Town's Fall

The main body of Tyltin's force had spread thin in the hinterlands of Western Dulfwyn while their leader ran his mouth with Drysllthen, giving Raegnold's forces an opportunity to grow bolder in their own territory, even if drawing them into more familiar land proved impossible. Even in the Swordking's absence, his seasoned generals knew his preferred tactic of catching enemies on open ground. Unfortunately only a few raiding bands ventured out of Valys's wooden walls, and when they received a plunder of swords in their bellies there were few enough keen on following them.

Upon Tyltin's return, accompanied by the leaders of Tsgerl and Hnestor's forces, respectively, he gathered his men to within a half-day's ride to the city. There they made camp and put finishing touches on the plan for the assault. Though Raegnold had stripped the city's defences in his worry over the impending battle at the castle, he still left a more-than-capable lieutenant in charge of defending Valys, a General Gottrik. Tyltin's men had last clashed with his in Zsongrill some months prior, and the General had left a thin scar on Tyltin's left hip, giving the Swordking a personal reason to lead the charge at the town on top of the prenegotiated political ones.

Four thousand men, more or less, stood ready for the battle. Less than a hundred had proper warhorses, while only a shade over that number held any proficiency with strongbows. Around half were full-fledged knights, with established lands and strong families, drawn from all three lands under Tyltin's indirect control, while much of the rest consisted of petty hedge knights looking for gold or scraps of land or battle-hardened burghers and farmers that'd spent much of their lives taking orders on campaign.

Arrayed against them was a core of five hundred professional soldiers surrounded by nearly ten times that number of rabble, mostly older men and boys, taken from the city and surrounding hinterland and armed with little more than pitchforks or blunted axes. Thick wooden walls protected them, as high as three men laying end to end, with archers' towers spread along them and scaffolds just wide enough for two men to stand abreast. Nearly half of the city was flanked by the River Ngjunt, a feeder to the Juntlis, that made it unapproachable and easier to defend, but also made for a more effective concentration of forces gathered to attack. The Swordking cared little enough for guarding the riverbank against smugglers in the last days, knowing that little enough in the way of food and supplies could be made ready in time to make a difference in the outcome.

Tyltin as usual put little stock in siege machines, finding them cowardly and far too destructive for his purposes. Even the close rams caused too much damage for his liking, and so over the years he'd developed a device more to his liking than either catapults or lumbering towers. In this endeavor his treasurer was of great help, both men holding an affinity for numbers and shapes and how to properly manipulate each in turn. Together they designed a wide-based ramp of ladders that leaned at an angle easy enough to climb, and much easier to escape should a fire-licked arrow land in the treated wood. The Swordking had four such apparatuses, each tall enough to kiss the top of Valys's walls.

Once everything was set to his satisfaction, Tyltin left his gathered throng to accompany his nephew to the negotiations with Raegnold, fully expecting to return within the hour and commence the attack. When he returned, however, he had much different news...

Three days, Raegnold had wrangled from him. Three torturous, wasted days of idleness; not even the simple ladder-towers could be dragged into place, for such was an act of war and thus a break of the truce settled upon by the two competing kings. While he did seek comfort in his own way, Tyltin was impatient to continue, willing the sun to move faster in its galloping journey through the sky. He thought...no, rather, he hoped that Gottrik wouldn't succumb to the pleasures of exile; the Swordking knew the man wouldn't swear to Drysllthen, for he himself wouldn't allow it. Tyltin's hip still throbbed from the kiss of Gottrik's blade, and his own sword-arm ached to correct that stroke of ill luck.

Fortune shone more brightly upon the Swordking, for on the third day he received his answer: Gottrik, and the majority of his men, would rather stand and fight than flee like cowards under Raegnold's terms. From the moment he heard the enemy general's response, Tyltin's world brightened, and his camp moved from lassitude to action while the morning's mist still licked the trees around them. The siege ladders took the better part of an hour to position, four for the three exposed walls of Valys, just outside of arrow range. A dozen men accompanied each ladder, led by Tyltin's worthiest warriors, ready to spearhead the assault on the walls. The rest of Tyltin's force would follow once the gate was captured, but until then, those forty-eight souls stood between victory and defeat. If their attack failed and the gate stood closed, the Swordking would die.

“That won't happen, lord,” assured one of his lieutenants, the general commanding Hnestor's forces, named Rien Somneri “I won't let it.”

“You'll be on the South wall, and too worried about dodging arrows to look after my arse,” the Swordking replied soberly. He only broke the mood after a long moment, his eyes lighting with a grin. “If you—any of you—fail me, I will die. I'm not leaving Valys but through the gate, one way or another. Do you understand?”

A chorus of “Aye, Sir!” rang out around him, the mostly larger men rattling their armour in salute. Plans had been laid, weapons sharpened, ale drunk, and women bedded. There was nothing left but the battle, and while the truth of that whispered through the gathered men like a solemn secret, the Swordking was positively effusive as he took his core cohort to their siege-ladder. To each side his trusted men took control of their own weapons. Tyltin himself, along with five other men, climbed up the diagonal surface while the rest of the troop took their shielded positions at the base, ready for the grueling work of pushing their comrades to the wall.

Drums sounded rhythmically in the distance. He felt the tension roll over him, months of angst culminating in this one, perfect moment. Dressed as he was in his normal battle attire, the sun kissed his bare shoulders, those scars gleaming in the breeze. His only protection lay in the medallion his healer had given him, hanging proudly at the center of his chest, its odd warmth forgotten in the buzzing excitement of the gathering storm. Heavy too weighed the finely-woven square his betrothed had given him, packed tightly in his pocket. As the beat stoked the tension to a climax, the Swordking raised his right hand; the drumming ceased, replaced by a high-pitched horn. The world moved with the force of the cheers from his van, and then again when his men heaved forward, tipping the giant ladder-structure over the flat ground, toward the enemy walls.

Almost immediately arrows began flicking by, most stopping short while others thudded uselessly against the ladders' front shields. Once or twice on the approach a cry sounded when a lucky bowman hit their mark and slowed an approaching siege machine, but no such foul omen visited Tyltin's personal cohort. The men on the wall came into focus as he drew near, his heart pounding along with the renewed drumbeats from the back of his van. His sword sang a low tune as he pulled it free, and he saw his enemies' eyes light with naked fear when they saw the Swordking approaching, and he knew then that he had them.

Before the ladder came to a full halt, he scrambled to the top, dodging the furtive arrows on his way. He needed no scream to hearten himself; his courage instead came with a gleeful grin, filling his chest when he leapt the gap and landed hard on the platform holding the knot of defenders. Three full heartbeats passed as he rose unmolested, that grin growing deeper, and then he moved. His sword flashed wickedly, dancing around three blades. That first clang sounded like like a lover's whisper in his ears, chills racing over his flesh; the dance began. One man met his end when Tyltin swept his legs, tumbling the heavier fighter off the platform and onto the hard ground below. Another screamed when Tyltin's sword met flesh, and only then did his comrades see fit to join the melee...not that they'd lazed, but their leader was simply too fast, too eager, too fearless.

A sudden shriek sounded above the growing din of combat, and in the edge of his vision Tyltin saw what he'd most worried over before the assault: fire. He stumbled, and if not for an ally's shield he might've met his end on that wall. One of his precious ladders was going up in flames, caught from a fire-soaked arrow, and apparently at least one man was roasting inside his armor. Luckily the remaining men tugged the hulk of wood back from the wall at the leader's command, and the Swordking's attention returned to his bloody business. The other men could prey that the fire wouldn't catch or spread wildly through the timber buildings; Tyltin's concerns lay somewhere much more immediate.

The narrow platform proved a great equalizer, forcing both sets of fighters to stand two-by-two, so the defenders could not press their advantage in numbers. Tyltin's lack of armour showed its advantages plainly in such close quarters, for he was quick enough to dodge the enemy's thrusts and could move around shields to exploit weaknesses. Soon blood covered his blade, and his men kicked fallen bodies off the platform rather than stumble over them. Half his troop faced Tyltin's direction, toward the gatehouse, while the other half covered their rear. If the two sides spat curses, Tyltin didn't hear them, too caught up in the thrill of the dance. An eternity passed with each sword stroke; angels sang in the clash of steel and the cries of wounded men.

Before he knew it, Tyltin was forcing his way into the ramshackle room that served as Valys's gatehouse, the space defended by Gottrik's best men. The enemy commander knew that this room held the key to the battle's outcome. The Swordking didn't hesitate; instead he launched over a fallen man, his blade swinging in a wide arc, but these men were more disciplined than the wall's garrison. His arm shook with the force of the parry, and he had to swerve to avoid a counterstroke; their numbers were a blur to him, sneering faces begging for his touch. He hardly felt the dagger's kiss on his shoulder, mistaking the running blood for another's. In the chaos he lost sight of his own men, and the euphoria took hold of him, speeding his limbs with a frantic desperation.

A man gurgled when Tyltin's sword met his throat, but another was there, slashing at the Swordking's wrist; he had to release his blade to keep his hand in tact, and for one breathless moment he was without a weapon. With nothing else worth losing he weaved into an enemy's arms, embracing him as a mother might, a lover's whisper on his lips. He felt life pulsing in his hand when he grabbed the man's throat, felt the soothing crunch of hard flesh, vein and glands and windpipe collapsing in his grip. Wretched gurgles signaled the man's end, and Tyltin snatched up his shorter sword in time to ward off the bloody dagger. A few fast swings gained him revenge for the wound just starting to throb down his arm.

He rounded on another warrior, his attack stopping short at the last moment when he realized it was his own man; a quick survey of the small room showed him the defenders' corpses. “Cut it,” he rasped, head bobbing to their goal: a thick rope holding the gate's counterweight. The other man sliced through it in one blow, and the gate rattled open beneath them, to the tune of more triumphant cheers from Tyltin's van. Pausing only to heave his sword from the dead man's throat, he held both blades and allowed his companion to clear the way past the door and down the rickety steps off the platform.

Once there, Tyltin waited for no one, trusting his men to follow close behind. Heavy boots carried him over firm ground for the first time in half an hour. He caught sight of a ragged band of men standing resolute, only a few with proper swords; the rest carried large forks, threshers, or blunted axes, obviously men of the levy. Their station mattered little to the Swordking, who ignored the tremble in their stance when they saw the half-naked, scar-strewn man charging straight for them, wielding two full swords. Though his men lagged behind, he proved more than a match for the peasants; aside from the hedge knights, all but two broke and ran when he got within arm's length. One swordsman escaped with a deep cut, while the others died beneath Tyltin's exultant swordery. A firm hand on his shoulder kept him from pursuing the lucky man, and when he turned he laughed in Rien's face.

“We did it,” the older man said breathlessly, obviously winded and possibly injured. “Let's let the boys clean up.”

“You can run if you want,” Tyltin replied. “I'm not leaving until I see him shit his pants!” The cry was loud enough to attract a group of defenders who rushed from a side-street, but the two experienced warriors held them off until their own reinforcements arrived.

The sweep began as Tyltin's men poured into the city, holding their order rather well. The morale of the peasants—the bulk of the city's remaining defenders—had been broken by Raegnold's peace; they were eager to return to their crops and homes at last. The few that continued to fight got a harvest of swords, but most men laid down their arms, and while Tyltin wasn't wont to accept surrender, his subordinates spared needless bloodshed. Valys's avenues and boulevards were cleared of Raegnold's forces one by one, and Tyltin himself led the charge to the market square where Gottrik held out.

In the end, Gottrik's paltry force found their slaughter in Tyltin's horsemen, the seasoned warriors riding down every last man save the general himself. When the two commanders met face-to-face they had no words to share, only a dance more intimate than any Tyltin could share with a woman. Gottrik's shield was light and strong, and took Tyltin's blows without issue; Tyltin had two blades, however, and kept his enemy occupied with them. By his speed it was clear Gottrik was more rested, but Tyltin's determination could not be matched...he had the battle-lust in his eyes, beyond pain, beyond remorse. The two fighters dominated the flagstones of the market, using overturned carts and bails of hay to trip one another up in attempts to gain leverage.

Tyltin misstepped on a rotten string of beans hidden amongst the straw, and his mistake gained him a bloom of pain over his face: Gottrik's fine-edged sword bit behind his cheek, slashing down. Tyltin's quick response turned the blade, curving the cut along his jaw to his cheek, and a sheet of blood fell down his chest. The older man barked a laugh, thinking himself victorious at long last, but the Swordking lunged at Gottrik, a mad laugh spraying crimson all over the enemy commander's face. Sweeping aside the freshly-bloodied sword, Tyltin rammed the shield with all his weight, forcing Gottrik to stumble. The Swordking's injured arm rose and swung, enough strength left to bury his stolen blade into the side of Gottrik's neck.

A warm mist of foreign blood sprayed over Tyltin's injured face, his heart losing power with every beat, but he remained standing while each of his enemies lay dying. The great cry of relief and excitement from his men surrounded him, but the Swordking merely basked in his victory, devouring the sight and sound and smell of the carnage he'd wrought. Only after many long moments did he move, growing light-headed, following his instinct to find his healer.

With their general dead, the defenders of Valys were well and truly broken. The only remaining casualties were those unfortunate souls too distant to hear the news of their defeat, and when at last the town was secured, Tyltin's knights swept through the streets to clear them of any further annoyance.

As was his custom, the Swordking marked off one-fifth of the city for looting by those unlanded or in want of further wealth. Any civilians inside the condemned zone would have no redress, though any theft outside the prescribed borders would be treated as a theft from the Swordking himself and summarily punished. As lootings went, it passed without much of an issue, and Tyltin left the city to its fate when it became clear that his men had themselves well in hand.

Tyltin took his most stalwart lieutenants and staunch supporters to the newly-liberated castle, men who still hummed and seethed for their lord to assume Nharati's throne. Along the way they intercepted a messenger bearing summons from Drysllthen. Tyltin silenced his men's laughter when the messenger announced him as King, and their mounts panted in effort to cover the distance in half the time, and when they arrived the Swordking caught sight of his nephew outside the castle's walls.

Still shirtless and covered in smeared blood, his arm and face bandaged, the Swordking dismounted well short of the royal party. “My liege,” he called out over the distance, not waiting for his own men to follow as he tromped over the uneven ground. Fresh blood oozed from beneath the facecloth when he spoke, giving his jaw and neck a copper hue.

Exhaustion threatened to overtake the Swordking, for when he knelt his limbs wavered. His jade eyes didn't manage to lower appropriately, still framing his nephew's face. “Crown Prince Tyltin reporting, to deliver Valys to the King of Nharati,” he barked, aware of the tension building behind him.”King Drysllthen Valenti,” he reiterated. “I stand ready for your next command, my lord.”

If there'd been any doubt among Tyltin's own men, his words obliterated it. Some grumbled, while others sighed in relief, but he had cultivated great loyalty in his closest battle-companions, and none visibly dissented to the outcome. At long last, the Swordking saw peace.