Joel Shepherd - Petrodor

“My Lord!” Faldini said cheerfully, his eyes sharp with enthusiasm. “Hell of a fight, yes?” His breastplate bore a great scar and his chain mail sleeves were spattered with blood. “A great shame young Carlito is not here to see it, he would have made you proud!”

“Thank the gods for that mercy at least,” Alexanda muttered, taking a knee beside his captain. He had to adjust his own breastplate as he did-it did not fit half so well these days as it had, the buckles tight at his shoulders, and always seeming to slip to his hips. “Where the hells are we?”

“Nearer to Sharptooth than nearly anyone else!” Faldini exclaimed. “Look, now we have this place, our men secure this road here…” Faldini gestured to the dark shadow of street directly ahead, then pointed to the leather map unrolled on the balcony before him. “I don't know what it's called, but it leads right to The Crack, just south of Sharptooth. We're nearly there!”

They were on the Backside-side of the ridgeline, both Alexanda and Faldini having concluded that it was the softest route to Sharptooth. Those fools Belary and Tarabai were thrusting straight along the ridgeline road, and were nothing like as close as this. Probably they were up to their necks in the bodies of their own dead by now. Duke Tosci of Coroman had taken an even more downslope route-to Alexanda's south up the Backside slope, thrusting to clear the ridge squarely into the middle of the southern stack.

Steiner and his patachis were pressing through midslope, knowing that maze of winding roads far better than the Torovan dukes. There was talk of a seaborn attack as well, and a landing upon the southern docks. With no view of the ocean, Alexanda had no idea if that was just talk or not.

Abad of Songel, it was said, was fighting for Maerler, but Pazira had not yet met him in battle if that were the case. Of Flewderin and Cisseren, there was no word, only rumour. Clearly Maerler was badly outnumbered. But in this city, the odds of any battle were stacked so heavily with the defender that numbers were meaningless. The serrin had held out for much of a day with just a handful of talmaad against thousands.

“We're getting lots of white cloth hung over the walls,” Faldini continued. “Many of them don't want to fight.”

“Doesn't help us much if they won't let us in,“Alexanda grumbled. He peered through the balcony railings onto the narrow street below. Pazira men were mustering in formation, shields to the front, rams, hooks and grapples behind. Captain Faldini had done his work well, preparing for this even while Alexanda strove his utmost to try to ensure it would never happen. There were even draught horses held in reserve. They'd brought down several defensive walls so far, and would surely be needed for more.

Faldini was not bothering with the artillery some of the other dukes were using-it took too many men and horses to haul, he'd insisted, was difficult to manoeuvre in close corners and nearly impossible to fire accurately on sloping ground. Better yet, Pazira forces now took short cuts between roads by smashing through mansions-“in the front door and out the back,” as he'd put it. No artillery worth its use could fit through a doorway.

“How many men have we lost?” Alexanda asked.

“I haven't been counting,” Faldini admitted. “Perhaps thirty?”

“More likely fifty,” Alexanda growled, giving his captain a dark stare. “I've been counting the bodies on the way down the road.”

Faldini shrugged. “That's why they love you more than me,” he said with a grin. Were Faldini not such a competent officer, Alexanda was certain he would love him not at all. It was one of the great ironies of life that often the most bloodthirsty and cruel commanders suffered the least grievous losses. Bloodthirsty commanders won quickly. Quick victors suffered fewer deaths. A cautious officer could become bogged down, his indecision prolonging the fight, and thus killing more of his own men. In war, as in so many things, the gods displayed their foul sense of humour.

Longbow fire thumped and whistled from a neighbouring balcony, then from the roof above the two men's heads. Arrows fled into the firelit night toward the mansion at the road's end where the crossbow fire seemed to be coming from. Longbows would do little good at such range, but the object, Faldini explained, was to put the opposing archers off their aim and jangle the enemy's nerves with incoming fire. Good longbow men could fire six or more times to a crossbow's every one, suiting them better for the purpose.

“They'll know how close we are now,” Alexanda muttered. “Several more mansions like this one and we'll cut through to Sharptooth. They'll pull up some reserves, perhaps make a flanking move downslope to our right, and come at us from there.”

“Let them flank to our right,” Faldini said. “If they grant us the height and attack from downslope, we'll slaughter them. Better yet, the defensive advantage becomes ours, we've these magnificent big shields you had the foresight to bring in such large numbers…” Alexanda snorted, recalling Faldini's protests at the big ugly things, “we can make a wall across the road and dare them to scale it.

“Besides which, I've seen no indication these city fools actually understand concepts like ‘reserve’ and ‘flanking attack.’ So far most of them have been defending their own property and no one else's. Only Maerler's staunchest allies are fighting, the rest are sitting quietly behind their walls waiting to see which way the wind is blowing.”

“Captain Faldini, if I can persuade you of just one thing that my advancing years have taught me, it is this-things can always get worse, and usually do. If one expects it, then one can avoid the indignity of surprise.”

“I always liked surprises,” Faldini remarked, watching the preparations for the battle's next phase with eager anticipation.

“Then you're a fool. In battle, surprise is usually followed swiftly by a painful death.”

“My Lord, if I might suggest…maybe I just enjoy this more than you?”

Alexanda shook his head in disbelief. “Truly you are a man of great insight. Carry on, Captain, do your worst.”

“You know I always do, my Lord.”

Errollyn sat in the cargo hold, chained to the mast, and listened to the commotion up on deck. He could hear the ballista firing, and feel the thumping vibration through the decking. The thick mast trunk shuddered and creaked with the strain of billowing sails, and he could hear the yells and instruction, the rapid winching of ropes and the squeal of pulleys.

He sat with his knees drawn up, his ankles chained and his arms flexed back to embrace the mast behind. His wrists were chained together around the mast, and the manacles dug into his hands. His ankle chains, in turn, were tied to the base of the mast so that he could not stretch his legs. It hurt. His previous injuries stiffened and throbbed, and the air down here was foul, a thick stench of old grain, livestock, manure and rot. About him, crates and sacks made looming shapes in the gloom, creaking each time the boat rocked over a wave, or turned against the wind. He had never particularly minded the movement of boats, provided he could be on deck with the horizon in sight and the fresh ocean breeze on his face. Now, he felt ill. He hated enclosed spaces. Rhillian knew he did. Yet she ordered him tied down here anyway.

And now, it seemed, they were under attack. Whoever it was unsurprisingly seemed to be having difficulties catching the Saalshen vessel. He judged that they were still in Petrodor harbour-with a wind this brisk, surely an open ocean swell would move the boat more than this.