Chapter 7:

“Milord, we have arrived.”

Just as the sun began to set, its last rays of light fading below to horizon, the troops of Phoenix Legion arrived at Greendale. Assembled at a hill just a short distance away from the main gates, the men dismounted their carriages, grabbing their weapons and gear as they formed up. The Knights of the House positioned their mounts before the troops, yelling orders to organise their men.

Dressed in his armour, Vincent rode alongside Blake, surrounded by the men of his personal guard, all dressed in full plate armour. As the men assembled, Blake called Knight Oxford over, instructing the Garrison Commander to take a couple of men to inform the Garrison members on the walls.

Watching as Oxford, clad in his armour, rode up the road to the gate with several of the cavalrymen in tow, Vincent felt a sudden sense of discomfort wash over him.

Abruptly, he turned to Blake.

“The gate!”

Startled by Vincent's sudden outburst, Blake turned in his seat, head cocked in askance.

“The gates! They’re closed! It’s a trap!”

“Milord?”

“Why would the gate of Greendale, famous for bustling markets, be closed in the evening?”

“But… Milord, the guards they wouldn’t-”

“The merchants must have done something. Otherwise they would have fled by now. Send a rider to stop Knight Oxford. I’d rather err on the side of caution than walk into a trap.”

Turning to the Knights and their troops. He bellowed a new order.

“Prepare to advance!”

Bursting into a flurry of action, the troops stepped into formation as a rider urged his horse into a sprint, galloping hard towards Knight Oxford and his men.

He’s not going to make it.

Just as the horse crossed the halfway point between the House forces and the gates of Greendale, Knight Oxford’s troop reached the closed gates.

Anticipating a volley of arrows or boulders to descend on the Knight, Vincent winced as the men of Greendales Garrison appeared at the top of the ramparts.

To his surprise, nothing else happened. The men of the Garrison stood in silence, gazing at the lit torches of Vincent's forces over on the distant hill.

Somethings wrong

Oxford had a gut feeling. A seasoned Knight of House Sutton, he had served the House for over a decade and a half, fighting against the barbarian tribes along Whitesun river. A result of the countless skirmishes, he had learned to trust his gut feelings, having been saved by a hunch more than a couple times.

Staring up at the Garrison troops, he noticed the short bows and crossbows held loosely in their grips, as well as the quivers full of arrows and bolts.

They look like their defending against a siege

Infusing his spiritforce into his throat, he coughed lightly, clearing his throat.

“Troopers! Open the gates, the new Lord wishes to enter Greendale for an inspection!”

Deafening silence greeted him. Now, the tension in the air was palpable, the cavalrymen that accompanied him tightening their grips on their weapons. Longsword and spears held at the ready.

Resisting the urge to draw his longsword from his waist, Oxford swore under his breath, inputting some spiritforce into his limbs, loosening them up in case of a sudden attack.

“Men! Why do you block the Lor-”

“Your Lord is a deceiver!”

“You-” “How dare you sully t-”

Signaling his men to quieten their outbursts, Oxford met the gaze of the speaker.

The new arrival was dressed in silken robes, folds of fat drooping down his cheeks and face and his rotund belly protruded. Instantly, Oxford felt the sinking feeling within his triple in intensity.

“Who are you, and what is your purpose!”

“I am Oliver Moby! And I stand here with the Garrison in protest of the schemes of the Lord Viscount!”

“What scheme do you speak of, Mr Moby?”

“Your Lord, the Viscount, had plotted to rob Greendale Town of our hard earned riches in order to whet his insatiable greed for wealth!”

Seeing the torches of the main force begin to move forward from the corner of his eye, Oxford tried to keep the attention of the obese merchant.”

“The Lord merely wishes to question the merchants of Greendale to inquire of some issues with the amount of tax they have paid over the years, no harm will be done to any of the citizens of the Town!”

Hearing his words, the Garrison troops abruptly wavered, some turning their heads in question towards the merchant standing on the walls.

“Sir Moby-”

“Silence! Do not be deceived by the words of the Viscounts lackey. Have faith in Sir Terry's words!”

Noticing the doubts growing within the men manning the wall, as well as the name that the merchant revealed, Oxford redoubled his efforts.

“The Lord had found evidence that the merchants have evaded their taxes for multiple years, and is here to take what he these merchants have stolen away. The citizens and people of Greendale will not be affected. If you worry for your families, I can swea-”

“Sir Oxford! The Lord urges you to return!”

Shit!

Belatedly noticing the messenger riding towards the gates, Knight Oxford immediately barked out orders.

“Retreat!”

No sooner than when his orders had been acknowledged, Oliver Moby cried out.

“Men of Greendale! The forces of the Lord are advancing! The Knight was deceiving us to distract us while his fellow brethren prepare to attack our town and destroy our livelihoods! Release your arrows and slay these devils!”

Dogshit!

Drawing his longsword one-handed with the help of his spiritforce, Oxford pulled on the reigns of his mount, turning it around. Looking at his men, some of which were struggling to turn in such narrow confines without slipping off while simultaneously holding their weapons, he knew it was too late.

Within a few moments, just as the horses were breaking out into a gallop, the first volley came.

Shwip! Shwip!

“Argh!”

Arrows and bolts poured down on the fleeing troops, with one managing to find its way into a cavalryman's helmet instantly ending his life. Startled, the unfortunate man's horse broke into a frenzy, thrashing around within the fleeing troops.

As Oxford sliced a crossbow bolt that was headed for him in half, blade glowing silver due to the battleforce injected into it, he saw another cavalryman die, thrown off his horse by the rampaging mount of his dead comrade, before being turned into a pincushion by a volley of arrows as he lay on the ground, neither his metal plate armor or chainmail left undamaged.

Swearing at the top of his lungs, Oxford tightened his legs, urging his horse to burst forward, hoping to lead his men out of range of the archers on the wall.

“Bloody...sons of bitches…, killing their fellow soldiers. Moby, just you wait… I’ll tear you apart…”

Out of the 5 men that had followed him to the gate, only 1 was left by the time they escaped the endless shower of arrows, the third and fourth casualty falling only moments before reaching safety, arrows and bolts knocking them off their horses, before they suffered the same fate as their fellow cavalrymen, left without a recognisable corpse as arrows and bolts protruded from almost every part of their body.

As the survivors made it back to the safety of the hills, Oxford halted the frantic escape, turning back to look at the walls of the town, at the mere 25 men that stood atop it, and the dead bodies of the men whose lives they had taken.

“Sir…, their bodies. We gotta go back for them, give them a proper burial.”

“Not now.”

“Sir, but they dese-”

“NOT NOW, SOLDIER!”

“I’m aware of your feelings, but if we go back in, we’ll just be sacrificing more men.”

“Yes Sir.”

Turning away from the remaining cavalryman, he urged his horse back into a sprint, prompting the survivor to follow him.

“We shall report to the Viscount, and then we shall avenge our brethren.”

“Yes Sir”

------

Bam!

Before Vincent's horse, Knight Oxford dismounted, falling to a knee the moment his feet touched the floor.

“Milord”

Feeling rather unused to people bowing to him, Vincent quickly told the Knight to rise.

I wonder what happened?

Due to the movement of the forces, Vincent had not managed to observe the happenings at the gate, preoccupied with preparing for battle. As such, when Oxford reported what had transpired at the gate, he fell into a state of shock, jaw hanging wide open such that a fly could have flown in.

Four men… dead?

This was supposed to be an easy battle, free of any casualties, a simple raid.

From what he said, the reason they couldn’t retreat faster was due to the difficulty of turning the horse while holding a weapon.

Vincent's eyes went wide and his hands began to tremble.

Stirrups haven’t been invented yet.

Thinking up to there, Vincent felt guilt tear through him.

What… if I had invented stirrups before the attack?

What if I had equipped the men better?

What if I had delayed the assault to drill the troops according to the methods of Earth?

Would those men have died?

AHHHH!

As his emotions crashed from heaven to hell in a split second, Vincent felt his throat dry up, as feelings of self-ridicule and bitterness welled up within his core. Throat dry as the desert, he croaked out an order to Blake.

“Tell… tell the men to set up camp. We shall delay the assault until tomorrow to… to reconsider our strategy now that the situation has changed.”

Blake nodded, dismissing the surrounding Knights, perhaps sensing that something was off with Vincent.

As men bearing the banner of truce marched towards the town to retrieve the bodies of the fallen, Vincent dismounted the horse with shaky legs, guilt lacing his thoughts.

Calling for a passing soldier to bring him a bottle of wine, not caring how it affected his image, Vincent squatted down on the grass, and puked his guts out.