CHAPTER 254: BLED FOR THE GATE

Bled for the Gate

Inside the Arena

Shouts rang out as thousands of men surged through the narrow corridor, desperation coloring their faces. Even when they reached the vast open space, there was no guarantee of safety. Amid the crush of bodies, a few stumbled, went down, and were never seen again. With bated breath and sweat-soaked bodies, each man tried to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Black Lord’s army.

The armed rioters inside watched with disbelief. They couldn’t get out to prepare their defense.

"What is going on?" many of the riot leaders shouted from the safety of their formation to anyone willing to listen, but the masses were too preoccupied to answer. If they didn’t move fast enough, they risked being trampled to death.

Knowing better than to expect an answer, they pulled their forces back to avoid the flood of people still pouring in through the corridor.

One of the participants in the riot, the leader of the hired swords from Krakusa, removed his flamboyant greenish-gray hat and scratched his head and greasy hair. They were unable to make their move. "The Lord has gained the upper hand against us," he muttered, nervousness showing in his tone and on his face.

"Patience," his younger counterpart answered, draped in a weathered traveling cloak. "We still have the advantage of numbers. Even if the rest of the rioters are too cowardly to raise their fists, we alone are enough."

"I've yet to see our allies. Where is Sir Hohendorf? I'm not risking my neck here just for him to hide," the older man sneered.

"He's taking care of the Saint Candidate. And mind you, both he and Sir Bielstein have already risked their necks enough by getting Sir Ebenstein out of the prison and into the arena," the younger man replied.

The older man didn’t argue. Although both were lower noblemen, he was only a well-off esquire, while his counterpart came from a far wealthier merchant House with connections to both the monastery and Edessa. Some, including leaders of the monastery, even referred to him as "young master."

Thus, the older man went back to watching as hundreds continued pouring in through the three corridors.

Suddenly, a man in robes came running from the seating platform, his face set with urgent purpose. "Report," he called out, and the armed guards brought him to the two leaders.

"What is it?" the younger leader asked.

"My superiors want you to know that these two fleeing columns should not be used to judge their commitment to the fight."

The two leaders nodded in understanding. After all, these columns were mostly rioters under light supervision. No one thought the Lord would reach the gate from outside, and thus, these two were the weakest in morale and cohesion.

The robed man continued, "Another thing. My leaders have sent men to try the small gates, but found them jammed."

"Jammed?" the older man echoed in surprise.

"Must be the Lord's advance party trying to block us from flanking his smaller force," the younger one commented, acting as if nothing was amiss.

But the older man was more concerned. "If he locked us inside, then is he going to burn us?"

Their hired men, hearing this, began to look around at the seating platforms, suspicion on their faces. The wood was dry from the height of summer, and despite the open space, the heat and smoke could kill them all.

"That's impossible. Burn this whole arena? Not even the Black Lord is that crazy," the young man dismissed the idea, though he couldn’t seem to convince their men. The officers under his command began issuing orders to their groups to either confirm that all gates were shut or find another way out.

The younger leader turned to the messenger. "Then, what is your leader doing right now?"

"He’s also waiting for the corridor to be cleared. His force is ready to march out and raise the Saint’s banners high," the man answered proudly, as if unaffected by the string of defeats.

"Very well. You can return and tell your senior in command that we’ll stick to the plan."

With more than five thousand rioters and Saint Nay's sympathizers, along with another thousand hired swords, they still held an overwhelming advantage against the Lord's garrison. Thus, they remained in control despite witnessing such an embarrassing rout of another column.

But their confidence wasn't shared by everyone involved in the riot.

...

On another side of the arena, hundreds of rioters had gathered, mostly free from Saint Nay's sympathizers. They had been kept in the dark by the nobles and the Saint’s followers. Fear, desperation, and the sudden flood of other rioters into the arena had driven them to cluster around the two small groups of hired swords, who showed no interest in marching outside.

Their two leaders, still resting on their seats, seemed content to stay put.

On these two, the crowd gambled their lives, trusting the smooth words of their members that the best course of action was to wait and do nothing until sunrise.

"Everything the Lord does tonight is just a ruse. Don't fall for it, just try to get some sleep. His main attack will likely come early in the morning," one of the men said as they gathered around a bonfire, cooking gruel for the night.

When someone doubted them, they countered, "Have you fought the Lord's men? We have. We know his tactics."

Using the same lines, they gathered more and more rioters, especially those who started to lose confidence as the tide turned against them. Even those pouring in from outside began to join them, hiding from their superiors, who would likely try to force them to march out.

Certainly, this didn’t sit well with the leaders of the Saint followers. They soon sent a large group to muster the rioters out.

Commanding barks, shouts, and threats rang out as the robed men approached with their armed followers. Yet the crowd refused to move. Those who had fled from outside described the Lord's cavalry waiting beyond the gates. Nobody sane would willingly face the Lowlandian cavalry. Rumor had it that many were nomads, allowed to take anyone they captured back to their homes in the steppes.

Worse, this news gave the crowd important context. Before, the rioters had been told nothing. Now, everyone knew the Lord's army had indeed marched outside, destroying four separate large columns, each thousands strong. Someone overheard that no fewer than six thousand had been slain, and such a number was too frightening to ignore. Thus, they refused to do anything against the Lord. Their hunger for justice and demands for Sir Ebenstein to be brought to trial had vanished.

Frustrated by this insubordination, the robed men went to confront the leaders of the hired swords.

They climbed the wooden platform and stomped their feet as they entered the dimly lit area, making their presence known. "Salutations! We demand to know why you are not joining the fight!"

"The Black Lord's column has been spotted outside," another younger robed man added. "Don't tell me you’ve lost your courage?"

As if to confirm his words, the sound of horns echoed from outside.

Yet, there was no immediate answer. A few men simply gestured toward an old veteran lying on the long bench, eyes closed. From the smell of wine, no one needed to ask the cause.

They turned to the other commanding figure, a broad-shouldered man whose eyes wandered down the corridor where the outpouring of men had ended. Their withdrawal had now been replaced by the eager march of Saint Followers and hired swords from Krakusa.

"Are you not listening to us?" the first robed man shouted.

But the second leader simply turned to his men and waved his hand. Only then did the robed men notice the crossbows aimed at them from the shadowy corners.

"I can hear you perfectly," he finally said. "They can too. Don’t give them a reason to make a mistake."

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Straightening his composure, the robed man spoke in a much more polite tone. "We wish you to command these men to join our force outside. Timing is critical."

"Indeed, timing is critical. And I believe this is all just a ruse to rob us of our sleep."

"What?" The answer was so incomprehensible that the three robed men could only trade glances.

"This is just the Lord's trick. Why be baited? I doubt he’s going to attack us at night."

"But he is outside!" the second robed man snapped, seemingly forgetting the crossbows still pointed at him.

The leader rose, and now they could see his imposing stature. His arms were as thick as a man's thigh, his neck corded with muscle, and his eyes showed no fear. "What you see outside is just a ruse to frighten peasants. Worse, it could be bait to trap fools into dying."

Swallowing dryly, the robed men frowned and began to ponder.

The leader set his massive arms on the wooden railing before turning to them. "If you know what's good for you, stay put. The Lord is famed for his traps."

Exhaling noisily, the robed man pressed on. "Then what is your plan?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm going to sleep."

The younger, hotheaded man in robes snapped, "I can't believe it. We pay you, and yet—"

"You pay for my men and my expertise. You don't pay me to be your henchman, sent to a fool's death," the leader replied, already losing interest.

From the bench, a man who looked like their lieutenant spoke up. "Save your breath and focus on your own men. We're not even two hundred strong. What difference does it make?"

"Can't you see, you have a thousand hiding behind you," the hotheaded man retorted.

The lieutenant flashed a mocking smirk. "Ah, the innocent eyes of youth, always blind to reason. The crowds are not ours to command. Even if my boss marched out, they'll find reasons to hide."

The younger man wanted to reply, but his senior stopped him, choosing a more diplomatic approach. "The Lord clearly wants a battle. We need every able body."

"If the Lord wants to enter, then why block him?" the lieutenant remarked.

"Yes, why not let him enter?" the leader said in agreement. The other men on the platform also murmured their support.

"We can always settle it all in the arena," the leader added, to his men's chorus of approval.

"Strategy doesn't work this way," the robed man tried to argue, but the men on the platform jeered at him.

"We won't forget this," he declared, and the trio headed back.

The two small groups of hired swords played their part well, convincing as many people as possible not to march outside. The two leaders believed this was to prevent the Lord from facing too many enemies, but the real intention was to sow doubt.

With hundreds, and soon a thousand, left idle inside the arena, the other rioters, whether Saint sympathizers or not, could not help but notice. It was only human nature to compare themselves, to envy those who stayed safe, and to wonder if it was fair. Like poison, the thought lingered and drained their will to fight. No untrained man wanted to throw his life away while others just like him stayed behind in safety.

Distancing themselves from the Saint Followers, the hundreds watched as thousands lined up in the three corridors and marched in order.

Some of the hired swords did question why they hadn’t joined the march, but chose to trust their immediate superior, suspecting it might be a ruse. They weren’t fighting for the monastery and cared little about which side they were on. Some veterans even had a hunch that their leaders had switched sides and had no qualms about it.

Thus, the small groups of hired swords and the new crowd continued their activities around the bonfire. Some talked with new friends from the crowd, some ate hot gruel, and others tried to find a comfortable place to sleep.

Suddenly, fresh screams came from the corridor.

***

Leaders of the Riots

Walking safely behind their advance guard, who carried torches and lanterns, the leaders of the riot marched side by side. The corridor was not the largest, since the main army had used it to get out more quickly, but five could still walk abreast comfortably. Even so, it felt narrow and cramped because of the low ceiling and the long, dark passageways. The air was heavy, thick with the stench of sweat, vomit, and blood from the previous stampede. Plenty of men had been trampled and were now being shoved aside, whether they were alive or not.

Nobody in command spoke, as the stench already assaulted their noses.

The younger leader in a traveling cloak, who had convinced the nobles and the monastery to join forces in this plan, naturally walked in the middle, holding a piece of cloth to his nose. Others from the monastery did the same. Only the older leader in his flamboyant hat seemed strong enough to wade through the foul air.

As they walked farther, a whiff of fresh air from outside greeted them, and they began to breathe with relief.

But at that moment, shouts erupted from their advance guard.

"What is it? The Lord's men?" someone called from behind as fighting broke out beyond their line of sight.

"Get the shields," one of the monastery men finally ordered, calling for protection just in time as crossbow bolts began to whistle through the air, targeting the men at the front.

"Young master, what should we do?" the leader asked, uneasy about being so close to danger.

"Send more men forward. We’ll advance once they clear the way," the younger leader replied, as casually as if he were deciding on a place to eat. Since childhood, he had given orders like this. Putting others in harm’s way to serve his interests never felt strange or improper.

However, before they could act, unseen by anyone behind the front ranks, something landed and rolled toward them. It didn’t explode but started to hiss, churning up a white cloud. The color drained from the leaders’ faces.

"Alchemist fire!" someone cried, misidentifying the threat.

"Retreat! Fall back!" the older leader shouted in panic, grabbing his hat as he turned back.

"No! Push through," the younger man shouted back as coughing spread, pain searing eyes, throats, and nostrils. "We’ll all die if we try to retreat. There are hundreds behind us."

Recognizing the danger, one of the monastery men snapped at his men. "Move, move," he shouted, forcing the words out through the burning and stinging. "Charge them head-on!"

As fifty rushed forward and the front ranks fought desperately, another clank echoed amid the shouting and frantic charge to the exit. A burst of white clouds followed. Panic swept over the crowd as another smoke swallowed them. Even the toughest broke, howling, rubbing their eyes, clutching at their throats.

Men began to run with no thought for danger, pressing into their advance guard, who battled against foes at the gates.

"Move!" the younger leader howled, his voice raw with agony.

But the men in front couldn’t clear the way fast enough. They were still fighting. Swords flashed and spears thrust, loud groans echoing in the corridor.

It was chaos. No sooner had they pressed against their advance guard than glass shattered against a shield and liquid rained down on them. In an instant, the shield bearer in front burst into flames.

All they could do was cower as searing heat consumed both shield and man. He ran for the gate, burning.

Everyone was choking, tears and drool running down their faces, yet they remained transfixed, watching as the burning man nearly broke free. Yet, he staggered for no clear reason, as if breaking through unseen barriers. Each time he slowed, but pain drove him on in animalistic rage. That raw, primal surge of strength carried him forward until, suddenly, he was yanked back, snagged by something unseen for the last time.

Now they saw what the Cascasonne survivors had warned them about: metal wire studded with spikes, strong enough to halt even a man in agony.

There was no time to process this new threat. Mustering the last of his strength, the younger leader shouted, "Fall back!"

For the first time, he truly feared someone other than his father and the Lord of Edessa.

Hearing the young master's voice, his men turned just as their last remaining advance guard dropped, a third bolt buried in his chest. As soon as he fell, the gate slammed shut.

In the thick white cloud, chaos reigned as men coughed violently and vomited. Their eyes and nostrils were swollen. Nearly blind, they shoved anyone they could, all wheezing as they tried to breathe, trapped because the corridor still hadn’t cleared. They moved as fast as they could, but it wasn’t enough. Distracted by their pain, they didn’t hear another clay bottle land among them. Another plume hissed, the sound a death sentence for many.

Men screamed as they were forced to inhale another dose of the toxic cloud. The pain and suffocation finally drove them mad. Gasping for air, men hurled themselves at anyone in their way. Ranks and superiority meant nothing as they clawed over shoulders or trampled each other. Those unable to withdraw quickly were crushed underfoot.

The monastery leaders, unaccustomed to physical exertion, collapsed with bubbles foaming from their mouths.

One hired sword, blinded by pain, hauled the older leader, now missing his flamboyant hat, knowing the man was key to their pay.

Only the young leader continued to stagger. He had vomited his guts out, his eyes were burning, his nostrils felt as if he had inhaled through a chokeful of flaming embers. He muttered protests at fate. He hadn't arranged thirty thousand men riot just to die like this. Somehow, the five thousand dead outside did not even register in his conscience.

Fumes and lack of air sent him drifting into hallucinations. Faces flickered in front of him. And like in his nightmares, one man always appeared: the Lord of Edessa. Once, the baron had ordered him stripped naked and tied to a chandelier for breaking his prized piece of glass. There were no beatings with leather straps, not like his father did, but the shame had never faded. Countless times, he dreamt of the maids who whispered and giggled, watching a naked boy pee while strapped to the chandelier. His parents could only watch in shame.

Now, through the haze, another shadow appeared, this one with black hair and a mocking smile.

"No!" he cried in anger, stumbling on unsteady feet before crashing face-first to the ground.

Wet mud caked his face as he raged helplessly over everything he had never achieved in life. Things to prove to his father and the vile Lord of Edessa that he was better than them. At last, his mind clouded over, and both his consciousness and fury faded away.

...

SAR

The Lord had commanded his SAR to seal the two gates and leave the main gates open. The main reason was that, with just twelve men, they didn't have the manpower to close all three. Secondly, the Lord didn't want the rioters to be trapped with no exit, knowing they'd fight harder if forced into a death ground scenario.

And now the nine recruits and three SAR had done it. After a short fight, the two gates were shut. Moreover, they inflicted a large number of casualties on the rioters' side.

It almost seemed a flawless victory. But this great result was not without sacrifice.

In the darkness, with thick dust and smoke filling the corridor, two SAR members sat side by side in stillness. One had fallen first, a gaping poleaxe wound in his left shoulder. His comrade, barely clinging to life, slumped beside him. Both had taken the brunt of the attack from dozens of raging enemies, their bodies marked by wounds and damage to their armor and helmets. Their crossbows lay mangled somewhere ahead, emptied to the last bolt.

They had fought in the midst of the barbed wire they had hastily strung, buying precious minutes for the recruits forcing the heavy gates shut and jamming the locks. With the gates sealed, their mission was a success. But it had also sealed their fate. Too weak to crawl to the hidden hatch and with no help to evacuate, he could only sit where the Lord would surely find them.

Eager to show it was possible, just as they had convinced him, his dying thought was to tell the Lord, "See, My Lord, I told you it's doable."

They didn't lie. They merely didn't tell him they were likely to die in the process. But the result was everything.

Perhaps the Lord will shed a tear in front of them, whose faint smiles were now eternal, knowing they had triumphed against the odds.

***