Hello friends!
Just so you know, the next chapter is going to be quite long and writing it is a bit of a pain. Expect, a short wait, sorry.
REVIEW ANSWERS:
VerinSedai: I have no idea who wins this award. Maybe we should hold a contest? Hehe...
Mayosoul: Pretttty sure she didn't clothe herself. No time for that, noooo.
Bfheadgamer: I have no idea where they come from. Imagination, I guess. But thanks!
EclipseWolf64: WOAH THERE. Hyper much? I was able to make out about half of that :P
VVVVV
Quite involuntarily, Parker found himself in a jail cell with Adrian. Not that Adrian was the problem; it was the jail cell.
The Ditch's prison ward, down on the lowest level of the city, was now full to bursting with "firebrands", the dozens of men and women seized during the raid on the tannery that Parker had attended. In retrospect, it had been a foolish idea; gathering so many people, dozens of fiery revolutionaries, in one place was simply asking for trouble. And they got trouble...and a traitor.
The one person out of their group who was not in a cramped cell was Franz, who had gone turncoat. Parker was almost glad that they hadn't thrown the lad into jail as well; if the two of them had shared a cell, he would have strangled the traitor the moment the guards had turned their backs.
"I should've known he was up to something," Adrian said from the back of the cell. His arms were wrapped tightly around his legs, and his head rested on his bony knee, looking quite uncomfortable.
"Who? Franz?"
"Yeah...he acted strange all evening. I should've known," Adrian mumbled.
"I hear you. I should've noticed something too," Parker admitted. They were within hearing range of everyone else in the room; the jail quarters were small, and nearly half of the accosted revolutionaries were imprisoned in the same cell block. The other half had been squeezed into various other blocks in the dungeons.
"Well, if you two are done bitching about what you should have done, maybe now we can focus on what we do next?" Aleesha suggested from the cell to the right. As always, she was quite calm and focused, despite her situation. She was idly twirling her hair, looking almost bored in the dim light of the nearest torch.
"Well, I was considering sitting here and looking pathetic some more," Adrian attempted to joke.
"Verrrry funny. Can we be serious?" Aleesha asked.
"You were trying to be serious?"
If she hadn't been in another cell, she probably would've slapped Adrian; but the bastard was separated from her by a thick set of iron bars, and the most Aleesha could do was roll her eyes and sigh loudly.
"Cut it you two. There's a time and a place for bullshit," Parker reprimanded them, and they both fell silent. He half expected their childish arguments to turn to whispering, but silence held.
After a short while one of the guards came in to check the torches. Parker sat in his cell, watching the armored guard closely as he made his rounds. Only when the flickering, dim light fell on the man's face did he become spurred into action.
It was Franz. Now equipped with a fancy suit of Reinhardt armor, no doubt supplied by the grateful guardsmen who had received his tip. It looked slightly awkward on him, due to the fact that it did not quite fit correctly.
"Well, well. That suit fits you nicely, doesn't it?" Parker taunted, now feeling thoroughly angry. The very sight of Franz would've been enough to rouse him; but seeing him in Antar colors, and with that badge pinned to his lapel, was the crucial straw.
"Fuck off."
"So it's not enough to turn us in, you become one of them, is that so?" Parker asked, walking up to the bars to face Franz, who did the same. A few of the other prisoners jeered him, but the rest were silent in anticipation, watching.
"I saw an opportunity, and I took it," Franz said calmly.
"You saw an opportunity?"
"Yes."
"An opportunity to betray your closest friends and your home city. Is that an opportunity?" Parker asked angrily.
"I wasn't about to end up on the losing side. And besides, this pays much better than mining in that filthy hole-"
"That filthy hole's our second home," Aleesha spat from her cell. "Maybe you could try watching your mouth?"
Franz shot her a dirty look, but decided she wasn't worth the effort of arguing with. He returned to Franz as several of the other prisoners began to jeer him angrily.
"You seem pretty professional, Franz," Parker needled him. "Arguing with rebellious trash like us."
"You're still my friends-"
"Ha! That's rich," Aleesha piped up, and her sentiment was echoed by Adrian. Franz told both of them to shut up, before returning to Parker, both of them failing to notice somebody entering the cell block.
"You did this for money, then?" Parker asked.
"What would you do if you were in my position?"
"Something smarter, that's for sure. How do you sleep at night knowing you stabbed us all in the back and turned against your birth city?" Parker asked. Franz reached through the bars, in an attempt to do physical injury, but Parker was able to simply step back and avoid him.
"I swear, if I had the keys, I'd come in there and beat you..."
"Go and get the keys, then. It'll be eight against one, and I'm sure that you can take us all," Parker offered, reminding Franz that there were seven other guys in his cell, all of whom would murder the traitor in a split second. Franz seemed to reconsider.
"Well, you can't get me, and I can't get you. That's fine, you'll go to the headsman soon anyway..."
"I knew you for seven years, Franz. How could cheap coin turn you against me like this?" Adrian asked, trying to reason with his friend.
"It's better than sweating in that mine for the rest of my life," he fired back.
"Is it? Do you really think I want to spend the rest of-"
Franz never finished his sentence. Something heavy, a rock or perhaps a chunk of masonry, hit him on the back of the head with a sharp crack, and his eyes became glassy almost immediately. He crumpled to the ground, his head hitting the iron bars as it slumped up against them. His face was replaced by a much friendlier one: that of Stewart, looking quite proud of his handiwork.
"Stew...hell, how'd you get down here!?" Adrian said, looking quite astonished.
"I'm pretty adept at lockpicking," he shrugged shamelessly. "And, hey, nobody said these guys were good at locks."
"Can you get us out of here?" Parker asked matter-of-factly, hoping to put off the greetings until later. In response, Stewart pulled out a set of cell keys and dangled them in the air.
"You sly bastard," Adrian sneered.
"I've got to get you all out of here. It's time."
"Time for what?"
"Things are starting to go down," Stewart said, hurriedly jamming the key into the cell door's padlock. "Some of the guard units are revolting, and the miners are all roused now. I smell an opportunity here."
"A rebellion?"
"Who can say? We might as well do our part, or die trying," Stewart shrugged, before the padlock clicked and the door swung open. As he went around to the other doors to get them open, Parker and his cellmates stepped out of theirs, each trying to avoid the unconscious Franz still slumped against the bars.
"Sorry about him. I really didn't want to hit him, but he was being such a prat," Stewart explained.
"He deserved it. It's not like he was going to play nice, anyway," Adrian joked, nudging his body with his foot. "You got weapons?"
"Armory's unlocked, you'll find some people there. Take what you please, just make sure it's sharp and good for killing," Stewart told him, having unlocked Aleesha's cell and proceeded to the next.
Parker followed his directions without a word, trooping up the stairs and into the main hallway of the prison. The patrolling guards had been replaced by patrolling rebels; some of them wore Reinhardt armor, others wore boiled leather, and some men wore nothing but their casual clothes, or less. Most of them held spears, and a few had managed to find a good blade.
Both Parker and Adrian managed to find their way down to the armory and find decent swords; there were plenty of weapons left for others to take, and both of them donned some spare guard armor, just for protection. Adrian wore it, but he didn't seem too pleased.
"This feels kind of ironic. I mean, we're wearing their armor..."
"It'll be fine. I think the others are cutting the lapel out to distinguish themselves. Personally, I'd rather not be stabbed by someone I know just because I tried to protect myself," Parker replied.
"It just doesn't feel right."
"You can talk about feelings later. Let's take some action first," Parker encouraged him, all ready for combat. By the time he found his way back to the prison's entrance, a veritable horde of wannabe soldiers and shaggy-looking fighters had gathered there, surrounding Stewart. The wiry lad had somehow become their impromptu leader, perhaps because he was the one who originally broke out of his cell.
"Well, gents, you're on your own from here on out. I don't know what the plan is, if there even is a plan," Stewart spoke, sounding rather awkward up on his metaphorical podium.
"What's going on out there?" someone asked from the back of the room.
"The way I hear it, shit's going down. Ehh, there's rumors about the guardsmen breaking up, half of them fighting the other half...and I hear the miners are getting their own thing going. It's like a domino effect, I can assure you of that," Stewart replied. "I'd love to tell you more, but I don't know more."
"So it's a rebellion, then?" Parker spoke up, asking this question for a second time. He expected the same response from Stewart, but to his surprise, the wiry boy only smiled, quite deviously.
"Yes."
The affirmative reply was what launched the horde of unwashed men out of the main door like a wave of water; they flooded out in a rush, spears and swords in hand, some of them yelling into the night, some of them marching gallantly, and some simply running for freedom, for fresh air. The prison square was empty; either the guards had all been slain or knocked out, or they had simply deserted. The main gate to the prison compound was open; every man flooded towards that, heading for the Upper Levels, prepared to wreak havoc and reclaim their city.
"I probably should've organized them a bit better," Stewart said, smiling as he stood beside Parker. The latter had chosen to stay behind and wait for Adrian to fix his gauntlets, before heading out and see what he could do.
"You wouldn't have done much," Parker mused bitterly, knowing that many of those men would be slain before the night was out.
"Once Darius hears of this he'll do something."
"Presuming he's still alive or has evaded capture."
"It's Darius," Stewart shrugged. "He knows his stuff, and it's not like you can miss something like this. Once the smoke starts to rise, he'll hop into the fray, I know it."
"And what will we do?" Parker asked, turning to Stewart. The young man seemed perplexed for a moment, slightly nonplussed, before his face lit with an idea.
"Make our way to the guard barracks. If it's in friendly hands...that's a great place to start..."
"And if it's not friendly?" Parker posited.
"We'll think of something. Got to think on the fly," Stewart told him. At that moment, both Adrian and Aleesha emerged from the prisoner along with a spear-bearing man. The foremost was still attempting to fix his mail gauntlets, to little avail.
"What are we doing about Franz?" Aleesha asked as she walked up to the men, unarmored and rather unfazed. "He's still out cold."
"Leave the bastard," Adrian cursed coldly, struggling with the armor. "He's not our problem anymore."
"He's still our friend-"
"Was," Parker reminded her. "As much as I liked him, he's turned on us. That's his own fault, not ours."
He was stern enough that Aleesha did not bother to argue. She shrugged, accepting the fact and deciding to leave Franz down in the dark cells.
"Well, I'm going on home then. I've no place in this conflict," she declared.
"You're abandoning us?" Adrian asked.
"I'm not staking my life on a bloody ravine," she told him. "I'm not taking either side. I'll just head the hell home and get some sleep, and hope nobody tries to slit my throat in the night." She removed a dagger from her pocket just briefly enough for them to see. "Just in case, you know."
"Be careful out there. It'll be hell on the streets," Parker warned, knowing that a seemingly unarmed girl would be a lucrative target for any depraved bastards taking advantage of the chaotic situation.
"I can handle myself. I'll see you gentlemen on the other side, then. Good luck."
Aleesha departed, walking out into the warm night, eventually disappearing around a bend as Stewart detailed the plan he was hatching.
"We'll make our way to the guard barracks and accost any revolutionaries we see along the way. If we get enough people, we might be able to take it over, presuming it's not already in our hands," he said.
"That's a big risk," Adrian warned. "A place like that, defensible as it is..."
"It's better than standing with our feet in the mud. We can make our way up, at least."
The three of them began their journey upward; the elevators were not in operation, so they had to make their way to the main stairwell that led up to the next level. From what they could see, parts of the Upper Level had been exposed to flame; smoke billowed out of the crevasses and apertures of the city and rose upward into the warm, dry air, adding to the growing cloud of ash up in the sky. A few stars twinkled in the night sky, but too many had been blocked out.
The city seemed to have found a perfect balance between tranquil calm and chaotic disarray; some areas were pleasantly silent, devoid of human life save a few squads of armed rebels moving in the streets silently, headed for more chaotic neighborhoods. Shutters were closed, doors were locked, torches blazed serenely while hanging from their lampposts. It was a regular night in some neighborhoods.
Others were battlefields or playgrounds of destruction; more than once, the three found themselves walking into a war zone, and had to find a detour. Barricades had been erected in the streets, homes and businesses put to the torch by one side or the other, bodies laying haphazardly in alleyways and gardens and out upon the streets themselves, bleeding onto the cobblestones. At one point, they found themselves cut off completely; the only access ramp to the Fourth Level was blockaded by guardsmen loyal to Antar, who had also managed to seize and fortify the Fourth Level Armory, which gave them a prevailing position over the access ramp. In short, they had locked down the upper half of the city, while the rebels had control of the lower half.
"Well, well. It's the tannery boys, back out on the streets," was their greeting as they approached a friendly barricade blocking off the Armory Square. "How'd you boys get out of prison?"
"I'd like to take the credit..."
"Stewart was the first to unlock his cell. It was a domino effect after that. Most of them ran loose, god knows where," Parker said, speaking for the group. "We could use some information, if you have any."
"Information? Well...nobody's really sure of anything," the barricade guard chuckled. Up ahead, in Armory Square, archers squatting behind makeshift cover skirmished with crossbowmen in the windows and towers of the Armory, neither really accomplishing much. Antar's banner hung above the gates of the Armory, where the flag of Lord Walker's house once flew.
"What situation do we have here?"
"We know that loyalists have control of the Armory, the Guard Barracks, and the top Three Levels. We have the mines and the bottom levels, plus anything below that. So we're sort of stuck here," the guard told him. "As you can see."
"Nobody's getting up to the Third Level," another added. "They've barricaded and garrisoned the ramp, and the Armory's chock full of bowmen. You'd be mad to try to rush either."
"Conroy's getting a massive group together to do that, isn't he?"
"Well, he's mad then."
Conroy turned out to be a local firebrand who had managed to instate himself as the leader of the group of rebels around the armory, and he was accepting anyone with a spear and fighting spirit to join the attack on the stronghold. Based on looks alone, Parker could see that he was a devil in a man's skin; his eyes glittered with some sort of unholy fire, and sweat covered his body, making him gleam in the ruddy light of a torch.
"You gentlemen will be fine, just fine...I can assure you, we'll use you in the assault, very well," were his first words when Parker and the other two entered his makeshift command post inside a bakery.
"Actually, we're just trying to get up to the upper levels, see what's going on-"
"Well, nobody's getting up there until we take this damn armory!" Conroy cursed, smoldering. "We may lose a lot in the process, but once we have it we can take the entire city!"
Adrian rolled his eyes subtly; Stewart shuffled nervously. Parker saw no other option; either go back, or join Conroy.
"What about you guys?" Parker asked the other two. Despite their obvious reservations, they nodded glumly. "Alright, we're in."
"I don't require you to do anything. You can do as you please, but more arms would certainly be welcome," Conroy told them.
"I said we'll join."
"Good to hear you have enthusiasm!" he smiled diabolically, excited to have three new swords join his ragtag army. "We need more men like you. We're gathering as many rebels as we can to break the line and link up with Captain Loyhrs."
"Darius is alive?" Parker asked, suddenly feeling a rush of optimism. Darius Loyhrs had been the man behind all of the seditious operations after Antar's departure; having been the Captain of the Ditch guard force before, he took it upon himself to lead the underground resistance after Lord Walker bent the knee. Wherever he was, he was probably attempting to organize this mess of a rebellion.
"We know he is. He's taken over the guard barracks and is gathering forces to his banner on the eastern side of the city, up by the gates. With luck, we can smash through the loyalist forces here at the ramp and link up with him," Conroy explained. "There's no point in withholding this information. Every man must know where his duty lies."
"Of course." Conroy's answers were better than most; at least Parker now had an idea of what he was doing, and the part he was going to play in this chaotic struggle.
They were led back out into the street and into the yard of a stonemason, where a variety of other rebels had gathered, bedecked in various garb and armor and all carrying a strange assortment of weapons. Some bore pickaxes and spades, others wielded stolen spears and swords taken off of the bodies of dead loyalists. Seeing the crude farm and mining implements that some of the unfortunates bore, Parker was glad that he had been able to scavenge a sword from the prison armory before joining up.
Before long, the yard was chock full of men milling about, silent and somber, and eventually a few men designated themselves as captains and led the assembly out. Parker, no stranger to military matters but untrained in the fine art of military organization, joined the messy flow of men out into the street, suddenly feeling nervous.
He was not a soldier, not by any means; he was a miner, his place was down in the earth. Sure, he could carry a sword, but that didn't mean he could wield it efficiently. If it came to blows with loyalist soldiers, he was afraid the outcome would not be in his favor at all.
The flood was led out into the street, like a bovine herd, ushered around by its so-called "captains". The entire operation reeked of certain failure; these men had never seen combat, really, besides having fled the fighting that had wracked the Ditch when Antar and Kastner had fought their battle outside of the city proper. Most of these men hadn't even participated in that; they had run or hid inside their homes, seeking shelter from the raging barbarian horde.
The flood grew even larger; a battering ram, three ladders, and sacks of demolitions charges joined the flow, now moving through the narrow avenue out into the wide plaza. The barricade guards either dispersed or joined the horde; Parker recognized the man who had accosted him, shrinking into the mass of flesh and armor marching methodically towards the armory. The arrow exchanged stop; the crossbows stopped thunking, the twang of bowstrings evolved into tense silence. The mass of men was gathered right at the mouth of the avenue, just out of range of the armory's defenders.
And then the orders were given. They might as well have said "suicide", but the cries of "CHARGE!" echoed throughout the mass, and with a fervor akin only to a warrior lusting for blood and justice, the first row of spearmen charged, followed by the whole mass rushing past the ram and the ladders and heading straight for the stone brick walls of the armory house.
Parker tried to keep a low profile, and noticed that Adrian and Stewart were attempting to do the same; they stayed close to the battering ram as it moved slowly, methodically up towards the wrought iron gate that formed the entrance to the armory's interior courtyard, hoping to stay protected within the mass of bodies guarding it. He was glad for it, too.
One out of every three men in the first row was cut down by crossbow quarrels, stopped mid-run by the force of bolts ripping through leather, cloth and flesh. Parker could've sworn that, above the din of yelling and the thunks of crossbows, that he could hear steady gunfire roaring from one of the fireholes of the armory.
The stream of men was too thick to destroy; many of the rebels were cut down in their tracks by the arrow fire, but many more made it up to the walls of the armory, beneath the murder holes and portcullises, and stayed under cover as more and more of their comrades rushed up to join them, the ladders still lagging behind. When it seemed like the crossbowmen were beginning to concentrate their fire upon the battering ram, Parker and Adrian made a rush for the wall, keeping their heads low as they dashed past dead and dying in their bid for safety. They made it, and Stewart was on their heels a few seconds later, gasping for breath as he reached the wall safely.
The ladders were the first up, along with men bearing demolitions packs. It seemed that disorder would run the day; the men with demo packs were supposed to blow holes in the walls, and the men with ladders were supposed to scale them. It was quite a paradox, and neither group seemed to recognize this. Two ladders went up, one to a window, and suddenly lightly-armed men, fervent in their fury, rushed up the ladders armed with cudgels and plain spears, climbing to their deaths.
"What the hell kind of plan is this?" Stewart asked in disbelief as demolitions packs were thrown against the wall. "They're-"
"This is no army. This is a rabble," Parker cursed, shoving aside a young, baby-faced boy of no more than fifteen. "We've got to get to a better position."
"Well, somewhere that we won't get shot, I hope!" Adrian cursed.
There was suddenly the clash of battle from somewhere; it sounded like it was behind them as they shuffled to the right, along the wall, their backs to the hard stone. Bodies carpeted the armory's square, riddled with crossbow quarrels and bloodied. Those who had made it up to the wall either began to clamber up the ladders or stayed underneath the parapets, unsure of what action to take next.
"They're going to get themselves killed at this rate, where's our captain?" Parker yelled, his voice barely audible over the din. There was fighting somewhere; the clash of steel against steel was undeniable, and yet over the crossbows and the screams and the chaotic cries and the clanking of armor, nothing was truly distinguishable. War had returned to the Ditch with a vengeance, even if it was only for one night.
"Let's get to the other side of the Armory, maybe we can rally there-"
The explosion caught all three of them unawares; one of the detonation packs had apparently gone off, whether by purpose or accident, and had created a much larger explosion that anticipated. All three of the men, as well as the soldiers surrounding them, were knocked flat by the blast wave, showered with chunks of masonry and stone as they fell. A gaping cavern opened in the plaza, and as Parker looked up he could see part of the wall collapsing in and one of the ladders flying to pieces, along with what little remained of the men who had been climbing them.
Dust swirled into a cloud, cloaking the plaza in its choking miasma. Parker, still recovering from the blast, felt a hand grab him forcefully by the nape of his neck and drag him to a standing position, all the while hauling him backward. He felt himself slipping and stumbling over loose rock and stone before the dust was gone and he could see and breathe clearly. His ears still rang from the blast, but he could hear the fighting resuming.
"Mother of god..."
"They blew a hole in the plaza," Stewart gasped, looking up. When Parker stood, he realized that they were underground, having slipped into some sort of underground tunnel system. The fighting raged above, as a body tumbled down into the hole.
"No kidding."
"Did you drag us down here, Stew?" Adrian asked. Two or three others were now finding their way down into the hole, identifiable as rebels by their badgeless armor.
"I was able to get up on my feet and see this down here. I hauled both of you down before another explosion went off."
"Nice timing," Adrian complimented him, brushing dust off.
"We're not going back up there..."
"I say we go further into these tunnels. I'm sure as hell not heading back up," Stewart proclaimed. "We're already down here-"
"We might as well."
"Do you mind if we follow you?" one of the newcomers asked. "We found the hole, and..."
"It's better than up there. You can go if you want, I won't stop you," Stewart said.
The three trudged behind Parker and his group, slowly making their way into the tunnel. It was dim, but torches were lit at intervals, meaning that this catacomb was not abandoned.
"Is this part of the armory?" one of the other rebels wondered aloud, and Parker realized that they had actually gotten inside of the armory...possibly. It seemed likely. When they came upon a staircase leading up, he had a feeling that it would give them entrance into the stronghold.
"I'm not so sure I want to go up in there. I'll hang back and keep watch," one of the rebels announced, sounding rather nervous for a moment. Nobody told him otherwise; he stood at the doorway, tapping his foot anxiously, as they proceeded cautiously up the stairs. Another blast rocked the entire building, knocking chunks of stone from the dusty ceiling.
"Are they even organizing these explosions?" Adrian asked, swearing as a large chunk hit his shoulder.
"They were just told to set them off by the wall," a rebel answered. "No organization to it."
"That's damn stupid..."
"Well, they're no soldiers. Conroy's mad, didn't anyone tell you that?"
"A few mentioned it," Adrian muttered. "I should have listened."
Parker had never been inside of the Ditch's main guard armory; he knew that a few of the "illegal" weapons were stored in there, but most of them were down in the Vault, and a fair number had been tossed out before Antar arrived. Those few he had managed to secure were probably stashed down in the Vault, or were now in the hands of desperate loyalists.
"We need to find some weapons and get that gate open..."
"Easier said than done, eh?" Adrian said.
"Well, there's five of us. We won't make a high profile, and if we split up and head different directions..."
"Sounds like the best way to get lost. We stay together," Parker whispered. "And stick to the shadows. Keep quiet."
The rebel did not contend with him; they crouched down low by a wall and began to creep down a corridor.
The armory was completely stone; the walls, ceiling, roofs, floors were all hard, cold stone. Most buildings in the Ditch at least had wood floors or furnishings; this was just bare stone, uninviting and cold. Parker could feel the chill seeping down his back as he crept down the hallway, lit by the dim glow of torchlight.
"It sounds like the fighting's dying down out there," Stewart observed.
"Do you think we won?"
"We'd have friendlies streaming in here if they had broken the gate down," Parker scoffed. "I can't say, though..."
"We should confine ourselves to the lower areas of the armory. Less chance of being caught," the other rebel suggested.
"Yeah...let's do that."
Parker just went along with the plan; their little incursion was ever-evolving, without a clear goal in sight. They had made it this far, why turn back now? At least they were relatively safe, away from the clamor of battle outside. It sounded like it had died down now, and there were no rebels flooding the armory. The loyalists had, for the time being, beaten them back.
"There's jail cells down this way...there's a sign here..."
"You think there's people down there?" Parker asked, after Stewart read off the sign.
"People? Like...our people?"
"Like back in the cells we were held in. Do you think...?"
"It's worth a try," Stewart sighed. "If it's guarded, though..."
Despite his reservations, he led the way down the hallway, towards the dungeon area. One they got to the entrance, Stewart poked his head around, and immediately drew it back.
"Shit...there's two guards. They're both armed, sitting at a table," he reported, suddenly flustered.
"It's two guys-"
"We make a noise, and we alert the entire damn building," Parker cut Adrian off. "Do you really want that happening?"
"What choice do we have? Sooner or later someone's going to find us," Adrian argued. "Why not kill the bastards, free the men in there, and run?"
"You take an awful risk, man..."
"If we kill them, we might have some time before someone comes running to investigate it. What else are you going to do, Parker? We're cut off now, we're on our own," Adrian argued. Parker saw no choice in the matter; there was no going back now. They either pushed forward, or died. So he took the initiative.
Without a thought to stealth or safety, he drew his sword, rounded the corner and charged into the room, silent except for his heavy footfalls. The two guards were taken completely by surprise; Parker fell on one of them, using all of his running speed to drive his sword clean through the man's mail and knock him out of his chair and to the ground. The force of the blow pulled him along and swung him to the floor, where he was suddenly disoriented.
The second guard drew his own blade, but he received a spear through the back of his neck for his efforts, his hands reaching for his throat as he gasped, choked, and struggled against the spearhead driven through his throat. Within a matter of seconds, he was dead too, collapsed onto the table in a ragged, bleeding heap.
"Christ, Parker, you could've said something!" Stewart snapped, showing himself into the room and hurriedly finding his way to the closest cell. Only when Parker rose did he realize that the cells around him were full of grimy, dirty, wide-eyed men, all of them just as surprised as the two guards had been. They were all silent, too; one of them chuckled weakly, but they all held their breaths in apprehension. Eventually, one of them spoke up as one of the friendly rebels offered a hand.
"I presume you're on our side then, eh?"
"I suppose I am. What gave you that hint?" Parker asked, spitting blood from his mouth. He had hit the ground hard, and cut his lip a little. It was naught but a minor injury, just an irritation.
"You've got speed and stamina, I'll give you that," the prisoner smiled, showing rotting teeth as he leered. "You getting us out of here?"
"As fast as we can," Adrian answered. "Stew's got some sort of lockpick thingy..."
"We're itching for a jailbreak," another prisoner spoke up. "We know where the arms and the guns are, we're just waiting for the right man to come along!"
"Looks like our messiah has come after all," the rotten-tooth man smiled again. "You got a plan for this?"
"We had a plan," Parker sneered. "I think it's gone to shit now..."
"Let's just kill these bastards and get some fucking food!" one man in the back spoke up just as Stewart unlocked a massive cell. Suddenly, every single one of the prisoners cheered in unison, as the horde of dirty, unwashed men almost trampled Stewart in their bid for freedom. Two of them took the swords of the dead guards, and they all rushed out of the room as Stewart hurriedly unlocked the next cell.
"You guys go ahead, I'll finish up here and catch up!" he told them as another door swung open, and the cheers grew louder.
"Are we going somewhere?" Adrian asked, confused.
"You're going to fuck something up, aren't you?" Stewart joked, his eyes alight with a devilish fire. Adrian caught on quickly, and as soon as the next door opened he rushed out with the crowd, heading to god knows where. Parker found himself standing over the body of the slain guardsman until a hand clapped on his shoulder. Another cell had been opened, and as he turned around he saw the man with the rotten teeth.
"Boy. You need to get to the top of this building and put our flag up," he said matter-of-factly.
"F-flag?"
"They've still got Lord Walker's flag stored up on top, where all the others were. It's a good thing they didn't burn them. Just lower this bastard's banner and put ours back up," he explained, his breath stinking of onions and worse.
"What good would that do?"
"It's a dinner bell, you dumbass," the man cackled. "You ring it, and everyone comes running. You put that flag up, and our boys will be comin' up fast as lightning."
The man cackled once more, clapped Parker on the shoulder, and took off, joining the rest of the men. Parker found himself running as well, and suddenly realized that he had opened one hell of a dirty, unwashed can of angry worms.
The sounds of battle began to ring out throughout the armory. Swarms of men, armed and unarmed, were rushing through the hallways, shouting "LORD WALKER" or other phrases at the top of their lungs, or just plain yelling. There were no Antar guards to be seen; either they had been overwhelmed, or had fled. Either way, they would be outnumbered now; and if Parker could complete his objective, even more outnumbered.
It was difficult to find a viable pathway through the maze of the armory; he had to negotiate both a warren of stone tunnels and knots of screaming rebels, making sure that his badgeless cuirass was plainly seen, lest he be cut down by one of the bloodthirsty inmates.
At last he found one of the tower stairs; it was a spiral staircase leading up, up into one of the towers high above the armory. Parker prayed that this would have a flagpole up in it, and a spare flag. He had no idea where else he would find one, so he put his hopes into this one tower.
Halfway up, he found a window overlooking the courtyard and dared to glance down upon it. He was expecting some sort of melee down there...but not a full fledged battle.
The rebels had apparently found their armory and were clashing with loyalist soldiers throughout the courtyard, a mass of dozens of men smashing into one another and fighting with spears, swords, and even some mauls. There were bodies, too, a growing field of corpses of men from both sides piling upon the flagstones.
And just like that, the crossbowman was upon him.
The man had somehow heard him coming up the stairs, and Parker just barely raised his sword in time to parry the soldier's strike. He could tell that his enemy was more adept at using the hunting crossbow strapped to his back than he was at using the dented sword; the loyalist handled it awkwardly, and lost his grip when Parker beat down on the blade. He took his advantage then, sweeping the sword across the man's body and laying him low upon the stairs with a single powerful swipe. Although he had little skill with a sword, years of swinging a pickaxe had strengthened him and given him the power to use the weapon to slice through light armor.
At the top of the tower, one crossbowman held a lone sentry, looking rather frazzled as Parker made his entrance. The man didn't even try to resist; he flung his crossbow down, drew his sword, and tossed that over the edge of the tower.
"I yield, I yield, don't kill-"
"Get your ass out of this tower or I will," Parker growled, feeling rather antagonistic. The archer complied, dashing down the steps as quickly as he could. Parker wondered what fate awaited him at the bottom as he found the spare Ditch flags, brought them out, and brought down Antar's banner. He cut Antar's down and, fumbling a bit, reattached the Ditch banner and clumsily hoisted it up. It was difficult to do without instructions, but he figured it out quickly.
The flag rose high above the armory, visible to all nearby.
The old man had been right; like a dinner bell, it summoned a host of hungry men, hungry for killing and hungry for vengeance. This time they were inspired; they saw the banner, and knew what it meant.
That was the turning point of the night; Parker, exhausted and on the verge of collapse, knew that that was the moment that the Ditch was won once more.
VVVVV
From the towers of Crestan, one could see many different fires; to the east, Alex Tanner's army had encamped on the road leading back to New Connaught. To the southeast, Cymander's encampment was just barely visible, standing up on a well-defended hillside rising over the city plains. And directly to the south, farther off, the massive tent city belonging to the Kleisardathan faction was encamped, moving far more slowly than the other armies. Antar was still off to the west, but his threat was no less credible.
Everywhere Kleiner looked, there was death staring him in the face. And the volcano still rumbled, strengthening and weakening at random intervals and lighting up the northeastern sky. The sun was now a fading memory, as the massive blanket of ash overhead had blocked out all but a dim shower of light, just enough to provide daytime visibility. And the ash rained everyday.
Tomorrow, there would be battle. He knew that each army was close enough to engage in combat, after they had formed up. If it wasn't tomorrow, it would be the next day, maybe the day after. But sometime in the coming week, the hosts would meet, and their clash would make the battle before the Ditch appear like a minor skirmish.
"This is it, Tom. This is what we've come to," Kleiner spoke, not particularly to Thomas Brennan, who had found his way up to the battlements to look out upon the ashy plains of Crestan.
"You should get some sleep, my lord."
"Bugger that," Kleiner cursed. "This may very well be my last night. Presuming they don't fix that damn machine..."
"Perhaps luck will be on your side. You do not know," Brennan tried to be optimistic.
"I have a feeling. Will you stay up here for a while?"
"The troops are quartered and supplies are distributed. We need only wait for morning," Brennan reported.
"Good, good."
Well, it's good that all of that is taken care of. Everything else, though...
"We are ready, then."
"Aye, my lord. We are," Brennan acceded.
"We're sticking to the same strategy. I haven't made any changes to our plan," Kleiner told him. "Are all of our sergeants aware of the defensive strategy?"
"I've laid out all plans to them. Every commander knows what part he's going to play, my lord," he said. "They are ready."
"Tom, you're one hell of a reliable man. I'm glad to have served with you," Kleiner begrudgingly smiled. "It's been an honor."
"Now, don't sound so pessimistic, my lord," Brennan shrugged off the compliment with ease. "Tomorrow is yet to be decided."
"I fear it already has been. Look at us," Kleiner offered. "Look at our position."
"One does not break hardened walls so easily. Hardened men are the same. And we have both," Brennan told him.
"If not tomorrow, the next day. Or the day after. But we will fall. And this banner will," Kleiner glanced up at the flag of Elias Kastner, fluttering proudly as ash swirled around it. "We are the last city to fly that flag, did you know that?"
"What about Thellden? Or Shadeshore? Not even North Driftmist?"
"The Thells are apt to stay out of the conflict entirely," Kleiner spoke bitterly. "And North Driftmist was ransacked, who knows what became of it. I know naught of Shadeshore."
"Your pessimism makes you assume much."
"Even in such a dark hour, you try to boost my spirits, Tom. I may be a burden for you, but I'm glad you're here," Kleiner acquiesced.
"Of course, my lord. I know you appreciate me."
"Come tomorrow, Tom, I will not expect you to die for me. If you think it is wise to surrender, then by all means, do so. Save as many of my men as you can," Kleiner told him.
"A captain goes down with his ship, my lord," Brennan told him. "It would be wrong for me to live while you die."
"A foolish and old-fashioned notion. I would rather you live and bear Kastner's memory onward. It is the last we have of the old vision that he tried to forge," Kleiner admitted. "I would prefer you live."
"If that is your wish, my lord-"
"It is my wish. And let us stop thinking about such dreadful topics. Tomorrow we will face death, and hopefully we will walk away free men. Let us enjoy what time we have, and pray."
VVVVV
"We strike there, and there. Quick, fast, and brutal. We will have the advantage."
It was nearly midnight, and despite the heavy ashfall outside, Darius Cymander had decided to summon all of his commanders together. Whether or not the weather would cooperate, he had planned a bold maneuver to take both Alex Tanner and the Kleisardathan force by surprise, and strike them where and when they did not expect.
"If the ash is falling, it will be an even greater problem...you intend to attack before dawn's light, that's risky enough. But do you realize how much farther you're taking this?" one of his captains questioned.
"I understand the risks this poses. But our enemies are just as strong as us, if not stronger, and I want to have the greater advantage. If we dispatch small forces of maybe five hundred men each, and hit their camps before dawn, we could slaughter thousands on either side and retreat before they even have a chance to hit back," Cymander explained.
"Tanner is already deployed," another captain pointed out.
"I'm aware of that. But he's positioned his auxiliaries and light cavalry on his left flank, both units that will put us at a disadvantage in open combat. If we eliminate them, the field will be leveled more."
"The plan has its merits-"
"And its disadvantages," the adamantly opposed captain pointed out. "I understand that what my lord is intending to do is good in its intentions..."
"Your advice is welcome, but I do not heed it. If you want victory, you need to take a risk. And I'm willing to throw the dice here," Cymander decided. "I leave it up to you two, Cullman and Levinsky, to organize your squadrons and move them according to the map."
The two captains, both old and grizzled and hard of feature, nodded their assent. The one who opposed most vocally was young and seemed to be rather untested in the ways of combat. He did not seem pleased by the verdict.
"You are all dismissed. Sleep well. Except for the two of you...you have work to do."
Once more, Cymander pointed out the veteran captains, and they nodded their assent once more, as if such risky actions were daily occurrences for them. Without any more than some hushed mutterings and well wishes, the group dispersed, heading out of the command tent as Cymander snuffed out the dim candles behind him.
The young one was the last to leave; however, he deviated from the rest. Instead of heading to the command quarters, as the rest of the leaders were aught to do, he departed to the Lady Kim's quarters, a large, sprawling section of lavish and colorful tents close to Cymander's sleeping quarters. For some reason, he desired to sleep separately from his own wife; whether it was for official or personal reasons, the captain could only guess. But he took full advantage of it.
The guard at the side area's main gate let him through without question; money was a great motivator, and the Lady Kim had paid him well to let her visitor through. Once he was inside, he had no problem finding her tent and then, by extension, finding her.
He parted the tent flaps to find it full of other women, serving girls attending to the Lady Kim's late-night needs. As soon as he entered, she bid them depart, and hurriedly they scurried away on command. As soon as the tent flap closed, he began.
"Your husband is an intelligent man. I have his latest plans," he reported to her.
"Do tell me."
He outlined the entire operation to her, sitting down by her bedside and detailing everything with vivid explanations. She seemed enraptured by every word he spoke; the more she knew, the better. When he finished, she smiled warmly.
"My friends will no doubt appreciate this," she thanked him.
"Of course, my lady. All in service to you, of course," he hastily bowed.
"I do wish the Archon had held onto life a little bit longer. I do not like dealing with his second in command, he is a vicious and conniving man," Lady Kim sighed, throwing the blankets off haphazardly.
Even though she had just recently turned thirty, Lady Kim had the look of a woman just entering adulthood, with little to tell for her age. That was especially true of her unclothed. Her body showed no signs of aging, skin soft and smooth and unscarred. Her hair flowed down her back like a black waterfall, spilling onto the soft linens of the bed where she lay. The young captain took it all in a graceful manner, leaning down by her bedside and holding her hand gently.
"You take everything in stride, Mr. Carson. I like that," Suwon smiled.
"Please, my lady. Call me-"
"I think that name will do for now. When the time comes, I will seek you out by your first name," she told him.
"Of course."
"Will you lay with me for a while?" she asked him.
"I cannot, I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to be out of my tent at this hour, it was only a special summons," he sighed, regretfully. "I apologize."
"Understandable, of course," she sighed as well. She was expecting to spend the night with him, but in her disappointment she covered her body once more as he stepped away.
"In due time, Cymander will be removed. It will happen," she told him.
"I'm sure you will make your father proud, my lady..."
"That is too far ahead in the future. Do not remind me about my father," she suddenly became defensive.
"I didn't mean to offend-"
"You didn't offend. Just...do not bring him up again," she sighed.
"I will remember that, my Lady. Good night, then," he bowed awkwardly. She said her farewells, and he backed out of the tent, hurrying into the night and using the shadows to cover his return.
It was an amazing deal; he brought Cymander's plans to her, she delivered them to the Kleisardathan camp via a courier, and in turn he was invited into her tent when he could sneak in. The rewards so far had been worth the trouble; but Kyle Carson wondered, foolishly, if she really loved him.
She's taking advantage of me, he thought sometimes.
No, she does love me. Otherwise she wouldn't sacrifice her time and risk her secrecy for me, he thought other times. He was conflicted, and the imminent battle did not help.
After the fighting is finished, presuming Cymander still stands. Then I can turn my thoughts back to this.
If she really did love him, then all of his sufferings would not be worthless; after all, love is a powerful motivator. Should Cymander fall or be slain, the Lady Kim had her pieces set up to maneuver herself into control of the Moon's Eye, and she would have power over the city and its army. With luck, she would meet no resistance, and then she would take her lover as a co-ruler.
It's a flight of fancy. Would she really risk all of that for a minor captain, a man without an ounce of noble or powerful blood?
Whether or not she was using him as a pawn, or truly did love him, Kyle Carson would have to figure that out before she finished playing her pieces.
That would be an issue for another day, however. He had delivered Cymander's plans into his enemy's hands; now he only had to wait for the hammer to fall.
VVVVV
"Tanner and Cymander are the main threats," the hoplite captain pointed out. A broad-shouldered and brusque man, he only had one eye; like the rest of the Monophthalmi, his left eye had been burned out at age sixteen, leaving a grotesque cavity covered by a fabric eyepatch. Every single one of the Monophthalmi, from the lowest recruit to the Master Sergeant standing before the Xonos, had suffered this sacrifice, and had attained a rank in the most elite phalanx force of the Kleisardathan army.
"You point this out to me?" Mallistron inquired, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.
"They will be upon us before you know it. Both of them know to strike hard, and strike fast. Your attention is turned towards the city, and towards the westerners. I disagree with your plans," the Monophthalmi spoke.
Normally, the Xonos would be displeased with the man who dared raise a hand and a dissenting voice against him, but this hardened, elite soldier had earned his respect simply by becoming one of the elite hoplons; he would listen to the man. Besides, he was too tired to try to speak over his captains; he had spent the day interrogating the slave girl before she finally died of her torture, and the process of preparing his men for battle was an exhausting one.
"Perhaps so..."
"Our outriders suggest that Lord Antar is another week away," another captain spoke, his accent heavy, betraying him as a Greek from Earth. "He will not arrive in time for battle. And if he manages it, his forces will be exhausted and in no state for hard battle."
"I agree with that. He is not part of this battle. Our focus is on the other two. This Kleiner will hide behind his stone walls like a coward," the Monophthalmus spat.
"He will hide, but he is still a threat. The Lord Cymander stands directly to our right, I will agree that he is our main threat. His army is just as large and just as professional as ours," Mallistron conceded, feeling rather irritated. A dozen captains had been arguing with his battle plans, and although he was not a man to be trifled with, he had listened to them as they explained their reasoning. Most of them were logical, at least. If they hadn't been...
"Those blue cloaks flap prettily in the breeze. Let us gut those pretty lads and turn their cloaks red," the Monophthalmus leered, grinning wickedly as he spoke.
"The Lapiscloaks are just as good as your men in hand to hand combat, I would advise you to restrain yourselves, lest you become outmatched," the Xonos hissed.
"We are the best-"
"Continue to think like that, and you'll find your head stuck under the blue boot of one of those 'pretty lads'," Mallistron hushed him.
"I will not be humbled by a man with a pretty co-"
Before the Monophthalmus could finish his rebuttal, the tent's doors parted and admitted a sweaty courier bearing a large scroll, apparently a large message. The symbol he bore was alien at first; it was the insignia of Lord Cymander, very plain on his doublet. One of the hoplon captains drew his blade, but the Xonos tapped his arm to instruct him to put it away.
"He's friendly."
"He's one of Cy-"
"He's not. Turncloak. Come here, courier," the Xonos ordered. The runner, slightly unnerved by his rather cold receival, pushed his way past a few of the disgruntled captains and approached the Xonos. He handed his package over and waited, standing between two hoplon sergeants as he waited for Mallistron to pore over the documents. The latter did so, taking his good time as he read everything carefully.
"This is from the Lady Kim?" he inquired.
"Y-yes, sir. Are you familiar?"
"Who isn't?" he asked, and several of the captains sniggered quietly. "I would like to become better acquainted with her, wouldn't you?"
"Er...of course," the courier began to blush out of embarrassment. The Xonos decided that needling him would be pointless. At least for now.
"Your Lady Kim was well acquainted with the Archon, was she not?"
"She provided him with information often, sir," the runner answered.
"Was it valuable?"
"Presumably," he answered firmly.
"Well, what we have here is valuable as is," the Xonos pored over the documents again. "I was not aware that Lord Cymander was this serious about an initial attack." He showed the papers to his Monophthalmus captain.
"What do you make of it?" he asked the one-eyed man.
"He plans to take us by surprise."
"Well, yes-"
"My men will crush these blue boys and send them running back in tears," the Monophthalmus vowed.
"I do not plan to relegate you to picket duty. You have a more important part to play," Mallistron told him.
"There is no greater honor-"
"You will crush plenty of blue boys," the Xonos told him, frustrated with his egotistical attitude. "I will give you the means. But you will wait for my order."
"Of course, my lord," the Monophthalmus begrudged, stepping back into line.
"I plan to intercept this ambush, though. Regular soldiers, in great force, will be enough to repulse or perhaps even destroy this probe," the Xonos thought aloud, never minding the courier standing in the midst of his assembly. "We will strike them as they move in on us. I do not plan to let them close to the camp."
"My phalanxes are encamped the closest. I can have them ready within an hour," one of the sergeants promised.
"You and Captain Ketras will have your forces ready. And have the horse pickets prepared for combat and skirmishing as well," the Xonos told them.
The two captains bowed and departed, heading out of the tent. Mallistron turned to the courier.
"Thank your lady and send her my warmest regards. I wish I could send her a little something else, but...I have a war to fight. Our dealings can wait," he told him.
"Of course, sir...I will tell her you send your regards," the courier bowed lightly.
"Tell her she's welcome to visit whenever she...pleases," he smiled, and several of the captains chuckled again. He was hoping that the courier would omit that, seeing as it was a jest. However, he chose that time to hastily leave, returning from where he came from quickly, most likely flushed and embarrassed.
"He is a puny boy. I would not trust him," the Monophthalmus spat.
"He'll bring the news back."
"Would you make love to the woman if she was brought here?" he asked curiously of his leader.
"I would make her scream," Mallistron grit his teeth, wondering how much joy it would bring him. Pain was pleasure for him, after all.
"My lord, are we dismissed?" one of the sergeants piped up.
"Of course, you are..."
The sergeants and captains dispersed, all of them bowing and mumbling their farewells, save for the Monophthalmus. He had been told to wait.
"You told me to stay."
"I did. I have something for you, befitting of your men," the Xonos told him, feeling sleep begin to wash over him.
"What is it?"
"Have your men ready by daybreak. After we engage Cymander's probe, you and your troops are to go into the city. Is that clear?"
"We will find a way," the Monophthalmus promised proudly. "We are men of steel and shadow. They will not see us."
"Be sure they do not. Sneak into the city, kill the commanders and men of power, leave the army leaderless. Do whatever you must," Mallistron ordered him.
"I will be proud to serve you, sir."
"Actions speak louder than words, Monophthalmus. Do as you're bid, and eliminate the men of Crestan. You will do me a great favor," he told the captain.
"I will break the tall lords and bring their army to its knees," he promised his lord.
"Do that. Tomorrow we strike," Mallistron promised him. Tomorrow might be only skirmishes, and the day after might be light combat, but before the week was out, the battle would be decided.
And he planned to be the victor.
