CHAPTER 253: THE CHOSEN FEW

The Chosen Few

The Cleric's Column

With cries to tear the Black Demon’s head from his shoulders, the Saint’s followers drove the rioters’ charge against the Lord’s veterans. Voices and hatred rose in fury as the lines collided, blades swinging through the torchlit darkness, hissing past in silence, ringing against steel, or hammering shields with a muffled thump. The clash that followed saw the front ranks, hundreds strong and almost in a blood frenzy, plunge into the bold yet weary and outnumbered veterans.

The white-robed cleric joined the fight without an ounce of fear. Whatever doubt he had before vanished as he watched his men’s daring attack. When even those who had never met or been blessed by Saint Nay showed such courage, he, who bore the blessed spear and ringmail, could not allow himself to feel shame. The Saint had given them strength. Climbing a shallow mound, he shouted at the top of his voice, "Keep the attack going. Punch through their line! Salvation will come!"

Driven by his cry, more and more men surged forward, eager to find the enemy. Hope to turn the tide was everywhere, palpable in the air. There was almost no formation as the lines contracted and the fight turned into a close, desperate brawl. Their more numerous left side fought with frantic zeal, wave after wave pressing the attack despite the brutal punishment, and finally began to tip the scale against the Lord's men.

In a surprising turn, the Lord's veterans fell back several steps, then turned into an orderly retreat.

Watching this, the entire left side of the cleric's center column surged toward the gap. The pressure mounted as the cleric’s center pushed forward, gaining ground while the Lord’s men continued their retreat, even exposing their flank.

They thought they were winning. Yet the Lord's withdrawal had been intentional.

In a display of cunning flexibility, the Lord's men gave ground with ease. They had practiced fighting retreats and conducted them smoothly, without panic or losing any men. They watched with satisfaction as the rioters’ cohesion broke the farther they advanced. Some stumbled over the uneven ground in the dark, slowing their advance and sowing doubt in their minds.

In battle, injuries or even a single jolt of pain became a harsh reminder of mortality. How could they feel so confident facing spears and swords when even a simple fall left them aching? Meanwhile, their uneven advance bred doubt in even the most spirited men, who glanced back to find their allies lagging behind. It forced the realization that they were fighting alone.

As doubt flickered in their minds, the Lord's fresher recruits and volunteers swept in from the sides, trapping them in a two-sided fight.

Spears and swords flashed and clashed as bodies slammed together. The night filled with screams once more, and the stench of blood rose as the fight turned savage.

"It's a trap!" one howled to his brethren.

The cleric stood stunned, blinking, unprepared for such a scenario as his men looked to him for guidance.

"Face them, face them!" his other brother urged, knowing that if they faltered now, all would be lost.

Still confused by the sudden turn but spurred on by his brother, the cleric forced himself forward. He knew he needed to set an example. Raising his spear high, he shouted, "Follow me to victory!"

The rest of his men cried out and surged after him.

It was now or never. The cleric joined dozens of others in a zealous charge alongside the last of his brothers. Violent fighting greeted him. One of his men collapsed to the side, blood streaming from a fresh wound.

"Send these sinners to die so Saint Nay's light can guide the rest of humanity!" the cleric cried until his throat burned, knowing this might be his last chance as he threw himself into the melee. He spotted the Lord's men, their helmets and armor slick with blood. He clenched his teeth in anger, eyes darting for an opening to strike, when a hot spray hit his face.

In the thick of battle, shouts and screams barely registered. So the cleric didn’t understand why his brother in front of him suddenly staggered, his legs buckling, so close to falling.

"No!" he breathed, watching a sword buried deep in his dying brother’s torso. The killer struggled to wrench the blade free.

A surge of anger seized the cleric, who lunged at the killer. Still with his sword lodged in the fallen brother, the killer released his grip, drew a rondel dagger, and parried the cleric’s thrust. Up close, the cleric could see the killer’s face, tanned from years under the steppe sun. The Lowlandian met his gaze with a grim, weary look. ṘÄ𝐍ȏ𝐛Ё𝘚

The cleric’s training took over, and he yanked his spear back for another attack, but the man caught the shaft. He gritted his teeth and strained, but his opponent was much stronger, wrenching the spear and hauling the cleric toward him. Suddenly, he felt a blow to his gut. He gritted his jaw and looked down, seeing the rondel dagger that had not pierced his finely woven ringmail, the best the monastery had to offer.

"Your sinful weapon is no match for blessed armor," he preached, desperately wrestling for control of the dagger. "Repent, for the Saint is rightful. Save yourself, cast off your sinful Lord and join—"

In a show of strength, the young Lowlandian pulled him even closer and whispered, "I've seen men fly in the sky and eyes that can kill. They're good enough for me."

The dagger tore free, and the young man stabbed again and again, each thrust driving the chisel-like blade deeper until the last finally punched through the ringmail. Blood seeped from the cleric’s punctured stomach, staining his torn gambeson and white robe a dark ochre red.

The cleric gasped for breath, sweat pouring down his face. A burning pain filled his gut as he whimpered, "No, not me..."

In front of the young Lowlandian he had called a sinner and marked for death and ruin, the cleric slid powerlessly to his knees.

The fight around them slowed down. Many caught sight of the cleric’s downfall and held back, terror plain on their faces.

"He's dead!" A wool dyer broke the silence, and men began to step back.

Noticing the pause in the enemy’s ranks, one of the Lord’s veterans shouted, "Death to traitors! Eeeeeooo

!" He let out the nomadic war cry, and the rest of the men quickly joined in.

The loud, foreign cries pushed the rioters even further.

"This was never a good idea," the candle maker, now a monastery man, stammered as he turned away and ran.

"Not again, not again," another Saint believer muttered as he joined the retreat. This wasn’t his first time facing the Black Lord’s men.

Already battered and terrified, the rioters scattered, sealing the center column’s fate. In just thirteen harrowing minutes, the column of nine hundred had ceased to function. Only the left wing remained intact, retreating hastily into the night, shaken by the massacre.

The fleeing survivors still numbered over three hundred, joining the other hundred who had already fled. They were so demoralized that they were unlikely to ever rejoin the riot.

Meanwhile, rousing cries of victory rose among the victors. The celebration was subdued among the veterans but loud and exuberant among the recruits and volunteers. They had won the skirmish against a larger opponent, but at what cost remained to be seen.

As the weary men sat down to catch their breath and share drinks, their cavalry swept past their left flank, heading into the arena that loomed ahead in the darkness. Even in triumph, the promise of more bloodshed hung heavy in the air.

***

Lansius

Leading the remainder of his men, Lansius arrived at the battlefield, where yet another grim aftermath awaited him. The scene was sad and pitiful, with mangled bodies lying lifeless in the dirt. He couldn’t help but imagine that if he had never come, these men might still be living peaceful lives. But he didn’t dwell on such thoughts, reminding himself that he was protecting his subjects from rioters stirred up by fanatics and disgruntled nobles.

As he rode, surrounded by his escort who shielded him from possible suicide attacks out of the darkness, Lansius saw bodies scattered across the field, hundreds likely hidden by the night. His crossbowmen moved among the fallen in pairs or small groups. One collected bolts and trinkets while another stood guard, blade drawn against enemies who sometimes feigned death.

Amid the cries of victory, Lansius saw that the path to the arena now lay open. He could make out the vast open area where thousands of tents stood, now shrouded in darkness. Farther on, he could just see the entrance to the arena looming in the distance.

"Victory!" his men greeted him, their faces marked by relief and gladness. Lansius forced himself to appear magnanimous about the result.

"Be careful. It’s not wise to be too greedy," he replied in a fatherly tone, surprising himself with the warmth in his voice.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Without anyone noticing, he turned his gaze toward the city and castle beyond, his mind drifting to the thought that he might already be a father without knowing it.

Is it a boy or a girl? Is Audrey safe and sound?

More of his men greeted him, and he returned their greetings in kind, but his eyes wandered to a mound of bodies shoved aside to clear the road for the carts.

Among them, he saw a man in a white robe, eyes open and mouth agape. Lansius took a deep breath and kept his horse moving. He had never expected to face radicals in this world, and he couldn't help but mutter curses at Bengrieve for what he had unleashed.

As Lansius drew near, the veterans, weary as they were, forced themselves to gather and form a line to greet him. The camp commander was with them, his squire still busy wiping blood from his sword, gauntlet, and helmet to make him presentable.

"My Lord," their greeting was proud, joyful, and crisp.

Eagerness lit their faces, proud to present another great victory and naturally hoping to receive high praise. And Lansius intended to play his role.

Dismounting, he walked up to them and stopped in front of their gleeful faces, then said in a dramatic voice, "Men, what is this feeling swelling in my chest? Is it pride from witnessing my exceptional fighters? I couldn't believe this. You have just won another victory for the House, in the dark of night, with nothing but recruits and volunteers. How can I reward you for this?"

"Gold!" one shouted, his voice squeaking, and laughter broke out.

Lansius raised his hand to calm the crowd and spoke. "Win the night for me, and the hundred of you shall have not only a gold coin, but also a silver emblem to wear on your chest as a mark of tonight's valor."

A chorus of triumphant shouts erupted as the men cheered in jubilation.

Internally, Lansius continued to check on them. They had won, but it was plain to see the men were spent. Fighting in the dark drained them faster than any battle by daylight. Nerves were stretched thin by constant uncertainty, lack of visibility, fear of ambush, and the ever-present risk of confusion among their own ranks. Doubt crept in. Would they have enough strength to fight for the gate?

Lansius knew he’d been lucky that the two skirmishes had come his way. Now, though, every decision felt like a gamble with his men’s lives. Even as he weighed their odds, he continued to play his part.

"Any injuries should be treated. Douse them with wine, apply medicine, and wrap them in clean bandages. I pay for them, so don’t get stingy and use the supplies," he joked, knowing that saving every coin to buy land had become a favorite topic among his men.

There were rowdy chuckles and a few nods of agreement, with some men grinning and exchanging glances.

"It'll open again soon enough. Another battle is looming, yes?" one asked with a daring smirk.

Lansius was proud of his men's courage but shook his head in disbelief. "Come on, men," he said, "why is it always me who has to insist you take care of yourselves?"

The men burst into laughter, the plates of their armor rattling as their bodies shook.

From the side, the camp commander interjected, "My Lord, we’d best get moving. The scouts have spotted frantic torchlight coming from the arena. We don’t need to wait for Sterling or Dame Daniella to return."

"To tarry in war means death," Lansius said, turning to face him. "We'll march as soon as the crossbowmen are ready. We're going to need a lot of bolts." He paused before asking, "Tell me, how are our men? How heavy are the casualties?"

"A group of recruits overextended themselves and were surrounded," the camp commander explained, his tone level. "Seventeen died there. We lost another twenty or so in the fiercest part of the fighting."

Lansius heaved a sigh, lamenting the deaths. He knew more losses would follow, as stab wounds and cuts often led to deadly infection if left untreated. "And injuries?"

"Around three dozen will be left behind," the commander answered, choosing his words carefully.

Lansius understood at once. He would be short by fifty men for the next fight. All things considered, it was a good result, but the deaths of men fighting for his cause weighed heavily on him. Many had families, and some, perhaps, even faces he already knew. "How are the volunteers?"

"Steady," the camp commander replied. They were willing, but understandably shaken by the carnage.

Lansius nodded. "Did we learn anything from the captives?"

"We know there are thousands inside, but not even the Saint’s followers seem to know any other details."

"As expected. They're just being used." Lansius' tone was bitter.

Before they could continue, a commotion erupted somewhere at the back. The camp commander and several guards reacted at once, jogging over. "What's the problem?"

"Commander, I found duck meat," one of the crossbowmen said in surprise, drawing everyone’s attention as the others crowded around him.

Lansius made his way over and asked, "Explain what you found."

The men parted for him, and two crossbowmen stood waiting, doubt written on their faces. "My Lord, I found roasted meat wrapped in cloth inside the white-robed man's bag. From the smell, it's duck."

They presented the roasted meat as evidence, holding it out in both hands. The blood drained from Lansius’ face.

"They killed the race duck," one of Lansius’ guards blurted out, his eyes bloodshot.

The men quickly muttered in disgust. To Lowlandians and any equestrians, trained beasts were prized; whether duck or horse, it made no difference.

"This is punishable by death. I’ll see them torn apart for this," the camp commander vowed, his men echoing him.

In an unexpected turn, the rioters had managed to earn even greater contempt from the troops. Lansius could see it in their eyes. Before, they had been traitors or rebels, but now, it struck them as a personal offense.

***

SAR team

One man in a dark colored cloak made his way through the maze-like structure beneath the arena’s seating platform. He moved deeper, weaving between beams of wood and heavy support pillars that held up the vast seating area and wooden walls. At first, there was only darkness until a faint white light guided him toward a waiting crowd of allies. Among them, three were SAR members, the only ones stationed in the camp. The other nine were handpicked recruits, similarly well equipped in matte-looking brigandine and full-face helmets.

“How is it?” the SAR leader asked the newcomer who had just climbed up to look outside.

“The Lord has defeated the column on the road and is making his move here,” the newcomer reported.

Murmurs of surprise rippled through the small group. Some showed gladness, while others heaved sighs of relief, knowing their forces were greatly outnumbered. Yet, again and again, the Lord had demonstrated his frightening battle acumen. Only now did some realize just how terrifying the Lord was, and the thought made them proud but uneasy. Do thousands of men mean nothing against Lord Lansius?

While the recruits were still processing the outcome, the third SAR member spoke up with a different concern. “The people inside have also made their move.”

He motioned with his finger toward the arena. The group fell silent, listening as the growing commotion echoed from within the arena.

“They might have seen the flying lantern or heard the cornus,” the newcomer added.

“The Lord must be giving his all to make haste,” the leader pondered aloud.

“I can understand. A lot is riding on this plan,” the third member replied.

"Then we should make haste. The Lord depends on us," the leader decided.

"After you," the third member replied with a bold grin.

Racking sounds echoed as the dozen men primed their fully X-bows. They secured their heavy packages onto their backs, some wrapped in leather, others packed in wooden boxes like those used by medicine peddlers, but what was inside was nothing like medical supplies.

Guided by the gemstone of light entrusted to them, one of the rare few sourced from Cascasonne as gifts from grateful defenders, they made their way through the wooden structure. Overhead and around them, thick beams of wood and heavy supports formed a tangled framework, holding up the vast seating area.

Soon, one by one, the smallest and least-used gates were infiltrated and locked. Built to hold back crowds, their hinges were sturdy and their locks solid. The guild had designed a way to jam the locking mechanism, and the group was grateful for the thoughtfulness.

Fortunately, they didn’t need to lock every access gate. When the riot erupted, the guards had already secured some of the gates to make crowd control easier. The rioters hadn’t bothered to open them again, preferring to use the main gate.

With the small gates now blocked, the group moved on to the larger gates, where the Saint Followers stood watch. They peered through the slit of the worker’s access and found six men. One by one, the three SAR members slipped through the hidden hatch in the wall corridor.

It was dim, with most of the lanterns already extinguished. Probably only two near the gate were still lit.

The second and third members started to move into position, but the leader blocked them with his left arm.

All eyes turned to the leader, who calmly signaled for them to listen.

They could hear the six guards nearby, their anxious voices drifting through the darkness.

"What are the superiors doing? We should lock the gates, or the Lord will direct his assault here."

"But that's against our orders," another said.

"I don't want to get beaten," a third voice muttered, followed by a few sighs.

"Let’s just do it and run," someone else said. There was a heavy pause before he continued, "When the Lord comes, we’ll bolt the door and run. Blame it on the Lord's men."

The others seemed to agree. "Better to get beaten than to face the Black Lord's men."

The guards murmured their agreement.

Little did they know that their decision had just saved their lives. The Black Lord's assassins decided to leave them be and slipped back through the hidden accessway, moving on to the next gate.

The three largest gates would be the final ones, but they were only capable of handling two. Even then, they would have to wait until the Lord was much closer, since they weren’t able to close any of them on their own.

As they positioned themselves between the two gates, they prepared and went over their plan again, trying to steady their nerves. The battle for the arena would soon commence, and they knew they might die if things went awry. But they were prepared for that possibility.

Voices from outside echoed through the corridor beyond the large gates. "I've seen movement!"

"It's true. The rumors are true. The Lord's army is outside," another cried, panic in his voice.

"Steady! The Lord's enemies want to break us with lies," someone yelled in an authoritative tone.

The SAR watched through the slit in the wooden panel and marked the speaker, a short man in newly dyed gray robes.

"We have four large columns with thousands of men, each led by blessed individuals chosen by the Saint herself. How could they be beaten?" the man continued, loudly berating those under him.

But the blast of horns and the pounding of cavalry hooves was hard to dispute. Eyes widened, gasps escaped, and hands turned slick with sweat at the sight of the Lord’s column. Torches and lanterns lit their disciplined march, striking fear into every heart.

Now, the threat had materialized.

The rumors about their allies’ defeat were all but confirmed.

The short man in gray robes lost his words, and the rioters broke ranks, shoving shoulders and throwing elbows as each man tried to escape. Cries and shouts filled the cramped corridor as they forced their way past others, desperate to save themselves. The chaos was wild and brutal. Hundreds fled outside, while others pressed back inside, seeking safety in numbers. It was clear no one wanted to be the first to face the Lord’s men. It was as good as an invitation to meet the executioner.

Thus, the column assigned to guard the entrance collapsed.

From their hideout, the SAR group watched and let it unfold, knowing the chaos worked in their favor. The panicked crowd kept the rallied men inside from getting out.

"Burning sands?" one SAR member suggested, knowing it might spark a stampede.

"Yes. Let's show them where the Lord spent his gold," their leader said grimly.

They all wore their full-face houndskull bascinets. From the outside, there was no difference, but inside, every gap was lined with supple leather to form a seal. The narrow slits for the eyes were fitted with thin glass and sealed with resin. Breathing vents in the snout were set on both sides, each lined with cloth packed with layers of charcoal and fine linen. At a glance, it function like a plague doctor’s mask but in steel.

This design had been developed from Lady Valerie’s experience in Cascasonne to counter the effects of burning sands or green miasma. It would be foolish to think Lord Bengrieve could never become their enemy. Moreover, the Lord himself had spoken of the need for his firemen to breathe through smoke during firefighting.

Some of the recruits wore the first model, more cumbersome and more likely to fail. These helmets were also the reason they were limited to twelve men, as it was all they had.

Breathing heavily and gazing through the waxy glass, the twelve set out to fulfill their grim task: to lock two of the three gates and hold back the flood of thousands until the Lord’s men arrived, knowing full well that death was the most likely outcome. The nine might flee, but the three were forged for this moment.

***