Breathless Middanhal

The outlanders did not follow up on their initial attack the next day. The assault had been to test the garrison and exploit possible weaknesses to seize a swift victory; since that had proven impossible, they instead made further preparations. Soon, many more siege towers began to rise.

Another reason existed to keep the outlanders in their camp. As the morning waned, more and more soldiers trickled in from the vanguard of the reinforcing army. They confirmed with eager voices the stories that had already been told many times; the Godking marched with them. The god under the mountain had finally awakened, and he came to lead his people to final victory.

Anticipation gripped the men. Nearly all outlanders lived their entire lives without ever seeing their god, yet they had heard the Servants of the Flame, praying endlessly with innumerable sacrifices for the Godking to appear. At last, those prayers had been answered.

The next sign of his arrival proved to be two shadow warriors. With guttural voices, they commanded a path to be cleared to the centre of the camp, where the priests had taken residence. Scores of servants appeared next, setting up a tent with the luxury to rival a palace. Hundreds of soldiers lined up to watch until the area was packed; only the intended path into the camp remained open, patrolled vigilantly by the shadow warriors.

The entire morning passed this way, and still the outlanders remained in place, waiting. Suffering hunger and thirst, they stood. The mood began to boil, and when the Godking’s train could be seen in the distance, it rose to a frenzy.

"He comes!"

First came the bulk of the reinforcing army, thirty thousand soldiers strong. They dispersed to set up their own camp as an attachment to the existing one. Carts rolled in, carrying supplies. And finally, twenty shadow warriors marched in, surrounding a litter carried by eight strong men. Rather than cloth, the raised chair was surrounded by wooden panels, providing protection from both arrows and eyes.

"The Godking!"

"He’s here!"

"Save us!"

"Destroy the unbelievers!"

Countless cries rose into the air. A few stepped forward, out of line, and were quickly knocked to the ground by the nearest shadow warrior. The cortege continued past the masses of supplicants, paying them no heed, until it reached the middle. The bearers continued all the way into the large tent. Soon after, they returned, leaving with the litter while the shadow warriors took position to surround the domicile made of fabric.

More soldiers and carts streamed into camp, but nobody else emerged from the large tent. Eventually, the crowds began to dissolve, as people sought food, rest, or had tasks requiring attention. Yet a few remained, prostrating themselves before the Godking’s residence. Some prayed loudly, others mumbled; over time, a few drifted away while others joined. If any of their prayers reached the recipient inside the tent, none could tell.

~~~~

The door to Theobald’s study opened, allowing the jarl of Vale entry. He found the captain of the city guard hunched over a map of Middanhal. Crude wooden blocks lay scattered in different colours, marking troop placements across the walls.

"Captain, if I may have your attention," Valerian said.

Theobald whipped his head up. "What? I have little time to spare."

"I am aware. I have tried to meet you for days now." The jarl sounded slightly indignant.

"I have a city to defend. What is it?"

"I will be swift." The jarl pulled out several pieces of parchment. "You may remember, the king has made me overseer of the treasury, and something has struck me as odd."

"And?"

"The guilds have withheld some of the war taxes," Valerian began to explain.

"My responsibility is military, not coin or trade," Theobald interjected. "Speak to the king."

"This does pertain to the city’s defences, captain. Specifically the garrison. The guilds withhold the taxes because they pay for a mercenary company, The Unbroken Shields."

"So? We need every soldier."

"But as I examined your quartermaster’s lists, they are not mentioned as being part of the garrison."

"If the guilds pay for them, they would not be," the captain explained impatiently. He pointed to a crudely carved wooden piece lying on the map in front of him. "Here. They are quartered in these warehouses, kept as reinforcements for the eastern walls."

The jarl frowned. "All two thousand of them? There are barely any warehouses in Lowtown, and certainly not to accommodate such a force."

"My lord jarl, the king awaits me." Theobald grabbed the map of the city with a swift pull, sending wooden pieces flying. "In case you did not realise, we are under siege." He gestured pointedly at the door.

Valerian turned, muttering to himself as he left the study. "Something does not add up."

~~~~

Sikandar, captain of the outlander army, walked through the camp. A shadow warrior accompanied him, acting as his silent guard. All soldiers shied away from their path either out of respect for the commander or fear for his companion. Reaching the Godking’s tent, Sikandar relinquished his weapons before entering, still with the shadow warrior at his side.

Once inside, the captain immediately prostrated himself until his brow touched the heavy carpet on the ground.

"Rise, Sikandar."

Obeying the deep voice, the outlander did so, keeping his eyes low. His fingers trembled slightly until he placed them behind his back, grasping one hand with the other.

The tent was large enough to have several rooms; in some of these, slaves waited until they were needed. Every item present was made from precious metals. Silver pitchers for pouring into golden cups. Velvet carpets covered every inch of the ground. Silken sheets on the bed. Heavy trunks made from cedarwood containing clothes of the same fabric. An armour made of red steel inscribed with runes stood next to a great sword and a spiked mace.

In the middle of the tent stood a great wooden chair with intricate carvings; upon it, the Godking was seated, flanked by two shadow warriors. With eyes of singular colour, he beheld his captain through the narrow slits of his mask.

"When will the next assault take place?"

"In two days’ time, Divine Majesty."

"How?"

"We have built many more siege towers. Some of them will not be able to reach the walls, but their mere presence should draw reinforcements, leaving other areas less defended. Besides that, storm ladders on the gatehouse."

"Good. Use as many troops as needed. I have more soldiers on the way."

"Yes, Divine Majesty."

"Once the faithless are weakened, we will strike the final blow." He turned his head slightly, and the shadow warrior by his right hand growled.

~~~~

"About a thousand men are too injured to fight anytime soon, if ever. Half that number fell," Theobald explained. Before him lay his map of the city’s defence, except it adorned the table in the king’s chambers.

"Heavier losses than I would have thought," Brand muttered, glancing between the captain and the map. "Especially as we knew where their towers would strike."

"They struck elsewhere as well," Theobald said. "Here, where Sir Richard defended with mostly levies from the South. They were little match against the enemy’s well-trained troops. We took our heaviest losses there. We will have to pull most of our remaining reinforcements away to replace them."

"Exactly where I feared," Brand mumbled. "Their spies are as good as ours."

"They took greater losses, though," the captain pointed out. "We counted nearly two thousand dead on the walls, along with those killed before they even made it that far. They must have a fair number of injured as well."

"Unfortunately, they can absorb those losses with ease. We cannot. Is Sir Richard able to take command again?"

"If you asked him, he would claim so, but I have told him to rest for now," Theobald explained. "I will take that command personally tomorrow and bring a few hundred men from the Citadel’s garrison. That does leave the castle nearly undefended," he admitted.

"So be it. The city matters more."

The captain bowed his head, rolled up the map, and left.

~~~~

In a tent of modest size, the two lieutenants of the outlander army shared a wineskin. "Careful," Arash warned. "That is my last one."

Rostam tipped the skin to fill half his cup. "I wonder if any more can be found somewhere in camp."

"I doubt it," his companion scoffed. "After yesterday, anyone who can drink, is drinking. Just look at us."

"I suppose." Rostam handed over the skin and took a sip from his cup.

"At least the Godking has arrived. Surely the city must fall now."

"You would think so." He scratched the back of his head. "But if so, why did we attack yesterday?"

"How do you mean?"

"If the Godking is so powerful, why does he not simply make the walls crumble? Why did so many of our soldiers have to die yesterday, gaining nothing?"

Arash stared at him. "You should choose your words with care. If the wrong person heard you, the Servants would have you on a pyre."

"I am aware."

"I am still surprised you did not lose your head when you lost Tothmor. Or that you had the nerve to return rather than simply flee into the mountains."

Rostam emptied his cup. "My duty was not yet done."

~~~~

Despite what lay outside the walls, life at the Citadel continued as usual. Trade with the southern lands had only recently been disrupted, and for now, stockpiles of most goods remained available. As the northern gate remained open, rationing of food had yet to be introduced. Thus, while soldiers fought and bled on the fortifications, courtiers lived as usual.

The king rarely joined his court for meals, taking them in his chambers. The euphoria after his election by the Adalthing had long since subsided; instead, courtiers murmured at the reasons for his absence. He did not fight at the walls, which would have explained his rare appearances.

Those inclined to view him in a favourable light remarked that he no doubt organised the defence, as was his duty; a captain led from a command post, not the front lines. Others assumed he had left the responsibilities to his underlings; a few even claimed that ill influences kept him placid, though none agreed on the source of such pressure.

Thus, when the king appeared in the great hall for the evening meal, whispers arose in such strength, it sounded like a nest of hornets. The courtiers barely had time to rise as he strode across the room, taking his seat at the high table. Once he had, the rest sat down as well, resuming their meal.

"So glad you decided to join us, Brother," Arndis smiled, sitting at the king’s right hand.

"It was your idea," Brand grumbled. Two kingthanes took position behind him while Geberic hurried to fill his goblet and plate.

"And an excellent idea it was," Jana chimed in, seated at his left hand.

"Now I must hear this from both of you! A conspiracy," he growled, taking a deep draught of his wine.

"Make sure to eat," the lady of Alcázar softly added. "Your cheeks are hollow."

The seating arrangement caused further whispers. It would be custom for the king to have his queen on the left side and his dragonlord on his right; Jana and Arndis occupied those places instead while Theodoric sat one place further to the right. If this disconcerted him, he showed no sign of it.

"What did the good captain say of our defences?" asked the jarl of Theodstan with a voice louder than needed.

"They are strong," Brand replied after a moment. "Our soldiers have repelled all assaults and inflicted heavy losses on the enemy."

"The city is safe?" asked the dragonlord next.

"Completely. Our garrison is strong as are our fortifications, and the enemy cannot encircle us to starve us out. Victory is only a matter of time." Brand broke his bread into smaller pieces, letting it soak up gravy.

The whispers continued around the hall. Some took note of the king’s words; others looked at the lines that furrowed his brow.

~~~~

A slave placed a pearl into a goblet of glass, holding a mixture of wine and vinegar. A hiss could be heard briefly as the precious stone dissolved. Approaching the Godking on his seat, the slave kept his head bowed low while presenting the goblet on a plate. His master took the proffered drink, and the slave immediately stepped back, disappearing behind a curtain.

Removing his mask to reveal smooth, handsome features, the Godking emptied his glass before extending a hand to let it drop. It fell on the soft carpet, receiving no damage. Once his mask sat on his face again, the slave returned to retrieve the goblet and make a hasty retreat once more.

Commotion could be heard outside the tent. Raising his deep voice, the Godking spoke. "Explain."

A shadow warrior entered. "A soldier tried to force his way inside with a drawn knife. We apprehended him."

"Bring him in."

The dreadful guard bowed his head and left, returning immediately with a red-robed soldier in his grip. He threw the captive onto the ground, face first, and planted a boot on his back.

From his chair, the Godking stared with his odd eyes at the soldier. "Why?"

As no answer came, the shadow warrior bent down slap the man in the back of the head. The captive looked up as much as he could, staring at the Godking’s form. "Tyrant," he whispered. "How many have you fed to the flames, only to serve your vanity?"

The ruler of the outlanders rose with measured movements. With one quick gesture, he waved the shadow warrior to step back. At once, the captive tried to leap to his feet. He barely made any progress before the Godking reached down to grab him by the throat.

Holding him in one hand at his long arm’s full length, the Godking stared at his would-be assailant. "Not vanity. To keep you in your place." He began to squeeze. Moment after moment passed. The soldier gasped for breath in vain. The sound of bone cracking could be heard. Once his windpipe had been crushed, the Godking threw the man aside. "Remove him."

The shadow warrior bent down, dragging the corpse outside.