W. Card

    Sparks leapt from the steel as the dull gray stone was drawn across it with a quick, deliberate stroke. They danced along the polished length like actors in a choreographed play, to finally dart into the candle-lit air and vanish as though conjured by illusion. Again and again the stone was drawn along the blade until the edge appeared to ripple with the motion. The repetition of this action was soothing to the man behind it, a man who sat alone in the sparsely decorated room, his hazel eyes intent on the progress. His raven black hair hung about his face, drifting back and forth like a curtain in the wind with each stroke.

    The cool evening breeze slipped in through the open window and licked at the bare skin of his defined shoulders, icing the sweat that bead upon his flesh, acting as the herald announcing the end of the process. The man obediently set the whetstone on the thin hay mattress next to him and studied the renewed blade. Candlelight leapt from its surface and painted his sculpted face in orange and yellow motes of light. The weapon was an extension of who he was, and not just in battle; its condition was his condition and its simple elegance matched his. If the edge was dulled and the metal rusting, he knew that would be the day he would lie dead on a field, the worms and flies feasting upon his corpse. He was a career soldier and understood that his equipment played an equal part of his survival on the field; if he let it wane, so would he and he’d taken this philosophy with him through his established vocation.

    A faint voice drifted in on the evening currents, lifted him from his study, and drew his eyes to the different hues of red stone that were the bones of the fort wall. He could readily envision the work taking place outside—just as important as his preparations, though not as therapeutic—the stacking of pitch barrels near the murder holes, the strategic placement of wagons near the gates, all of these things, and more, contributed to the cacophony that played to the darkening sky. Taking a deep breath he mentally went over the positions of the men along the wall, counting off the paces from one post to another—men he was responsible for, or, more correctly, would be soon again. He’d made an effort since his arrival to get to know the names and a little bit of history about each of the men he had under his command. It was important to him to humanize the responsibility of command. He’d too often seen the other approach and the deadening of the soul that was the result and he wasn’t keen on the idea of killing that only thing of true value that he owned, for it was upon his soul that all other things of worth grew: honor, trust, skill, and loyalty.

    Taking up the black, leather scabbard that lay next to him lengthwise on the bed, the soldier slipped the sword back into its casing with an easy motion that gave birth to a brief resonation of perfect pitch. The plate armor that he’d set out as soon as he had awakened had already been oiled, maintained, and was now ready to be donned. First came the soft, cotton shirt, short at the sleeve with a thin red threading about the collar and sleeve’s end. Then a shirt of lean padding, lined with stitching where he’d had the article repaired from previous gashes and stained in places with his own blood. Some would have had the item replaced, but, to him, there was a bit of luck about it, and one in his profession didn’t temp fate and though he believed whole-heartedly in the divine power of Kalim, he was not one to take chances with the pagan theologies either. Once the padding was in place he slipped a chain shirt over his head and fished the belt through the buckles at the sides, pulling it tight about his broad chest before cinching it. The shoulder and arm plating was, at last, placed onto his left side, then his right, buckled down, and then double-checked for any error or looseness. His sword belt was lashed, the frog threaded, and the sheathed blade dangling from his left hip, a dagger from his right. As the encore, he hefted his gauntlets from the bed and gripped them in his left hand. Before he made his exit he slipped the open-faced, dull metal helmet he preferred from the head of a nondescript, wooden dummy and tucked it beneath his left arm where he cradled it against his body.

    The stroll from the warmth of the great stone building was brief. He passed only one young soldier wearing a red surcoat that was a little too large, with a heraldic bear on the chest and sporting a head of russet red hair mashed down by a helmets’ weight. The soldier was carrying a satchel made from black-tinged leather over his left shoulder and a simple broadsword about his waste that’s blade was protected from the elements by a light brown, road-stained, leather scabbard capped in scarred steel. The redheaded soldier made haste to produce a salute as he passed—one that the officer returned with uniformed familiarity. The young man was Neithan Posths, a currier in the service of the Veteran’s Guild and one that delivered post between the far outposts (such as this one) and the general stationed in one of the larger cities within a few days’ ride. Posths had most likely been searching for a bunk to retire too, the satchel empty as he’d already handed the precious documents he’d carried over to the captain, when they’d passed.

    As he stepped into the purpling wash of evening, the officer paused to make the acquaintance of the activities that pulsed about him. People were darting everywhere; Women in long skirts and heavy shawls were carrying pales of water to the walls and back, delivering bundles of clean bandages from storage to the hospital, and performing other tasks that most officers turned over to their duty-sergeants for delegation. The compound was only fifty feet of open space between the main building and the wall; the main building being set against a cliff side as most keeps were. The wall crossed a rocky strip of level land nearly two hundred feet in width before joining with a squat tower that sat on the edge of a cliff, effectively barring any passage down the mountain trail. Nearly midway between the two cliffs, embedded into the reddish-pink stone of the wall, sat a portcullis with a huge set of iron-reinforced wooden doors before, and after, it. These were, of course, closed and drawn, and specially designed ballistae sat before them in the courtyard ready to fire on anyone who penetrated the defenses, the teams that manned them huddling within their cloaks and furs against the occasional blasts of cold spring air, but within close proximity to the weapons of war they managed.

    The keep was known as Fort Redrock, and it was of little consequence to most of what was known as the civilized world…at least they thought it was. In all actuality, Redrock was a staging point for repeated assaults by the northmen, and every soldier who put themselves at risk defending its stone walls knew that if Redrock were to be breached it would be as though the levy had broke and a flood would take the land. So it was that the grim-faced, determined soldiers stood their ground, all of them knowing they might never return home to hearth and the warmth of their wife’s bosom. And the officer loved them for it, this knowledge of pending death and the bravery that they harbored in their own callousness and rough humor. No matter that the small cemetery with the community graves a half-days’ march south seemed to be filling its real estate with every thaw, these hardy souls did their duty to the kingdom with no king and knew the just of their contribution even if those sitting pretty in their pomposity and confidence did not.

    The courtyard ground was hard, a combination of rock and packed clay that didn’t sponge against the officer’s boot heels as he cleared the distance to the wall with long, purposeful strides. A set of wooden stairs was devoured by his gait as though they were but small stepping-stones, and then he was two steps from overlooking the pass on a gangway made of dark brown wood. A man in a red-tunic and a pot-helmet turned to look at the officer, his face angular and darkened from the sun, streaked with the lines of age, and reddened in the blasting cold of the North Wind. Recognition of the officer’s rank was slow as the regiment didn’t wear any badges, but the salute came before the newly arrived could fault the man; there really weren’t enough people stationed at the keep to make it impossible to recognize authority, and they’d learned early that the northmen liked to target plumes. The officer returned the man’s salute and gave a nod to his left, towards the drop-off.

    “Is the officer-of-the-watch down there?” He asked, his voice deep and rich—almost a singing voice if it weren’t for the slight gravel and the hard edge to it. The soldier nodded an affirmative and went back to his vigil, positive that the present officer was through with him.

    Stepping over outstretched legs of resting soldiers before they realized who was doing the stepping and answering salutes with tired reticence, the officer made his way along the wall to the tower door, with the wind doing its best to impede his progress. The iron latch was lifted and a single guard standing to the right of the entry with a bored expression on his bearded face admitted him with another salute.

    The room within was packed nearly to the ceiling with barrels of pitch, large iron balls capable of being filled with more pitch, and crates loaded with additional items of war. These weren’t of immediate interest to the dark-haired man. Without effort, the officer found the stairs in the center—a circular iron staircase with a thin railing of simple barring and occasional advancing rust—and jogged up to the heights, pushing through the trapdoor in time to receive a particularly vicious blast of icy wind in the face that nearly took his breath from his lungs. Banners whipped about overhead, cracking in protest as the wind directed their motions like a puppet master, drawing the officer’s gaze to them as though they pled for attention. Red and silver for the Veteran’s Guild, purple and gold for House Mosfin, and white and red for House Cromfield. Each of the differing political factions were represented at Redrock, by order of the House of Magistrates each faction had to take a turn at the duty, but only those present at the fort were allowed the honor of showing their colors and the Veteran’s Guild was the only House that maintained a constant garrison, something they did by choice, not command.

    “Ah, Roaks.” A tall man with a thin face neatly marked by black mustaches and a whisper of a beard turned at his arrival and delivered a practiced smile filled with slightly yellow, crooked teeth. He wore a long surcoat, parted into four quarters below the waist and marked with a purple field and a gold, heraldic goat on his chest. His head was uncovered allowing his curly salt-and-pepper hair to be swept up in the spring winds granting peeks of the pale scalp beneath. He had a rather large nose that thinned about the bridge and hooked over his mouth in a fashion that reminded the other officer of a belaying pin, though he’d rarely been at sea to make the comparison.

    “Vondred,” Roaks nodded his greeting and moved to a position at the man’s right side, closer than any of the other men that shared the parapet. From his vantage he could barely make out a good mile or more of the pass beyond, just before it rounded a bend and the darkness enveloped it. There was scant vegetation along the mountain at this height and the infertile, drab, pink and gray earth that covered the landscape carried with it only a hint of the winter snow. When Roaks had accepted his assignment, he’d expected to be locked behind snowy walls for the better part of a year and was at first surprised to find that the heat of the day often melted away a good portion of the snow beginning in early June. Of course, his appreciation of this fact was somewhat dimmed by the return of the frigidness he’d first expected every night and the freezing of the remaining snow. The cold of the night bit to the bone straight through to the end of June, and sometimes (he’d heard) it carried on into July, though the days were much warmer then and the snow completely melted. It was a joke among the less couth that the local breed of sheepherder had, at first, found it necessary to lie with their sheep to survive the cold mountain nights, but now did it out of a perverse love. Kaulim Roaks didn’t spread this rumor, nor did he put up with it from his men.

    “I think they will arrive within the hour.” Vondred’s voice was like a mix between the wheezing of a dying man and a man talking through his shirt, Roaks was one of the few that it didn’t bother.

    “Any additional reports?”

    “A runner came in a little over an hour past,” the Mosfin officer shrugged as if it didn’t matter, “but I haven’t received any additional intelligence. No, we wait in the cold while Lord Cromfield sits in his room and feasts next to the fire. What I wouldn’t give to be back at the city right now, courting young ladies at the ball, or enjoying a glass of chilled wine in my box at the opera. Don’t you agree Kaulim?”

    Kaulim didn’t, but he was well mannered enough to not voice his opinion. Instead, he studied the pass, judging how long it would be until the entire road was lost to the full blanket of night. He was sure that was what the northmen were waiting for, the long shadow of the moon, so that they could move into position without the trouble of wall archers, but within the hour? He didn’t think that the reported army would be able to cross the old stone bridge and climb the steep rise within that little space of time, despite his Mosfin counterpart’s conviction.

    “Well,” Vondred yawned as he placed his hands on the stone of the merlin that he leaned upon, “I suppose I could take my leave now that you’ve arrived. I wonder if that goddess-forsaken, soap-headed manservant of mine will have the coals on when I arrive, or if I’ll be forced to enter a frigid bed once again. I bid you a good night, sir.”

    Kaulim Roaks, minor officer of the Veteran’s Guild, honored soldier and ex-caravan guard, bit back an acid retort concerning the fop’s disregard for his manservant’s service and nodded his tight-lipped farewell. Truth be told, he was glad to be rid of Vondred, the man had no imagination or consideration, and Kaulim feared that his social attitude dampened the spirits of the men.

    As the trapdoor creaked shut two men flanked the remaining officer. The one on the right was named Medigan Tale, and the other was Theat Millson. Both were Vet affiliated, and both were long-time residents of Redrock.

    “Sir?” Medigan began in his grating drawl. Tale was from the backcountry and it was more than apparent in his poor use of the language. In any other house he would have found his career stalemated at a common soldier for his lack of social dignity. In the Veteran’s Guild, he had climbed to the rank of sergeant-at-arms, and as far as Kaulim had been able to discover, he had volunteered for this post seven years prior, never taking his eye from the threat on the horizon so to speak.

    “Yes?” Kaulim frowned a little as a shadow jumped. He squinted into the recesses of the rocky slope a few hundred feet from where the curve had been lost to sight, but saw nothing further to excite him.

    “They’re already ‘ere, if’n ya don’ mind me sayin’.”

    Roaks didn’t have to interpret the old soldier’s accent as much as he’d used to, and he didn’t mind the man voicing his opinion either as he valued the man’s experience. Both Medigan and Theat were properly trained campaign men and wouldn’t speak ill of a superior officer, but Kaulim knew they both thought very little of Vondred, and had likely remained as quiet as a thief in the night while the Mosfiner was on duty, letting the hook-nosed man formulate his own theories without input.

    “But the path is clear.”

    “A northman scout sleeps with the shadows, sir,” Theat twitched his right hand toward the craggy recesses of the Cliffside. “They eat stone, so I’ve heard, to give their skin the color of it, and they move like the goat across the heights.”

    “No,” Medigan added. “Make no mistake, sir, they be ‘ere, even if they be watchin’ from the ‘eights like an eagle, jus’ t’ git a lay o’ the land.”

    Kaulim pondered this advice for a moment, worrying at the inside of his cheek with his teeth. His dark eyes darted from each hint of a plateau to each foothold he knew deep down that he was imagining.

    “Should we alert the men?” Millson was about as opposite as one could get from Medigan. He was willowy, almost wraithlike, with pale skin, pitch-colored hair that hung limply about his shoulders and a thick, bushy mustache. He was educated, having spent time at college in pursuit of a future in legislature, but had found he was better at ending debates in a physical manner than verbally—an epiphany that had resulted in his expulsion from the college and his registration with the military body of the Veteran’s Guild when he was in his prime. That night, the Theat Millson that stood by Kaulim’s side was a little under his half-centennial, but one couldn’t tell unless they knew him as well as Kaulim had come to; to most he appeared a solid man with some graying hairs and a straight back probably better suited an officer than a duty-sergeant. As the duty-sergeant, he was responsible for seeing Kaulim’s orders carried out, whether through delegation, or by handling the affairs himself, and he’d never come up short. Kaulim and Theat had spent countless hours together since Roaks’ arrival a month prior, and Medigan had taken his turn as well. There was an familiar easiness about them, but the two older men still knew what rank Kaulim held, and though they were friendly with their commanding officer, they were never out of step with their duties.

    “Not yet.” Roaks placed his gauntlets on the wall and then followed with his helmet, balancing it against the frequent northern gusts. Raking a hand through his wind-tangled hair he fetched a red ribbon from his pocket and began tying it back in a ponytail. “They won’t attack until it is good and dark.” It was surprising to him how easily the sentence rolled from his tongue. In the face of a battle that was sure to be harrowing, he had found complete calm. In reflection, he wasn’t sure if it had been his preparation exercises, or his inexperience with the northmen that had liberated the comment from his mouth, but as the other two men didn’t argue, he felt that it was a decent prediction.

    For a while, the two sergeants remained silent, lost in their own thoughts, and momentary uncertainty stole into Kaulim’s heart as he wondered if they doubted him. He was, after all, not even in his thirty-fifth year—thirty-four come June—yet here he was, in command of the defenses for one of the most tactically important keeps in the kingdom, and this after serving as a caravan guard for the better part of his career. He’d had precious little in the way of his career to decorate his breast with, but still, the captains had decided that he would be suited to the post of command. Despite his outward calm, doubt stole over him on occasion, battering at his confidence in the way a ram took the door of a besieged fortress.

    “The report said that it was the largest press-force in years,” Theat said conversationally.

    “O’er five hun’red movin’ up the North Climb’s what I ‘eard.” Medigan added, his voice like a soft roll of thunder barely heard above the wind.

    “And they’ve recruited some rather foul brothers-in-arms this time.” Millson dropped his arms behind his back and clasped his armored wrist.

    “Yes,” Kaulim gave credence to their suppositions. Not looking at his sub-commanders when they turned their eyes upon him, he continued. “And with those numbers they are likely to set in for the duration, but they aren’t likely to do much tonight except position their ranks. It will take quite the effort to move the catapults up the Climb, and unless they have troops for the fodder, they won’t dash them against these walls needlessly.”

    “These’re northmen yer talkin’ about, sir.” Medigan Tale chuckled and scratched at his stubble-ridden chin with the knuckle of his left hand. “These new bedfellows’ll likely be goblins, orcs, trolls, an’ other such beasties…creatures t’ throw at the walls ‘fore they sen’ their own blood. I’d expec’ some fightin’ tonigh’, sir, if’n I was you.”

    Kaulim raised his eyebrows as he considered what the backcountry sergeant had said. This was his first term at Redrock, and though he’d been there for over a month, he hadn’t had to deal with much more than an occasional goblin renegade, or the less intelligent scavenger, for the duration. He’d certainly never had to deal with northmen before, being too young to remember the invasions. Even when the short briefings he’d received had indicated that there might be more to the northmen’s force this time, he’d assumed they came with their own armies and maybe some additional clans of the wild men scattered about the vast unapproachable north, as they’d done before. Kaulim was suddenly forced to reconsider his assessment of the enemy, and this led to more chewing of the inside of his mouth and the furrowing of his brow.

    “Get the bowmen ready,” he ordered quietly, a new tension in his voice. “And have fire and pitch brought to the wall immediately. I think it best to prepare ourselves for some fighting.”

    “Message for you, sir.” Kaulim turned from his vantage of the inky night to face a panting young man with disheveled blond hair cascading about his round face like a golden frame about a painter’s portrait. The red and white tunic placed the runner in the service of Cromfield, and Kaulim knew that meant that the message came from the High Commander of Fort Redrock. For a moment, he felt irritation at his superior’s timing, but then his years of service gave chase to the emotion, killing it as it fled and he faced the messenger with an unreadable face painted orange in the flickering light of the lanterns.

    The message was a folded piece of parchment—paper being too expensive to produce for simple things as military missives. This one wasn’t even sealed, but it was obvious to Kaulim by the handwriting that it was, in fact, from the High Commander. Taking the missive, Roaks unfolded it, fumbling a bit due to the heavy gauntlets he now wore. His hazel eyes scanned the parchment with the quickness of an educated man…and the irritation was resurrected.

    “Put that lookout on the tower,” Roaks turned to Medigan, who had remained by the officer’s side when he had returned to the wall to oversee the placement of archers while Theat carried out Kaulim’s order for fire and pitch. “Make sure he has a steady supply of both fire and arrows as well as a strong bow. Put two shield masters with him, and then have him put flare to an arrow and place it as far from the wall as he can. Do this every so often without being wasteful…we’ll see how long it takes these northmen to get into position.”

    “Yes sir.” Tale snapped off a salute as Kaulim folded the message and stuffed it into his belt.

    “Oh,” Roaks turned back to the grizzled old campaigner when he’d gone the space of two paces down the gangway. “Should anything happen—and I mean anything—send for me immediately, I’ll be in audience with the High Commander.”

    “Yes sir.” Medigan grinned, his lips thinning out to near nothing and his weathered skin wrinkling up like a grape in the sun.

    The Cromfield messenger remained with him as Kaulim cleared the compound and entered the keep (this time through a different door than the one he had exited to begin his shift. There were two guards with glaives standing on either side of the massive double doors, and torches set in rust-kissed iron brackets licked at the walls overhead. This was the main entrance to the keep, and though it wasn’t grand, or at the head of a sweeping flight of stairs, Kaulim still felt awe whenever he passed through them. He wasn’t necessarily a historian, but he knew a bit about the history of war (strangely enough from a book with the same title that a merchant had loaned him on a particularly long trip to the southern outposts) to know that Redstone Keep had been built over three hundred years before and it still stood. No one, he believed, could walk amongst that much history and not feel wonderment.

    The main hall was silent at this time of night. There wasn’t any of the usual staff bustling about cleaning, checking stores, or seeing to the needs of various officers assigned quarters there. Candles dimly lit the cavernous chamber, placed in sconces along the walls, dangling from large, iron wheels someone, somewhere, had intended to be chandeliers, and standing in tall, black iron, candelabra placed strategically though out the cavernous hall. A pair of double doors, straight across from the main entry and reinforced by greenish-bronze bands, led into an equally large chamber, and a single door to the right mirrored another to the left, leading to various servant’s quarters, the kitchens, and mess halls. Kaulim spared all of these but a glance and followed the unnecessary escort up a lonely wooden staircase tucked against the far wall and mostly hidden by a row of colorful banners dangling from wood stands. He didn’t pause at the second or third floors, but made his way straight to the fourth, barely acknowledging the two men in white and red standing upon the landing that the stairs retired to, except to return their quick salutes.

    The entire top floor of the keep was separated into three rooms: the bedchamber, the office, and what had become known as the Upper Hall. The Upper Hall consisted of nearly three-fourths the area of the entire floor, and the other two rooms were practically footnotes compared to its grandeur. It was the only room in the keep decorated to show the prominence of the high commander’s station—though Kaulim was well aware that the entire fourth floor held more decorations and comforts than the rest of the keep and most of the surrounding thorps put together, not just the Upper Hall.

    Lord Cromfield, as Vondred had so eloquently called the high commander, was not, in fact, named Cromfield at all. His name was Hrand Agring, a lord, yes, and of House Cromfield too, but not Lord Cromfield. Kaulim doubted that there was a Lord Cromfield, but he wasn’t sure, and he rarely contemplated such things anyway. As the young officer entered the Upper Hall he was somewhat surprised to find High Commander Agring sitting in a stuffed chair, waiting for him. Whenever he had previously taken audience with the keep’s foremost officer it had been in the office among the maps and ledgers containing the relevant information necessary to maintain the keep’s operation. The sudden change in protocol intrigued and worried Roaks, causing him to cast about for a ready explanation: which he did while attempting not to appear concerned. There were four guards present, one in each corner of the room, two serving men and one young man who looked fit to be presented before the cabal of city officials known as ministers. This youth stood almost parallel to the arm of the chair that the lord of the keep occupied, and Kaulim immediately took him to be a manservant; which would stand to figure as any prominent house lord wouldn’t travel anywhere without one.

    The aging high commander wasn’t a frail man by any standards. His hair was white, true, and his skin wrinkled to a point where it practically drooped, but he was a strong man despite his appearance. He wore white mustaches and a goatee that was so thick his mouth was completely hidden. The rest of his square jaw was cleanly shaven, showing a pale hint of the beard that would grow if unattended.

    “You asked me here, sir?” Kaulim said after he’d endured more than a minutes’ silence, had his salute ignored, and was apparently of no interest to the high commander as the man took some tea from one of the servants.

    “I have been told that you are mustering the archers and moving counter-siege supplies to the walls.” Hrand’s voice was crisp and clear, and Kaulim was sure it accounted for a good portion of Agring’s reputation as a field commander as he’d seen naught to accredit the man in all other dealings.

    “I am, sir.”

    “Is there something you’d like to report, Roaks? Something my intelligence hasn’t uncovered, perhaps?”

    “Sir?” Kaulim was a little confused by the man’s attitude. After all, it was this very same intelligence that Agring spoke of that had informed the keep of the approaching northmen. What’s more was that it was Kaulim’s duty as the watch officer to make decisions necessary to maintain the defenses of the keep. The condescending tone contained within the high commander’s question was demeaning, and Kaulim struggled to keep the flush of righteous anger from face.

    Hrand sighed and suddenly looked tired, as though dealing with a person such as the Veteran’s Guild officer that stood before him was a wearisome task. “I’ve not received any reports detailing the actual arrival of the barbarians. It seems to me that the level of alert our men were standing on was suitable for the duration. Why have you put them on a higher alert? It will take those uncivilized scavengers hours to gather, and more to assemble their so-called siege equipment. We aren’t expecting them to actually stage an attack before tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, so it would be unwise to tax our soldiers at this point, would it not?”

    “I beg for your pardon, sir, but I came to the conclusion that the northmen might have it within their means to send troops against the walls tonight, and I thought it prudent to prepare for such an event.” Kaulim kept his face passive despite his ire that was near to overflowing at the way he was being treated. Then he realized that Agring might not have been told of the horde’s tendencies as he had, and he immediately made efforts to forgive the affront to his intelligence.

    “And what led you to such an deduction, Roaks?” The tired tone hadn’t left the man’s voice, a thing that prickled at Kaulim’s sensitivity despite his foregone feelings.

    “I was informed of the enemy’s habit by a seasoned soldier, sir, a sergeant-at-arms under my command by the name of Medigan Tale. It seemed logical to prepare for the event, and so I did so. I apologize for my failing to inform you of such information once I came across it, but was under the impression you had already been privy to such knowledge.”

    Agring gave silence as a response, studying his charge with an unreadable expression, his pale eyes staring out from beneath bushy, white eyebrows, and Kaulim waited, desperately wishing he would be dismissed to return to his duties.

    “Do you presume to tell me that you believe the sergeant-at-arms to know more than the appointed high commander, Roaks?” Hrand’s voice was little more than a growl and at its release Kaulim could see a tinge of red spreading across the other man’s neck and jaw. Surprise registered in the soldier’s mind once again as he realized that this Cromfield lord was taking personal offence at Kaulim’s decisions.

    “I beg your pardon again, sir.” Kaulim’s tongue darted out to wet his drying lips. “I do not presume any such thing. As I have stated, I believed you were already privy to such information and acted as I thought best according to this belief and the current situation.”

    “You have overstepped your bounds, Roaks.” Agring’s anger had leveled out, the spreading color having fled before his self-control. “I understand you are new to your post, and as such I can consider your faults those of an over-achiever. I see now that I have given you too much freedom—like that mother sparrowhawk from Anson’s poem, I haven’t given you the guidance you needed in order to facilitate your eventual flight. I shall now rectify that oversight.

    “Your duties as a watch officer consist of maintaining order within the ranks of those men directly under your command. As such, you have relative command over the men assigned to the wall at the time of your coming to post.” Hrand lifted the tea bag from the water and shook it, gracing the act with his immediate attention and momentarily ignoring the man he was correcting. Setting the bag on the copper and silver tray that a servant had thoughtfully provided, the High Commander of Fort Redrock continued. “In this particular case, the bowmen you so readily reassigned to the wall before our interview were not under your command as they were stationed in the courtyard…resting, I might add, as per my initial plan concerning the pending threat. The fire that you instructed be brought to the walls had been stored within easy reach of the previously mentioned archers, and thus, was also unavailable to your direction. Do I make myself clear?”

    “Perfectly, sir.” Kaulim stared over the stodgy officer’s balding head and tried not to show his own anger, having let it return in full during the abatement. He’d served in the Veteran’s Guild as a ranking official for long enough to know the standards for command, and this man was sorely mistreating him. Having never met Hrand Agring before this particular post, Kaulim could only surmise that the Cromfield lord either held some vendetta against the Veteran’s Guild, or was the type of officer that had to make every decision, no matter how trivial. While Kaulim had been stationed at the fort for a short time, and though he’d taken meetings with the high commander on previous occasions they had been brief and he’d been unable to fully assess the man, now he truly knew that his did not like him..

    “Good,” Agring said before taking a sip of the tea, wiping the drizzling liquid from his mustaches with a cloth napkin his manservant had suddenly produced and placing the cup back on the stand. “Now that we understand one another, you can return to your duties. You may also return my bowmen and fire to their respective assignments.”

    Kaulim snapped off another salute, holding the position while awaiting his dismissal, and staring at the simple wood beams that supported the ceiling so as not to meet the high commander’s eye and reveal his heated emotion.

    “Roaks.” Hrand looked towards the blackened windows where the room was reflected warmly against the impenetrable night. “You are a young man, and young men are eager. Learn to control this appetite and you may someday achieve a post of greater relevance. Allow the hunger to grow and it will devour you and your career.” There was another brief pause. Then, “you are dismissed.”

    The Veteran’s Guild officer dropped his salute and swiveled on his heel, practically burning the carpet as he made his exit. He took the stairs quickly, allowing the drumming of his feet to pound the anger into mulch that he could then disperse into smaller quantities for use elsewhere. As he rounded the landing on the second floor, banking to descend to the first, he caught sight of a purple tunic making its way up towards him. The two men met on the stairs, the one from House Mosfin being a little younger than Kaulim, and obviously without the years of experience Roaks had gained by that age, his round face a saucer filled with the milk of innocence.

    “Sir,” The Mosfiner snapped off a hasty salute that Kaulim returned. He knew this man for a messenger—one of the runners from the wall.

    “What is it Boti?”

    “Sergeant Tale sent me, sir…to tell you—to tell you that it’s about to happen, sir.”

    Kaulim placed a gauntleted hand on the younger man’s shoulder to steady him. “Is there anything else?”

    “No sir.” Boti shook his head, the helmet shifting slightly about his chain hauberk. “That was the whole of it, I’m certain: it’s about to happen, go tell the watch officer, he’s in the main keep. Only, he had his accent and such…”

    With a pat on the messenger’s shoulder and a smile for the young man’s humor, Kaulim pushed past him. “Come with me, and stay close. I may have to send you back up these stairs in but a few breaths, Boti.”

    The two men quickly found their way from the keep, across the compound, and up the stairs to the wall. Ignoring the salutes from various soldiers, Kaulim raced to find Medigan or Theat, eventually locating both men standing near the tower door, facing the foreboding ink of night with grim faces.

    “What is this vague message you send me, Medigan?” Kaulim said dourly as he took up position to the right of the grizzled sergeant-at-arms.

    “Eh?” Tale smiled and gave a nod to the road below. “They’re there now, sir, o’ that I’m certain. Svikar’s been firin’ the occasional arrow out’n the dark as you ordered, an’ pu’ one in the leg o’ a goblin tryin’ t’ creep up in the shadow o’ th cliff.”

    “Pure luck.” Millson muttered. The campaigner’s bushy mustaches bristled as he smiled in appreciation of the matter.

    “Luck ‘r no’, Svikar sent another couple o’ arrows right afterward, spacin’ ‘em out so as t’ cover more groun’, an’ ‘e spotted more dartin’ away from the light int’ the rocks. Tha’s when I sen’ Boti t’ get ya, sir.”

    “You’ve done well gentlemen,” Kaulim squinted his eyes in the hopes that it would help him discern something relevant from the enigmatic shadows that gripped the land, but to him it was like trying to read the thoughts of a bird in flight.

    “Blasted overcast,” Theat grumbled. “Blocks out any light we may have had this time of night. It is as think as pitch out there, sir, and not much chance we’ll see them coming until they are right on the wall, but for the occasional glimpse Svikar provides us with one of his fired arrows.”

    “Grim thoughts result in even darker times, Sergeant,” Kaulim cautioned, though he too was feeling a bit bereft of hope. After the recent berating he was reluctant to push his boundaries any further, but he also had the welfare of his men to consider and thus his dilemma was sewn tightly against his breast as the cloth of a damsel’s favor during tournament, only without the promise of a fair reward should the contest come out in his favor. With sudden resolve melting the snows of doubt from his heart, Kalim glanced at his sergeants and asked, “Gentlemen, I need proof that the enemy is at our gate. Can this be provided?”

    Tale turned and waved a hand at the tower. Almost immediately an arrow pierced the sky alight with fire. The yellow-orange dart drifted a good ways down the path before dropping, not onto the road, but into the boulders that marked the sides of the road from years of rockslides and errosion. Shadowy forms sped towards the fire to douse it, drawing the curtain on Kaulim’s proof.

    “Tha’ do it for ya, sir?” Medigan smiled at his commander, his teeth showing bluish-gray and wolf-like in the night.

    “That it does Sergeant, that it does. Boti, take this message to High Commander Agring please: the scavengers are ahead of schedule, what are your orders?” Kaulim waited for the messenger to run before continuing. “Millson, begin moving the archers from the wall very slowly, keeping only those who were assigned before our conversation on the tower. Slowly, mind you, like a spring snail.”

    Sergeant Millson’s heavy brow came together like a trap, but he didn’t argue his orders. Roaks didn’t watch him leave his side, and within a short period of time he could hear the wraith-like man’s orders removing archers from the wall.

    “If ya don’ mind me askin’, sir?” Medigan scratched at his stubbly chin with his knuckle, his face a mask of confusion.

    “You’re wondering why, after showing me that the enemy is before us, I would order our archers from their vantage?”

    “Well, yes sir, as a matter-o’-fact I am.”

    “It is quite simple, really.” Kaulim allowed a small smile to play across his lips. “I am sending a message.”

    Whether Sergeant Tale knew just what that message was, or even if it was something more than the message Kaulim had sent off with Boti, the Veteran’s Guild officer couldn’t tell. The older man just nodded and returned to his study of the pass, and Kaulim was content not to press the matter any further. Instead, he considered what he could do that was “within his bounds” to help secure the fort against a breach. The walls were made from nearly three feet of the native stone. There were even rumors of such fantastic creatures as dwarves having been the builders, but Kaulim wasn’t sure he held any stock in such a thing. He wasn’t completely confident in the wall’s stability either, as there had been a couple of invasions that had reached as far as the inner cities. Obviously, the walls of border forts such as Fort Redrock had been penetrated before, and if it had happened once, it could happen again.

    All along the wall he gazed upon men and women standing ready to face whatever the darkness produced, people who had witnessed the firelight sightings of the enemy, people who had been ridden by rumor of the pending attack for hours, and people who were now confused by their watch officer’s weakening of the defenses. Red, purple, and white stood side by side, their affiliations forgotten for the moment as the threat of something greater and more immediate than political association loomed just out of sight. Though many stood with short bows ready, as was their assignment, Kaulim frowned as scores of men and women with long bows were being led from positions within the defender’s ranks, and those who had stood ready by their sides now muttered questions to each other. How he wished Boti would return with news that the high commander had changed his orders and the bowmen would remain. It was a waste of time to send them down the stairs and away from the wall, just to bring them back again, and probably in the thick of battle at that, but he was a man of discipline and he had his orders. The officer shook his head and then double-checked the strap on his helmet. At least he could be ready.

    Boti didn’t return in time. All too suddenly the relative quiet of the night was filled with a chorus of deep, throaty, inhuman yells. Kaulim tensed, fingers still holding the chinstrap as he finished securing the helmet. He saw Medigan’s hand drop to his sword and quickly followed suite as soon as he was able, his hazel eyes narrowing against the curtain in search of the first actor in the show.

    “Steady…” He heard himself call out as though he were witnessing the whole thing from someplace distant. “Wall archers, bear ready.”

    “Wall archers! Arrows high,” Medigan barked, repeating the just of Kaulim’s order. All down the wall, the sparse number of remaining archers knocked arrow to string and stared morosely out at the jeering night. The roar from beyond grew, and Kaulim could pick out individual calls, deeper than the others and lined with a strange echo. He glanced at the sergeant-at-arms and raised his eyebrows in question.

    “Giants.” Tale’s face was suddenly gaunter and Kaulim felt his heart climb to his throat. He’d never seen a giant, but he’d often heard tale of their destructive ways from them mistrals that entertained war camps and performed in taverns across the kingdom. The very thought that someone could harness the power of a giant and form it into their own personal weapon was disturbing and sent chills down his spine that the cold northerly couldn’t produce.

    “Black arrows!” Someone from further down the wall called out the frantic warning, and then Kaulim could hear the dreadful whistling overhead.

    “Shields!” Medigan yelled, and further down the wall Kaulim heard Theat mimic the order.

    To his right a soldier bearing a red tunic and a large, red and silver shield stepped near and hefted that metal plate over their heads while Medigan received the same consideration from the other side. The arrows darted past, falling into the courtyard below, and amidst the clang of the missiles striking shields Kaulim heard men and women call out in pain.

    “Return fire,” Kaulim hissed to his sergeant as the shield was removed.

    “Archers, to bear! Fire!” Again, Theat repeated the order at his position further down the wall and the defenders let fly with their answer. From the pass there came little sound until the arrows clattered to the ground. Then, as if choreographed, the jeers and taunting flew from the night straight into the valiant defender’s faces, and Kaulim was sure more of the heckling struck a target than arrows.

    “We need light,” Medigan growled, motioning back towards the courtyard where the barrels of pitch and the braziers of fire were stored. Kaulim nodded and glanced up at the keep’s top floor, hoping to see the high commander giving him some sort of signal that he could continue with his original plan, but the window’s glow wasn’t marred by shadows and permission wasn’t waiting for him there.

    “Kalim take the man for a fool,” Kaulim whispered, invoking the goddess’ name in a rare display of rage. He was bound by duty to obey orders, and with the recent conversation he’d had with the Agring, he was no longer certain just what he was allowed to do. “Light some arrows—use cloth and fire from the torches. We’ve got to make due with what we have until we receive orders dictating otherwise.”

    “Yes sir,” Medigan nodded quickly and darted off to instruct a couple of archers in the task.

    Again, Kaulim heard the high-pitch whistle that announced the arrival of enemy fire, the shadowy flight of arrows that the soldiers referred to as “black arrows” because they were impossible to see in the night. The sound that they made sent a shiver down the officer’s back.

    “Shields!” Kaulim called out, accepting the cover offered to him by his shield bearer. The clatter of arrows was punctuated by the screams of those unfortunate enough to be hit, but they were thankfully fewer than before, the defenders were getting in the rhythm of things.

    Even though Kaulim was appreciative of the lack of casualties, he was more concerned with the thought that the enemy possessed giants, and possibly more hideous things born of nightmare. He hadn’t the foggiest idea how to deal with a giant, let alone more than one. He also wondered when he’d be forced to come to grips with that fact. How many more volleys of arrows would come singing through the night? How many more would they return before the giants would come pressing their ranks and sweeping mighty clubs along the battlements?

    “Archers,” Kaulim called out as he emerged from underneath the shield. “Fire!”

    “Sir,” Medigan had returned and, wide-eyed, he looked more harried for his run. “I’ve got a few men preparin’ the arrows. Won’ take but a few momen’s more.”

    “Good. Now, tell me, Sergeant Tale, what are your suggestions for dealing with these giants?”

    “I sugges’ we kill ‘em, sir.”

    Under the critical stare of his commanding officer Medigan cleared his throat and continued. “’Tis tough t’ penetrate their skin with arrows, sir. Them ballistae are fine weapons fer it, bu’ we don’ wanna open the gates fer the shot. You’ll ‘ave t’ fight ‘em on the wall, there’s no way aroun’ it, sir. Pitch, lit with the fires o’ ‘ell an’ by the kiss o’ Kalim that’ll finish ‘em.”

    It wasn’t what Kaulim had wanted to hear, but if that was the way of it, then that was what he’d do. The problem was getting the giants beneath the murder holes for the barrels of pitch would be a heavy prospect to dump over the battlements without the leverage that the cradles they rested within provided.

    “Shields!”

    “Now,” Kaulim said when the shields were removed. “Shed some light on the situation.”

    “With pleasure, sir.” Tale turned and called up to the tower. “Now boys, le’ fly!”

    There was an audible whooshing sound, accented by the crackling of fire, and then the arrows were visible. Ten of them lifted into the air and arched towards the ground like golden rainbows.

    “Archers ready,” Kaulim called, hearing his sergeants echoing the order along the wall. “Fire,” he bellowed as the arrows hit the ground, illuminating the rocks about the flames and casting long shadows from within the teeming assailants. The twang of bows sounded all about him, and with some satisfaction Kaulim witnessed more than one arrow strike the exposed flesh of a goblin and take the creature to the ground where it writhed in agony or lay still depending on the fatality of the shot.

    “Get teams of pikemen together Sergeant.” Kaulim turned to Tale and motioned along the wall. “Have them spaced about so that they can reach any part of the wall within short order. We’ll need them to direct the giants into the proper position for the pitch.”

    “Yes sir.”

    “Shields!”

    Kaulim accepted the cover once again but kept giving direction to Sergeant Tale despite the flight of black arrows. “Make sure they are backed up by ready swordsmen; I’d imagine the giants won’t take kindly to a bunch of sticks being shoved at their faces and will close quickly. We need to make it as unappetizing as possible for them to remain at that point of the wall.”

    The shield was lifted and Medigan snapped off a salute as he raced away. Kaulim turned to watch him go and caught sight of Boti running the length of the gangway towards him.

    “I delivered your message, sir,” Boti gasped as he saluted. Kaulim returned the recognition and favored the keep with a look. There was still no sign of life on the upper floor. He gave the runner a chance to catch his breath, calling out the order to those on the tower to ignite their arrows again, and then followed the pattern of the last counterattack with his next command.

    “High Commander Agring orders you to stand at your post, sir.”

    “Stand at my post?” Kaulim frowned at the messenger, inciting a pained look on the young man’s oval face. “That’s all he said?”

    “I’m afraid so, sir.”

    Abandonment sought refuge within his soul. Kaulim stared at Boti’s dirt-streaked face in bewilderment, the battle pressing in on him momentarily forgotten as he tried to fathom what the high commander was doing. Agring couldn’t possibly be hiding in that stone keep, feeling secure tucked away against the face of the cliff while his men gave up their lives to keep his hide in tact; Kaulim just couldn’t accept that. No, High Commander Hrand Agring was a man with a reputation for bravery; Kaulim had heard that from the Cromwell troops stationed at the fort. Agring had to have something up his sleeve he was waiting to divulge, some plan that would foil the invaders attempts to crack the walls. He was just waiting for the right moment to put it into action.

    “Sir?” Boti’s concerned voice broke through his confused haze like a slap in the face.

    “Thank you Boti, keep close now, I may need you again.” Kaulim turned back to the northmen and the present problem, stealing himself away for what he needed to be, for the sake of his troops. “Sergeant Tale!”

    It took a moment for the veteran to reach his position, huffing and puffing from the race, and when he did Kaulim saw a thin line of blood mingling with the dirt on his red face, the source of which was a small scratch just beneath the brim of his helmet.

    “Sir?” Medigan performed a quick salute, apparently content to ignore the minor injury, and if he was content, so would Kaulim be.

    “Are those teams in place?”

    “Yes sir.” Tale swept his gauntleted hand towards the larger portion of the wall. “I jus’ finished with the las’ team when ya called, sir.”

    “Good.” Kaulim placed both hands on the wall and nodded towards the enemy’s position. “Now, how long until they put those giants to our walls?”

    “I figure they’ll play this game fer an hour more—giver ‘er take a few minutes—an’ then they’ll switch tactics.” Medigan shrugged. “Least-ways tha’s wha’ they done the las’ couple o’ times the northmen pushed our borders.”

    “Shields!” The call came from further down the wall, but the effect was no different. Kaulim ducked beneath the shield master’s defenses and peered down the line as the arrows thunked and skidded about him. Three men away a wall archer suddenly gripped at his shoulder and spun backward, nearly tumbling from the gangway before one of his fellows snagged his belt. Roaks frowned and glanced at the keep, but the windows were still void of life.

    “Tower,” Medigan called up to the men aloft as soon as the shield was cleared away. “Light tha’ field!” The fire-encased arrows immediately answered his orders. The command to the wall archers followed and the defender’s volley went into then night to strike at dimly illuminated targets.

    The defenders endured this exchange for close to a half hour before the night lapsed into the wind’s lullaby. By that time there were a number of wounded being helped from the gangway and cleared from the courtyard. Archers who hadn’t had the opportunity to loose one arrow from their position below were being carried away to the hospital, and the flat boards used as burial slabs, until they could be properly accounted for. Kaulim found himself less sure of the High Commander’s motives with each man and woman that was carried inside.

    “They’ll come now,” Medigan said, drawing his commander’s eyes back towards the enemy. Kaulim gripped the hilt of his sword and loosened it in its sheathe.

    “Let them.” Roaks stared into the night as though he could force them into action by will alone. He was tired of the cat and mouse play and longed to put his steel against an enemy he could see, for at least in that contest he could count on his own strength.

    He hadn’t long to wait. A bellow filled with such hate and hunger echoed from the canyon walls, sending a chill through the spines of those who waited upon the wall. This echo didn’t die however. Instead of bouncing from the rock walls to eventually be silenced by the predator that was the North Wind, it grew in strength and fervor.

    “Man your posts!” Roaks could barely hear Theat’s voice respond and wondered briefly at the man’s exact position.

    Another roar caught the air, followed immediately by a third, and then the temper of the challenge changed becoming filled with excitement like a child on New Winter’s Day as they came within sight of the wrapped sweets awaiting them.

    “Brace yerself, sir,” Medigan said softly, drawing his sword and stepping one pace away from the wall. Kaulim glanced at him and then followed suite, crouching so that he could move with whatever concussion followed, but not knowing what to expect.

    The mountain shadows twisted and churned, and then belched forth three lumbering hulks that very nearly reached the height of the wall. Kaulim couldn’t see details as they surged forward, but he could hear the slap of their feet striking the stone, and he could make out their thick clubs held at ready to strike. These were the afore-mentioned giants and the sight of them awed him almost as much as being within the ancient halls of the keep, but in a more fearful manner.

    “Kalim preserve us all,” he muttered seconds before the giants struck, their blows causing a dissonance of noise the likes of which was deafening.

    There were two that charged the portcullis and gate, the third struck midway between the gate and the eastern cliff face. A few arrows flew in their faces as they approached, but most of the bowmen—knowing the futility of such actions—had stepped back to allow room for the pikemen and swordsmen. Kaulim could see that these brave souls had taken up stances similar to his, and when the first club rained down on the stone none of the defenders fell, though more than a few were jarred by the ferocity of the attack. Even as far down the line as Kaulim was he could feel the vibrations in his feet and he wondered just how much the walls could sustain before crumbling.

    Again and again the giants pummeled the wall, each time causing thunderous vibrations to rip through the structure and men to stumble. The large creatures had managed to deliver a number of such attacks before the teams Kaulim had ordered put together drunkenly began the counter-attack.

    Racing down the length of the gangway Kaulim called out to Boti, instructing him to deliver another message to the high commander, and providing the messenger his content. The Veteran’s Guild officer didn’t even see the young man leave, but when he’d arrived at the position above the portcullis Boti was racing across the compound towards the keep. Kaulim braced a pikeman that lurched to the side as another blow fell, the two of them helping keep each other on their feet. Lunging forward, the young officer, attempted a quick stroke at the giant’s head, but his blade was turned aside by the thick skin, painfully wrenching his wrist. Almost right afterward, a soldier flanking him stabbed downward with the pike, barely pricking the beast, but causing it to roar with irritation. More of the team leapt forward in action, prodding the giant as a herdsman prodded cattle, directing it under the only thing that had a chance of saving them: the hole built into the overhang of the wall about which sat vats of pitch and men waiting with torches to set them alight.

    The heavy club was something to be reckoned with, and Kaulim had to be quick to duck under the fierce attack that came in response to their tickling. Though he was quick enough, the underside of the weapon caught one of the poor pikemen in the top of the helmet, tilting him over like a small tree. His balance lost, the soldier tumbled to the gangway, his pike plummeting from his hand to the courtyard below. Kaulim twisted backward and caught the man by his shoulder.

    “You may think you can fly, Sei, but you are ill fitted the task,” he said as he pulled the soldier away from the edge. All about him the rest of the team was back in action, the giant being convinced to move another few feet down the wall.

    “Thank you, sir,” the pikeman huffed as he regained his feet, drawing his sword in the process.

    Kaulim nodded and then returned his attention to the battle. As he rose from his rescue, the watch officer saw the flight of fiery arrows come from the tower. He allowed for a moment in time to lapse as he watched the descent, making sure that the rest of the northmen’s force remained in their lines. As he did, a terrible groan sounded from the heart of the gate, followed by a shudder that seemed to come from the earth itself. Staggered, Roaks pressed himself against the merlin, his face cast in the direction of the nearby portcullis where a giant—aflame with burning pitch—was hammering madly on the splintered wooden doors. Fear pressed at his heart as stones tumbled from the frame and the timber caught fire with the residue pitch. Sanctioning away the terror, Kaulim forced himself to be the officer once again, pushing away from the wall to call upon the engineers in the courtyard.

    “Ready those ballistae, the portcullis is tempted!”

    Men about the giant crossbows scrambled to fall in and recover from the black arrows’ damage.

    Again, Kaulim stumbled as the giants crashed into the wall, and this time, as he brought himself upright again, he heard the unmistakable shrillness of the black arrows descending.

    “Shields,” he called, his voice suddenly hoarse, his mouth dry. His eyes frantically darted about for a shield to duck beneath, but there was none, and the arrows lit upon the stones about him with the sound of steel rain. He felt one scrape his cheek and flinched from the scare, but it had been arched in such a manner as to pass by his head into the courtyard beyond and not bury itself in his shoulder. With blood trickling down his jaw, Kaulim glared at the passivity of the glowing widows and called out to his archers to return fire.

    The giant at the gate wasn’t finished despite his burning flesh. The stink of him was horrible, near debilitating in and of itself, but Kaulim knew that to be the area of greatest need, so it was into the midst of those brave pikemen that he rushed, his sword held high, his voice rallying them to the effort.

    “Again beneath the pitch,” He cried, pushing a soldier he momentarily didn’t recognize forward, directing the pike to guide the burning creature back under the murder hole while the others came to follow his lead. “Feremn! Get those men to the murder hole, the fire may have tenderized the thing.”

    A nearby footman dashed off a quick salute and turned to do as he was bid. Meanwhile, Kaulim joined the effort of the pikemen, though his sword wasn’t long enough he was right there, at the front lines, directing the attack. It worked too, slowly, but surely the giant was pushed back under the hole in the stone, and when he arrived he was met by thrusting pikes into the baby flesh of his head. The scream of pain was deafening, drowning out the sound of the black arrows as they fell upon the stout defenders. It was drawn out, the death of the giant, and in its fell cries the deaths of some of the defenders was lost to history, but die it did. With wound upon wound having penetrated the exposed skin and brittle bone until some scored through the eye sockets and others were lucky enough to break the through the bone to the brain. Though no small number of the defenders had felt the bite of the black arrows that kept cascading down on their heads, the slow topple of the giant lifted their voices in a mighty cheer. But Kaulim had little time to celebrate, nothing more than a quick pat to Feremn’s shoulder as he passed, and then he was seeking out the second of the three giants.

    The fateful whistle came again and this time Kaulim found a crouched shield master and shared the cover for a moment before continuing on. When he stood again, he heard the calls of his sergeants ordering their archers to return fire, and then his scans located the second beast.

    The giant had backed away from the wall, swiveling its great, hairy head back and forth, small trickles of blood streaming into its beard. For a moment, Kaulim was struck by the resemblance it shared with humans. Not such a monster as a monstrosity, overgrown, but still the shape of a man. He hadn’t considered their humanity and the odd time for the realization shook him a bit, but just as the thought came to mind the giant seemed to finish rethinking its strategy and its beady little eyes came to rest on the burning corpse of its fallen kind.

    Roaks’s heart leapt into his throat and his warning call to those at the gate came out as a hoarse croak. With a lumbering stride that gained in speed as the distance was overcome, the giant rushed the broken and battered escarpment. Then, as Kaulim’s own feet began to find their purchase for a sprint to the aid of his people, the giant leapt the last few feet, smashing into the wreckage of the gate with his shoulder and a mighty bellow. The whole of the wall shook and more of the black arrows fell, but the Veteran’s Guild officer barely noticed the clatter of death about him as he struggled against the rocking stone, staring in awestruck horror as men spilled over the inner edge of the gangway, falling to their deaths in the courtyard below. The whole of the gate was bowed inward, stones falling among the defenders below and the pitch barrels tipping the sticky substance all over those nearby.

    Staggering forward, Kaulim saw the giant back up a few paces and then leap into it again, this time the bending of the iron gate shrieked loudly over the screams of the remaining defenders, and Roaks was thrown to his knees. Further down the wall, the third giant was alight, having been successfully corralled under the murder hole. A quick glance in that direction as he tried to regain his feet, gave Kaulim confidence in its demise sooner than later, and he grimly set about concentrating on the giant at the gate. Running forward he was surprised by the sudden appearance of arrows, especially as one of the black-shafted darts took a recovering archer through the throat almost directly in front of him, sending the man backward over the edge in an almost graceful arch. Kaulim blinked through the spray of blood that spattered his face and continued his rush, grapping up a pike from where it had fallen with his left hand as the giant crashed into the gate again.

    This time the officer nearly took flight, only just planting the pike in such a way as to provide stability. But he was nearer now, and he could see the surface damage the giant’s escapades had caused. The gangway above the gatehouse was a mess of splintered wood jutting up at awkward angles and sticky with pitch. Small fires were already starting from where the braziers used to light the pitch had fallen into it, and the smoke was close to blocking his vision of the tower beyond. No defenders held their ground atop the battlement there; all of them had been spilled out into the courtyard, or had taken their distance once their purchase had been broken. The hope was nearly completely drained from him; there was still no sign of life within the keep, and the number of wall defenders was sorely depleted, but then Kaulim saw it. The murder hole, though ravaged, was still mostly in tact. The wooden planks about it had splintered some, but it was more to the interior that the walk had been completely destroyed.

    Hefting the pike in his left hand, Kaulim jammed his sword into its scabbard and took notice of the giant’s position. It was backing away for another go, and the distance between the murder hole and the Veteran’s Guild officer was short. Clenching his teeth, Kaulim Roaks took hold of the polearm with both hands and just as the giant sprang forward once more, so did the watch officer.

    He put all of his weight behind the thrust, practically pole-vaulting over the hole as the weapon buried itself in the giant’s neck. Kaulim was lifted to the other side of the damaged walk, the pike released, and he tumbled a short distance before colliding with the merlins, his legs tangled with his sword. But it had worked…sort of. The sharp prong of the pike had pierced the giant’s jugular, but its momentum had taken it through the remaining wreckage, completely removing the outer doors, dislodging the portcullis gate, and crashing through the inner doors, sending them askew and aside. In its progress, the giant had broken the pike free and blood gushed from its neck like a fountain of less-than-holy purpose, and while that would have eventually killed it, the bolt from a ballistae that found its way to the spread of wooden fletching in its chest immediately ended the creature’s life as it spilled through the debris. As Kaulim regained his feet, a little bruised for his effort, the strap of his left shoulder plate torn away leaving the platemail to dangle from his arm, the giant hung limply over the broken lower portion of the inner door. Its arms were dangling to the ground below, bent slightly at the elbows, and its head hung in a blood-matted mess below its shoulders.

    Again, the defenders cheered, for it seemed to them that they had bested the most fearsome of the attackers, but when Kaulim turned to look out into the pass he knew it wasn’t over. There was silence there where the cold night had been filled by the bantering calls of the advancing horde, and as Kaulim came to notice this he saw a shifting in the moon shadows. It was no longer the thin line of archers that held the front lines, but the shield-bearing mass of foot soldiers. Roaks could see the glint of the wall fires’ light kissing the savaged metals of his enemy, the likes of which gave indication that the whole of the two hundred feet was filled with the ranks of the northmen. Then the silence was broken.

    It was a cry similar to that of the first of the evening, the northmen song. They raised their voices in a wild chorus of promised pain, their glinting weapons dancing above their heads where they brandished them. To Kaulim, it was a horrible sight that was made more so for the darkness that barely kept their secrets. Despite this assemblage of fearsome warriors at his gate, despite the terrible damage the giants had already bestowed upon his walls and his troops, Kaulim was a Veteran’s Guild officer and he had a job to do still.

    “Ready the ballistae,” He called down to the courtyard from where he stood, his voice filled with the gravel of fatigue. “Line up the picks at the breach. Every man who can must prepare, for they come!”

    Men and women in the courtyard swarmed to obey, and those who still remained atop the wall, moved to retrieve weapons from those who’d fallen, or from where they had been dropped, weapons that would better help in the next wave of the attack. Kaulim turned to the tower and scanned the faces of the troops there in search of one of his sergeants, and was relieved when Madigan staggered away from a perch between two shield masters and wearily approached.

    The old man had a couple of new scratches to add to his old, but his eyes still held a fire in them that kept Kaulim from asking after his well-being.

    “Well,” the sergeant-at-arms growled good-naturedly while smartly presenting Kaulim with a salute. “Ya took care o’ the giants, now what’re ya gonna do abou’ the rest o’ them?”

    Kaulim blinked away the itch of his own scratch and began tearing the loose armor from his arm. “We’re going to do what we were commissioned to do, Sergeant. We’re going to keep the northmen from the interior. Now, gather the bows, and what arrows we have remaining, and get them into the hands of anyone who knows how to shoot.” Glancing at the yellow-orange windows of the keep he scowled and angry scowl made more savage by the blood streaking and spotting his face. “I have my orders, and they stand as they are so I cannot leave my post, but I need someone who has salt in their veins down in that yard, Medigan, for they’ll need leadership when the northmen make good the hole their giant pets created for them.”

    “Aye,” Sergeant Tale glanced at the screaming dark and then down to the yard. “You take care o’ yerself up ‘ere, sir. ‘Tis likely to get hairy once the ladders come.”

    With that, the sergeant-at-arms gave a comradely pat of the arm to his superior and rushed off to leap over the ruined planks with a spryness that one would expect of a man less aged and less bloodied.

    Kaulim hadn’t long to wait before the horde rushed forward. To him, it seemed as thought he very night gave birth to the rush, spitting powerful-looking orcs, scrawny goblins, and painted men from its maw like poison from the glands of a veroca lizard. Sure as Medigan had predicted there were ladders carried over the heads of varying rows of troops, and it was to these that Roaks directed the paltry attacks from his bowmen in the hopes that it would deter their approach, but in the end the ladders were planted and the siege took on a different feel.

    Kaulim rushed the length of the gangway, calling out orders and striking at the emerging enemy, popping their heads up over the battlements in an effort to find purchase on the wall. Occasionally in the heat of things, Kaulim would cast a dark gaze at the false-warmth of the windows and hope for some sign of commanding brilliance that would turn the attackers away, but each time he was met with disappointment just before he was forced to turn back to the battle. After what seemed like hours, the enemy began to find their footing among the weary, bruised and battered defenders, sweeping away their feeble efforts to knock them from the ladders and climbing over their fallen bodies. Kaulim’s mad dash about the gangway was halted as he was suddenly pressed on both sides by orcs.

    He ducked a fast slash, turned beneath a jab from his other side and swept the knees of one of them with his blade. As the creature howled and turned to fall into the courtyard, Kaulim was already bringing his weapon around and gutting the other. He continued in this hectic manner, slashing and batting at the enemy, sending one after the other over the wall in one direction or the other. It surprised him that he still had time to occasionally wonder at the high commander’s absence, sure that the man’s tactical training would alter the outcome, but what surprised him more was the one opportunity he had to survey the courtyard when he searched for the old sergeant-at-arms but instead caught sight of Vondred. The Mosfiner stood halfway between the keep and the ravaged gate, swatting at goblins, orcs, and men as they used the body of the giant for a ramp, surging through the massive hole in the gate to fall upon the courtyard defenders. Despite the misgivings he held for the man, Kaulim had to begrudgingly admit to his courage.

    It was just seconds after that sighting that the Veteran’s Guild officer had to begrudgingly concede ownership of the wall to the advance of the enemy. There were a few pockets of fighting men still caught within the steel-jawed trap of the enemy throng, and it pained Kaulim’s heart to see them as he backed down the stairs, his blade slashing and cutting through the press of rancid flesh that formed a wall before him. He had been all about that gangway throughout the course of the siege, and now it was luck alone that had positioned him at the head of the stairs when the fray grew too thick to withstand. As his feet found their way to the step below he called out again and again to withdraw, watching man after man get cut down in their defensive posture, devoured by the horde, until he was sure that the gangway was completely owned by the enemy. When this occurred he stood at the third step from the rocky courtyard floor, engaged in mortal combat with a wild-looking human dressed in furs and animal skins, his flesh painted in stark reds that contrasted his white skin. The man wielded an axe, a heavy thing with a head decorated in eagle feathers and brightly colored beads, and he fought with a ferocity that reminded Kaulim of a cornered wildcat, but Kaulim’s traditional training won out and with a quick slash, the Veteran’s Guild officer slashed the northman’s throat.

    Falling back again as the barbarian was replaced by a manic-eyed orc with gold rings about his giant incisors, Kaulim felt men on either side of him squeeze to close off the advance. He was given enough of a respite that he could check for an escape route, and found one surging among the attackers and courtyard defenders like the waves of the ocean. It was through this that he led his men, battling with those that opposed his retreat and pressing his way through the brief periods of quiet until they had achieved the side door that led to his quarters. Turning, he took up position with three men, one named Foley, another Hadric, and the third was unknown to him, but wearing a bloodied and greased tunic of what had once been white.

    “Through the door, spread down the hall,” he called out as he turned aside the stone-tipped spear a drooling goblin plunged at his chest. Taking the shaft of the crude weapon in his left hand before the foul creature could withdraw it, Kaulim hacked the tip off, taking the goblin’s left hand with it. It would have howled long and hard, but the Veteran’s Guild officer used a backhand slash to sever its head. Another died under his heavy-handed swing, and another took the blunt tip of the broadsword in between the eyes before it was his turn through the door.

    Twisting about the frame he slipped in and stumbled a few people down the line, where he was finally allowed time to rest before turning and watching as Hadric took a spear through the side of his throat just after Foley had cleared the door. There was no sign of the other man and chagrinned, Kaulim ordered the door closed. Three men pressed it against the sudden surge of orcs and goblins, and one of the men took a serious cut to his upper thigh in the process, but the door was closed and barricaded and the hall was filled with the scent of sweat and blood as well as the sound of heavily breathing, spent warriors.

    “Foley,” Kaulim knew the man from many a night spent on the wall. He knew that the soldier had left a wife and a daughter back home so that he could serve the crown, and he was grateful to see him alive still.

    “Yes, sir?”

    “Do you know how to get to the high commander’s chamber?”

    “Yes, sir.”

    “Then do so, and be quick about it. Tell him that the wall is lost, and find out what in the name of Kalim his orders are! Now go.” In the dim light of the single lantern hung in the rafters overhead, Foley snapped off a salute and pushed his way past the men and women who had achieved the hall to be about his errand.

    “Telro,” Roaks barked, catching sight of another man he recognized.

    “Yes, sir?” The pug-faced archer pushed away from the wall and peered at the watch officer from beneath a dark brow.

    “You will remain here with these four,” Kaulim motioned at four others, a pikeman and three footmen from uniforms. “And make sure this entrance is not lost. I will take the rest to the main hall. We can ill afford to split our forces, but we can afford to lose the keep even less. I’ll see if there are men to be spared in the hall, but if you receive no relief before trouble sets in, retreat slowly and send a runner for aid.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    With that, Kaulim Roaks led the remainder of the troops through the back halls and corridors to achieve the main hall; that cavernous entryway that struck him with such wonder. It took quite a while as the back halls were winding and very much akin to a maze, and when they finally spilled out into the hall they were very nearly skewered upon the swords of their friends who had almost mistaken them for the enemy.

    “Kaulim, sir!”

    The Veteran’s Guild warrior glanced about as his name was called and a grin broke across his face at the sight of Medigan’s bloodied face.

    “Sergeant,” he said, greeting the old man with a clasped forearm. “You live yet.”

    “An’ you, I see,” The sergeant-at-arms grinned back. “Though you’re lookin’ as though you could use a surgeon.”

    It was only when Kaulim looked down at his unarmored shoulder that he realized he’d taken a cut across the thick part of his arm. It suddenly stung, but he forced the pain into a place within that could be visited later, when he had more time, and shook his head, “it is nothing serious, Medigan. Tell me, how do we fare?”

    The old man narrowed his eyes a bit, then gave Kaulim respect for ignoring the wound. “We’ve maybe fifty stout lads an’ lasses within these walls, sir. I ‘aven’t taken full count as there ‘asn’t been time, bu’ I’m close enough. The doors are barricaded, bu’ won’ las’ long, an’ we’ve plenty o’ wounded lying abou’ as well.”

    “Stark,” Kaulim acknowledge, though quietly, as there were people about watching and waiting for orders. “Vondred?”

    “I’ve no’ seen the man.”

    “Sergeant Millson?”

    “Took an’ arrow on the wall, ‘e’s with Kalim, the lucky bas’ard.”

    Kaulim felt a pang of sadness at the news, but knew there wasn’t time for it to bloom now. With a nod he scanned the downtrodden faces of what was now, most assuredly, his command. He was about to give orders to set up their position for a last stand when he saw Foley come stumbling down the old wooden staircase, clumsy in his haste. The soldier paused as Kaulim called out his name and after a brief moment, when the crowd turned their attention upon him, Foley found the officer among the mass.

    “Sir,” the soldier called in response. “You’d better come to the high commander’s office right away, sir.”

    Kaulim set his teeth, figuring the man had summoned him and would blame him for the loss of the wall. Scapegoats were needed after all, not that it’d matter for as far as Kaulim was concerned the enemy would beat down the doors and they’d all be left as bloodied ribbons of flesh within this great hall, a bitter bit of history if anyone survived the onslaught of this great horde. With a nod, the officer went off to meet with his cowardly commander.

    Foley took the stairs ahead of him and at such a pace that Kaulim wondered where his fatigue had gone. Roaks certainly had a difficult time matching his gait due to the long hours at battle and when he finally reached the fourth floor it took him but a moment to realize that the two guards who had been stationed there earlier were missing. His brow furrowed beneath the rim of his helmet, the officer of the watch strode through the door Foley was holding open for him and almost immediately came to a complete stop…mid-stride.

    There, in the same chair he’d been in when Kaulim had first received the bitter chastisement for his haste, was High Commander Hrand Agring. He was still in his evening gown, and his chin was against his chest. Kaulim could have mistaken him for being asleep were it not for the wash of bright crimson down his chest, a path for the flow of blood from his slit throat. The High Commander of Fort Redrock was dead, his throat slit, and Kaulim’s initial reaction was to grab at his sword lest the assassin leap from the shadows and try to take him too.

    “I checked about, but there is no one here,” Foley said, a tremor in his voice.

    Kaulim gave a slow nod, his gauntleted hand still gripping the hilt of his bloodied sword despite the reassurance. “No one?”

    “Not a soul, sir.”

    “What of his servants? Are they dead as well?”

    “There is no sign of them, sir.”

    Kaulim swallowed against the dryness in his throat and walked over to the corpse in the chair. He paused for a moment to study the murder before walking past and slamming the office door open so that it bounced off the wall. The papers were all in place and the candles were still lit, though flickering against the wind he had created. Quite suddenly, Kaulim knew he faced a terrible thing, something amplified by the presence of the horde. In his belief that the high commander sat in his office like a king hiding from the dangers of battle, Kaulim had known that there was someone else responsible for the welfare of the keep’s defenders, someone he could turn to for orders. Now, with the old man dead in his chair, murdered most probably by his own servants in some political act, ill-timed though it may be, Kaulim Roaks knew that every man and woman, wounded and fatigued, within this besieged fortress, would look to him as their commander. Staring at the maps along the walls, the precious books in their shelves, and the set of crystal goblets sitting atop a silver tray and a bottle of amber liquor, Kaulim knew defeat.

    What could he tell these people but to give it their all, to put their very lives down in front of those doors and defend the keep to the last man. Their only hope was that they could put enough of a dent in the horde’s numbers as to give the rest of civilization a chance of survival.

    “Sir?” Foley had followed him to the office and was standing in the door, four paces behind him. Kaulim focused his vision, for it had blurred as he had envisioned their end, his hazel eyes finding a map of the keep on the wall in back of the desk. “What are we to do, sir?” Something about the map caught his eye and married an inconsistency that hovered on the fringes of his consciousness, giving birth to insight. Without answering Foley, the officer of the watch quickly approached the map, his finger tracing a line along the far edge of the fourth floor bedchamber. The corners of his mouth turned up in a slow, ragged smile. He turned that smile on the confused soldier at the door.

    “Foley, we might yet live to fight another day.”

    “Sir?” Kaulim was sure the man had thought he’d lost his sanity by the way he cocked his head to one side and edged to the middle of the doorway, but he didn’t care for he had found hope again.

    “Go and get Sergeant Tale. Tell him to start sending the troops up to the fourth floor, one healthy soldier paired with one of the wounded, and to be as quick about it as possible. Then, go back to the east side barracks and tell Telro to secure that door to the best of his ability before reporting to the Sergeant for assignment.”

    “Sir?”

    “There’s a way out, man! A passage from the bedchamber through the mountainside. You noticed that the bodies of the servants were naught to be found, and yet I know for certain that High Commander Agring brought at least one manservant with him on assignment and there were two others serving him when I cam earlier, and let us not forget the guards usually stationed outside his door. There’s no blood, but for that which is resident upon our poor commander’s chest, spilled from his own throat! Do you not see, Foley? He was slain by his servant’s hand, murdered, and they were all a part of it. They have escaped through these very tunnels, and so may we. Now hurry, be about your new duties before the horde breaks through these ancient doors and slaughters us to ribbons!”

    It was enough; the light of Kaulim’s reasoning broke through the fog that hindered Foley’s thoughts. As the words of urgency left the officer of the watch’s mouth, Foley turned and rushed from the floor, descending the stairs like a banshee chasing a frightened maid. Turning from the empty doorway, Kaulim retrieved his dagger from his belt and cut the map from the frame. He made a quick, cursory scan of all the other maps in the room and found that none of the other maps contained the interior lay of the keep, but that one showed a mineshaft leading to the valley beyond and below their current position, and it was there that Kaulim supposed they would emerge once they had taken their retreat. So, again he used the dagger to remove that map from its framing and these two he rolled and tucked into his belt so as not to leave any means by which the horde could follow them into the tunnels, for it would be a bad thing for man to face monster in the murky darkness of a mine.

    After removing the high commander’s body to the office and closing the door, Roaks went into the bedchamber. Armed with the knowledge of the map, Kaulim unveiled the secret stair without difficulty, though he knew it would be a long time searching before someone not so knowledgeable would have found it. He also discovered that it bore no light, so he set about gathering candles and candelabra as well as the few lamps and a couple of lanterns from the landing outside by the wood stairs of the keep. By that time pairs of soldiers, one wounded aided by a tired, but healthy individual, reached the hall where the unsavory find had been discovered but minutes before. He received an update from the soldiers concerning the condition of the doors, and was pleased to hear that though they shook and shuddered, they still held, and then he directed them through to the mine. They went with the lights provided, another right on their heels, and another behind them. This stream of folk continued until all were through and Medigan stood with a lantern held in hand shaking his shaggy head in disbelief at the sight of their salvation.

    “So the ol’ coward cut ‘is losses an’ ran down int’ the mountain, eh?”

    Kaulim’s brow came together as he considered how best to answer the question. “You might say that,” he settled.

    “What then, are we t’ do now, sir? Traipse through the shafts o’ a’ ol’ mine to wha’ end?”

    “To the valley below, Sergeant, where we will live to warn the rest of the kingdom and to fight the northmen another day, for I am not finished with them. Are you?”

    “Nay, sir,” the grizzled old sergeant-at-arms said determinedly. “I’m no’ finished with the likes o’ them…no’ in the leas’ bi’.”