CHAPTER THIRTY

THE STORM (PART I)

The rain of stones smashes against Union's walls; they endure. Those that fly above the walls into the city destroy buildings and the flesh of the unfortunate with unrelenting force. The response? A symphony of screams. Their purpose is devastation and fear. They meet their purpose.

“Take cover!” a city guard on the wall yells taking cover.

“Run!” the citizens down below yell as they run.

The unfortunates citizens in the boulder's path yell nothing as red paints the streets in a canvas of horror.

The savage Northmen take their time; there is no reason to rush. None at all. On the front line, the giant chieftain watches sitting upon his Fenrir as vetting the mayhem; it proceeds as planned. There is no emotion on his face, only a cold, emotionless expression.

“Chieftain Bjorn Dreadblade,” a young, beautiful man with pale skin and long white hair says, appearing from nowhere.

“What is it, mystic?” Bjorn asks with vivid contempt.

“The wolves wear the sheep’s clothing,” the mystic says as he smiles.

“Good. Maybe we can finish this in haste,” Bjorn says as he takes another look at the great city under siege.

“You know your orders. The city and...” the mystic speaks as he gets cut off.

“I do not need the likes of you to remind me. Do you believe I fear you? I shall do what I must do,” Bjorn says with a hostile expression.

“It is not me you need to fear,” the mystic says as he bows with a faint smile and turns away.

The chieftain watches him walk away as he spits on the ground.

In front of the castle courtyard, servants come running out as they carry a plethora of different weapons from city armories; they throw them in piles of sharpened steel offering them to everyone. The citizens like vultures descend taking what they fancy. Free is free after all. When poverty is an all too familiar lifestyle, the term beggars cannot be choosers applies.

“Gather around! We shall form squads,” a high-ranking official yells.

The rough city folk leisurely form in impressively unorganized lines.

Clad in chain-mail, an older man with black hair and stripes of white approaches.

“My name is Captain Timus. You lot come with me,” Captain Timus says as he makes his way.

The 50 or so men and women follow; Tyr and Shaphas follow.

From the sides, in the shadow, Harry, Little Pete, Big Pete, Melione, and Ulric stand.

“Are we nat joining da fight?” Little Pete asks.

“Of course, nat. Why shouldda we die for em?” Harry answers as finding even the thought of it hilarious.

“We have to fight! The Moon has chosen us,” Ulric says.

“Shaddup bout your Moon talk, ya moonman. If ya wanna die for ‘em, feel free to do so withoutta us,” Harry says as he waves the ridiculous notion away.

“That girl up there,” Melione says as she gazes in the distance.

“Da girl? Ya mean, Noname?” Little Pete asks.

“She will die,” Melione says as a single tear falls from her eye.

“Die? Whatchatalkin bout?” Harry says as he approaches her.

“She will die if you run away,” Melione says as more tears form.

The voices in her head whisper.

“I’m sad!” One says as almost crying.

“I’m sad!” Two adds as it whimpers.

“Why are we sad?” One asks.

“I don’t know, but we are!” Two adds.

“What is sad?” One asks as it thinks.

“I don’t know!” Two yells as they laugh in unison.

“Whattcha ya blabbering bout?” Little Pete angrily asks.

Melione, teary-eyed, quickly turns to him.

“We must protect her,” Melione says as she walks away.

“Whattcha will we do?” Little Pete asks as he watches in confusion.

“Leave ‘em. They be mad,” Harry adds.

“You best listen to her. She knew before! She knows now!” Ulric says as he smiles and follows Melione. The three thieves look at each other as they sigh. They follow.

The guards set up behind the high walls with bows in hand and arrows in ready. They hide leaned on them as closely as they can, feeling the cold stone on their skin; above them, the rain of stones continues to fall. In the distance, they can see the army of Northmen standing in wait. Bloodlust in the eyes. Throughout the city, small groups set up chokepoints fortified with quickly constructed wooden barricades. The onslaught of the barrage continues for hours as the city grows silent; it endures.

There is little else to do. Time passes slowly, as it always does under harsh times. A second lasts for an hour, and an hour feels like an eternity. So is the harsh reality of war. The stress manifests on the faces of the inexperienced while the experienced patiently wait. They know that this is the beginning, and they remember that the beginning is easier than the end. Cold sweat drips from their faces.

“You are no stranger to this,” Captain Timus says as he approaches Tyr who lies leaned and relaxed on a house with one hand on his white blade and the other on a bottle of wine. He takes small sips as if this was a picnic on a beautiful grassy field.

Tyr nods in affirmation.

“Tell me, where did you serve?” Captain Timus asks.

“Is this the time for an idle chat?” Tyr responds as pretending to ignore the question.

“I’m afraid you will have to excuse my friend here, he is not the sociable type,” Shaphas says as he approaches with a smile and an extended hand; Timus accepts his hand as they shake.

“Your robes look familiar. Are you a priest of Aion? How can that be? The order was destroyed long ago in an accident and disbanded soon after that,” Captain Timus says, pondering.

“Perhaps my friend was right. It is not a time for idle chatter,” Shaphas says.

“I see,” Captain Timus says as he walks away.

Tyr laughs.

“Is something amusing?” Shaphas asks as he watches the relaxing warrior.

“Not the most sociable type? Isn’t that right?” Tyr says as he laughs.

Shaphas looks at him for a moment.

“It seems, sadly, your habits are rubbing off on me,” Shaphas says.

“Sadly,” Tyr adds as they both loudly laugh.

The small, fast assembled group looks at them with confusion. Only the bravest or the most deranged would laugh in this situation; or both?

The sleepless day passes as the next one arrives; the storm is over, but thunder has not yet struck. Not yet.

“The walls are sturdy, chief Dreadblade. They can take a lot of punishment. But only so much,” the one-armed savage says as he smiles.

“Bring out at the Dragon Spear. Prepare to move out,” Bjorn says as he raises his greatsword. A horn sounds off in the distance as it loudly echoes throughout the battlefield and even inside the walls of Union.

The war-cry rallies the troops as they move out in formation. They hit their chest two times as they release a loud warcry.

In the middle of the field, a large battering ram covered with shields moves out as a couple of dozen men pull it toward the giant gate.

The Spear, a giant battering ram with a head of a dragon, is approaching.

“Focus fire!” the one-armed man yells as another horn is sound.

The catapults switch their positions as they focus their attention on two sections of the wall that were previously bombarded; the cracks on them give away their weakness.

“Archers get in position,” the one-armed man continues with orders.

Three squads of armies move.

On the left and right side at the vanguard stand melee troops as behind them are archers spread evenly on both sides; in the middle, a squad of melee troops stands behind the Dragon Spear.

“They are coming! Fire at will,” a high-ranking soldier of Union yells as archers fire a volley shooting the men below.

“Shields!” a savage yells as the two squads in front raise their shield above their heads; the archers behind them fire upon the enemy archers on the wall. The Dragon Spear approaches as it wails on the gate. Each hit makes it quake and the vibrations of the powerful strike echo on the battlefield like a drum.

Slaves run with arrow quivers to resupply the archers in the battle. The ongoing back and forth continues.

Arrows miss as they pass near the flesh while others hit drawing blood. The two sections of the wall slowly break as the siege continues they fall almost simultaneously; they hear a horn in the distance. With the signal, slaves run carrying large ladders.

“Attack!” a savage yells as the right and left squadrons invade through the cracks. Raising ladders to the walls and climbing. The catapults cease their fire.

Union horsemen ride across the city as they spread new orders.

“You lead these men?” a horseman asks Captain Timus.

“I do,” Captain Timus answers.

“There has been a wall breach in the Rose District. Move there are reinforce it,” the horseman commands as he continues on his run.

“You heard the man,” Captain Timus yells.

“Wake up,” Shaphas yells as Tyr opens his eyes.

He stands and chugs down the remaining wine.

“It is time,” Shaphas adds.

“So it is,” Tyr says as the squad moves.

The savages pour through the cracks as soldiers form in a u position; allowing a portion of the invaders to enter to flank them from all sides. Outside, others climb the walls as some ladders are cut and broken, leaving the climbing men to plummet to their demise. They scream on their way down to the hard earth- bones crack as blood spills. Others make it up as the fight on the wall starts.

“Kill them,” the savages yell.

“Kill them,” the non-savages yell.

Swords hit shields and flesh, shields hit sword and flesh, and flesh breaks no matter the course in a Bloodbath. The battle rages even in the sky as arrows fly, casting a shade.

Everywhere around a trail of blood and bodies; dissipating into the air it leaves a rotten metallic taste in the air. They can feel it in the air as the atmosphere grows thick. The Dragon Spear swings one more time as the gate crumbles. Through the gate a horde of Fenrir riders comes swiftly pouring in as the beasts devour all in their way, alive; the riders chop the meal with long spears.

“Hold them off,” an officer yells.

Barely hanging on as the defensive lines slowly break amongst the chaotic aggression. It is about to fall.

“Charge,” a voice commands in the distance.

Suddenly, the sound of horse hooves echoes on the street. The royal heavy-mounted unit appears charging into the Fenrir riders.

Steel hits steel as they clash.

“Break in!” a Fenrir rider yells as the warriors charge through the cracks in the defense.

“Do not let them break in,” a royal horseman yells.

“Sir?” another horseman yells as he gazes at the broken gate.

Northmen riders charge in with great speed.

“Hold the line,” a captain of the royal horsemen yells as the thought of pursuing the Fenrir riders quickly escapes their mind.

Another clash! The Fenrir riders break off in all directions as they enter Union.

Elsewhere.

A small squad is intercepted by a dozen Fenrir riders out in the street.

“Defensive positions,” Captain Timus yells to his squad. His inexperienced squad looks around in confusion.

“You have got to be kidding me!” Tyr adds as gripping his sword.

“Praise be to Aion!” Shaphas yells, mace at the ready.

They clash! The untrained militia is easily plucked one by one as they suffer almost no losses.

A Fenrir rider charges as Tyr evades and cuts him down; the leaderless beast goes in for his throat as Shaphas appears from the side, hitting it in the head and knocking out the giant wolf.

Timus blocks a charging Fenrir with his shield as the impact of it knocks him away to the ground. The members of the militia attack as they impale a rider and the beast from all sides. Something stirs deep in Tyr. He feels better than he has felt in a long while, and yet he feels disgusted. You shall covet it! You shall not be able to live without it! The old words come to mind as he tries to ignore them. This is no time to think; this is a time for action.

Their numbers quickly dwindle as for each rider they kill they lose a dozen of their own. Shaphas mixes liquids as he throws two bottles at the riders, upon impact they burst in blue flames burning the unfortunate savages.

Only Shaphas, Tyr, Captain Timus, and a young woman holding a spear remain encircled by the remaining three riders who slowly circle them.

“Into the house,” Captain Timus yells as the survivors run inside, closing the door. A rider tries to catch them but ends up smashing the door.

They hold the door to buy as much time as possible.

“You have any more of that fire?” Captain Timus asks.

“Sadly I do not,” Shaphas answers as holding his bloodied mace.

“You got loads of those liquids at the tavern!” Tyr says.

“I don’t have everything I need. You need to combine them to make Aion’s flame,” Shaphas says as the four of them hold the besieged door.

“This door will not last,” the woman yells as Tyr backs away.

“What are you doing?” Captain Timus yells.

“I am death,” Tyr says.

“Have you gone mad?” the woman yells.

“Hold the door. Trust me,” Shaphas adds.

They hold it as the Fenrir continues destroying it.

“I am death incarnate. Those who look at the eyes of death shall know eternal darkness,” Tyr says as he opens his eyes.

“Everybody move!” Shaphas yells as they jump to the side; the door breaks as the Fenrir rider jumps inside.

Tyr appears at the enemy’s side; the savage tries to react as his spear goes toward Tyr’s throat.

In a flash the man dies as a trail of blood pours from his throat with the next one the Fenrir dies as the white blade deeply pierces its neck.

The defensive line on the crack of the wall breaks as Northmen pour in under the front-line leadership of chief Bjorn. The giant-of-a-man slashes through the troops with his sword as a knife through butter.

“I am death!” Tyr yells as he moves outside facing the two remaining riders.

He moves swiftly as the white blade strikes true; it cannot miss. They cannot escape death.

The two Fenrir riders and their beast die.

In the distance, Chief Bjorn sees the battle between Tyr and two of his riders; Tyr gazes back at the goliath with a cold expressionless face. The two look at each other amid the ensuing chaos.

“We need to fall back,” Captain Timus says as they make their retreat.

On the streets, a lone rider rides slaughtering civilians in cold blood; a little girl cries as she helplessly watches. He makes his way toward her as a bolt flies, killing him on the spot. The beast continues on its own toward the little girl. Melione appears in front of it.

“So cute!” she yells as she approaches; the beast bites unto her flesh.

Ulric fires two bolts as they hit the beast who turns its attention toward him with bloodied fangs; he draws his sword. Before the beast can make its way, Melione stands behind it.

She places her hands around the creature hugging the giant wolf-like beast. Before it can do anything, it shakes in pain as it falls paralyzed in pain; the wounded animal whimpers. Ulric approaches and thrusts his sword into the Fenrir’s head.

“Dead like bunnies in the fields! Dead like bunnies in the fields!” Melione sings as she comforts the beast in death.

“The Moon gives no quarter!” Ulric adds.

The little girl watches in confusion at the bloodied lady who was most surely killed petting the dead Fenrir and a man with three scars talking praising the Moon?

The defensive lines are breaking one by one as the Northmen make their way further inside.

“Fall back to the castle!” an officer yells as the army slowly retreats while fending off the invaders. The gradual retreat continues as Union’s defenders hold off the savages at chokepoints under the protection of makeshift barricades. Retreating slowly further back. The more the armies move more dead bodies are left in their wake. Some of them lie injured as they quickly receive the help of an axe to the head- there is no mercy. There rarely is in war.