CHAPTER 261: NO GAMBLE LEFT

No Gamble Left

Arena, Inside

The inside of the vast wooden structure, with its long horse track and spectator tribunes built to hold thirty thousand, now lay deserted. Lanterns and torches along the far side guttered and died, letting shadows swallow much of the arena. The thousands of rioters, hired swords, and Saint’s followers who had used the arena as their base had all gone to battle the Lord's men outside. Inside, fewer than two hundred mercenaries remained, along with a crowd of nine hundred.

Despite the echoes of battle outside, those who remained did everything they could to catch a bit of rest. Each of them knew they might have to run the moment the fighting turned against them. Several among them had already checked or joined in the attempts to break through the arena wall. They were still at it, needing more time to breach the sturdy wooden barriers.

Meanwhile, at the stairs leading up to the viewing platform, hurried footsteps sounded alongside the creak and groan of the planks. A scout slipped past the posted guards and came to stand before the old leader, who had been dozing on one of the long benches.

“Reports,” the scout said, keeping his voice low.

The old leader stirred, blinked himself awake, and pushed upright with a tired sigh.

At the sound, a broad-shouldered man, leader of another mercenary band, rose and strode over. His gambeson hung loose and unlaced, exposing a muscled torso marked by old scars.

“Can’t sleep?” the old leader asked him.

“Who could, with that racket outside?” the younger, imposing man replied dryly.

The old leader nodded toward an empty spot, and the younger man sat, elbows on his knees. Their eyes had become well-adjusted to the dark by now. Even the faint, distant lanterns cast just enough light for them to read each other's faces.

"Well, how is it outside?" the older man asked, some anticipation in his voice.

"The Lord was on the verge of victory," the scout whispered. "But a new enemy host is coming from the east."

The two leaders exchanged concerned glances. "How can you be certain?" the younger pressed.

"From where I climbed onto the arena roof, I saw a sea of torches and lanterns stretching across the plains."

"Tell us everything," the old man said, leaning forward.

The scout knelt in front of them and quietly described how the battle was unfolding, leading up to the arrival of the rioters' reinforcements.

When he finished, the old man furrowed his brows in heavy contemplation. Concern flickered across his weathered face.

"Ironically, the Lord’s magical light gave away their position. Now the new host is rushing straight toward them," the scout added.

The younger exhaled sharply and glanced at the old man, waiting for him to speak. When he remained silent, the younger dismissed the scout, "Tell no one what you’ve seen. You may go."

The scout stood, gave a quick bow, and slipped away into the shadows.

As soon as he was gone, the younger asked, "What do you make of it?"

"I didn't realize they still had that many men," the old man muttered, eyes fixed on the shadowed racetrack below.

"Who do you think they are?"

The old man squinted into the gloom. "I heard talk of a Saint Candidate participating, but I never thought she’d be this cunning, or command so many."

The young man lingered, tense, then turned and started to walk away.

"Where are you going?" the old man called after him.

"Leaving, of course. The Lord is losing, and I don’t plan on getting caught up in the aftermath."

"You don’t need to," the old man replied. "No one knows but us. We can still pass as rioters."

The younger man snorted, meeting the old man’s gaze. "Do you really think these fanatics care about that? They often act on suspicion."

"Staying put would be less suspicious," the old man argued.

"I'm not going to place my men and myself to be subjected to their whims."

"I see," the old man muttered.

The young man paused. "And you? Will you gamble on their acceptance?"

The old man straightened and moved to join him. "If you’re leaving, it would look too suspicious for me to stay."

There was no question of whether they would help the Lord. They were clearly not paid for that, and they did not trust him much anyway. They had done their part as promised and would do nothing more.

"Then, are you heading to the back as well?" the younger asked as he took his ringmail from the bench and slung it over his shoulder, planning to let his aide carry it. He would have no use for it while fleeing.

"Why bother making a hole?" the old man said as they reached the stairs. "Let’s just go out the front door. With everyone running, it shouldn’t be a problem to join the crowd."

Soon, the panic from the stragglers who escaped into the arena would spread to everyone inside. The hundreds inside, still unaware of the new enemy host from the east, panicked and began to disperse, intent on fleeing from the arena. The two hired sword leaders cared nothing for them as they mobilized their men and headed for the gate, going against the grain.

After some jostling and shoving through the panicked mob in the corridor, they managed to force their way outside and began a hurried march south, fleeing the area.

As their combined column of men reached the southern road and marched in good order, the old man could not see his counterpart and asked, "Where’s your leader?"

A lieutenant nearby answered, "He’ll be along soon. He has things to settle."

"Your leader’s hatred toward the followers will be the end of him," the old man said with a sigh.

"We’ll be the judge of that," the lieutenant replied lightly.

With ease, they fell in with the rest of the rioters, who fled in a disorganized, uneven mass. But soon, these men, better fed, well-rested, and carrying lanterns, would overtake the others and head toward a separate path that, in a few days, would lead to their hideouts. Their business in this riot was over.

***

Lansius

Despite the complete rout of the rioters, the night wind brought a colder chill to Lansius and his troops. The new enemy marching from the east caused everyone great distress. Gasps and curses broke out along the line as men shifted nervously, their confidence draining away.

Lansius considered retreating to the arena, which was the nearest to them, but realized it would only delay the inevitable. He didn’t have enough bolts or manpower to hold against thousands, even at a chokepoint. Worse, the enemy could burn it. While they had the podium connected by a corridor to the hill camp, it stood on a high, elevated platform. That meant each man would need to climb a makeshift ladder. If they were attacked during evacuation, he would likely lose his entire rear guard, along with the wounded.

He wasn’t prepared for such losses. Worse, there were likely still rioters inside the arena, and for now, he had no way to confirm their numbers. Meanwhile, plenty of stragglers had escaped into the arena during the rout, so the odds of the enemy preparing a defense inside were high.

Caught without a strategy, Lansius' shoulders stayed tense while his mind felt hollow.

In truth, he had used everything:

His SAR.

His recruits.

His flying lantern.

His fire bottles.

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His battle wagons.

His great gemstone.

His barbed wire.

His new volatile fire concoction.

And now, even his cavalry was spent.

His fastest reinforcements were still a day or two away.

Against this new army of rioters, his earlier victories now seemed built on sand.

The situation was now turning unsalvageable.

Lansius caught a glimpse of his men, clutching their blood-caked weapons, their armor stained from the night's fighting. It was their third battle that night. He forced a confident expression and began to organize his troops.

"Lieutenant," he called urgently, mustering as much calm as he could manage.

"My Lord?" The most senior deputy-captain stood ready.

"Don't wait for the captain to return. Gather every able man and form a new line facing east."

"At once, My Lord." The lieutenant’s answer was firm, gladdened by the trust.

Lansius turned to a junior lieutenant and his group. "Run north. Bring the other officers and the camp commander here."

"Yes, My Lord." The small group sprinted off north along the line.

Next, Lansius faced a squire and his small band. "Tell the war wagons to detach their carts. I want them ready to move out the moment I give the word."

"But what about the gemstone of light?" the squire asked.

"Leave the one," Lansius replied without pause.

"Right away, My Lord." The small band moved toward the wagon walls.

Then, turning to the rest, many of them veterans, he said, "As soon as the wagons are ready, grab everything you can from there. Load the wounded into them."

"But the bolts?"

"Throw away any bolts, armor, or weapons if you must," Lansius answered, his voice firm. "I can pay for new equipment, but not for my men's lives."

Watching their faces and seizing the moment, Lansius added in a softer tone, "Oh, don’t give me that look. We’ve beaten impossible odds three times tonight. If you gamble and win big three times in a row, you ought to know better than to keep betting. Otherwise, you’re a fool."

At his unexpected quip, some men chuckled, a few shook their heads, and others let out a bitter laugh. The tension around them eased a bit.

Following the order, the men shifted their line with practiced urgency, turning to face the threat behind them. The ranks closed in, spears resting on the ground but not yet leveled, and the battered line slowly reformed.

In truth, this defense would do little. There was no way he could fight a pitched battle and hold out against such numbers with a weary troops. Still, this renewed formation gave the impression that he had a plan and kept his men's morale from collapsing. More importantly, it bought Lansius a moment to think amid the grim situation.

The city was just one hour’s fast march to the east. Canardia had a city wall and a castle. Even if the city was compromised by infiltrators, the castle would still survive a siege. The only problem was the enemy, now arrayed on the plains east of them. His men were exhausted and burdened with wounded. If the enemy gave chase, they could easily block him and keep him from reaching the city.

In that case, his smaller force would surely be annihilated.

Thus, to ensure their escape, he needed a strong rear guard action, something that would distract the enemy and buy enough time for the rest to get away.

Lansius sighed. He simply did not have the men. He had maybe two hundred men still able to fight, and even his cavalry was exhausted. Asking more from them would be suicide.

Even getting his troops to the city was too great a gamble.

"Then there's no other way," he muttered to himself as the light from his grand gemstone allowed him to see the plains to the east filling with columns of rioters.

The wind blew again, carrying a certain chill, while the cicadas played in the background as the routed rioters finally cleared the area.

Lansius' mind was settled. There was no gamble to be made. A gamble required a chance to win, and in this, he had none.

Subterfuge would take a lot of preparation. He needed to know his enemy and understand them. Right now, he knew next to nothing about them.

Meanwhile, heroic action would require someone like Sir Harold, Sir Morton, or Sir Anci to delay the enemy with a duel or some bold feat to buy time. He had none of them here. He had a Big Ben, but he doubted the rioters would answer a challenge from a half-breed.

After exhausting all his options, Lansius knew he had only one way out.

But as his men prepared for the worst, Lansius kept his eyes open for even the smallest chance to buy time. His guards would not like it, but he had a duty to his men. No matter what, he would lead them and do everything in his power to keep them from destruction.

And then he realized something. He looked left and right, finding the plains covered in darkness, and knew there might be a chance for a sleight of hand, one that would not risk anyone or require a great deal of manpower or resources.

With a surge of purpose, Lansius strode toward his center line. His entourage and guards dutifully followed.

***

Saint Candidate's Separate Army

Sir Hohendorf and his men were initially surprised by the promised light of Saint Nay now shining directly on them. Only the unyielding will of the Saint’s followers, bordering on fanaticism, kept the rioters moving forward without so much as a flinch. He had heard reports of several bands breaking and running, but even trained troops might do the same, so it was well within expectations. He remained confident, as did his officers.

When things grew calmer on their march, Sir Hohendorf leaned toward the Saint Candidate behind him and whispered, "Is the light from the Saint supposed to shine on us like this?"

"Of course," the Saint Candidate answered firmly, though her tone betrayed some doubt.

Without a word, Sir Hohendorf guessed it was the Lord’s magical device, likely a rare dwarven artifact. He swept his gaze over his men, now clearly visible in the light, and saw nothing alarming. The beam seemed harmless, reminding him of the gemstones of light that adorned the great halls of castles.

"Do you still have doubts?" came a soft, meek voice from behind.

"No, Saint Candidate. It's only a question. My will remains steadfast."

Her tone grew innocent. "You would not run, even if he shows more tricks up his sleeve?"

"Of course not. You shall see my valor, worthy of your affection."

She blushed and asked with a lover’s shyness, "Worthy to me, or the Saint?"

The knight gave a low chuckle. "Before the world, my loyalty is to the Saint’s cause. But in my heart, it is for you."

The answer satisfied the Saint Candidate, who pressed herself closer to him despite his armor.

With her comforted, he turned his gaze back toward the battlefield. The light now shone against him, leaving the field before the arena in shadow. He could make out nothing but the faint glow of lanterns and scattered torches.

He wondered if the other rioters were still fighting, and if so, what the situation was. He cursed inwardly that he had no cavalry to scout. With no other option, he turned and signaled for his cousin.

The cousin, recently married into a wealthy merchant family, rode forward. "Yes?" he asked, bowing his head slightly to the Saint Candidate, who gave a sharp nod in return.

"Cousin," Sir Hohendorf called, "you have an oil lantern. Can you ride out, rendezvous with our ally, and find out the enemy’s position and strength? Do this, and you will bring fame to your House and raise it closer to nobility."

Though he wore a fine brigandine, fear flickered in his eyes. "I’ll do it. But may I ask for help?"

"You may take two other riders, but no more. The more you take, the more likely the enemy is to spot you."

"Then await my return," he said, mustering his confidence as he guided his horse back to his friends. Soon, three riders set out toward the plains in front of the arena.

"Do you fear for his safety?" the Saint Candidate asked.

"He's like the brother I never had," he admitted.

"He'll do fine. Once this is over, you'll have him as the new Lord of Krakusa," she teased.

Her words empowered Sir Hohendorf as they rode closer to the battlefield. Now, he had only a handful of riders left, including his squire. But with their numbers, he could form a wide front to surround the Lord's formation and still keep enough fighting men in reserve.

He watched as his force, over five thousand strong, marched as steadily as they could. Despite already spreading his men out, he had not yet given the order to form a battle line, knowing many lacked the training to hold one while moving over a long distance. Ironically, the source of the Lord's light, which his men believed to be the Saint's, now served as a remarkably useful guide in the darkness. Without it, they would have been hard pressed to keep a wide front at night without scattering.

After several long minutes of cautious marching, Sir Hohendorf motioned for another man, who rode up to him.

"You called for me, Master?" The man was his father's old aide.

To him, Sir Hohendorf confided, "It's time. Form the men into a wide line."

"And what about your five hundred?" the old man asked.

"Three hundred should form our core in the center. Two hundred should remain as reserve."

"Duly noted, Master." The man replied, then rode off to relay the order. The massed army slowly halted and began to shift, forming their battle line on this fateful night.

They had the Black Lord trapped, and Sir Hohendorf knew he just had to keep from making a blunder.

It took many minutes, but at last his formation was ready. The line stretched for hundreds of meters and stood several men deep. Along the battle line, hundreds of torches were set alight, casting wild, flickering light over a patchwork of armor, battered weapons, and eager faces. The shoddy gear and poorly armed rioters were masked by the darkness, leaving only a wall of fire and fanatical resolve.

Sir Hohendorf eagerly rode to the center, where his men gathered around him. He and the Saint Candidate dismounted, not wanting to fall victim to the Lord's attack.

The knight turned to face his troops. "Men," he called out proudly, "this is the moment we have been waiting for. We have caught the Black Demon in our net, and now it is time to banish him from our world."

"For the Living Saint!" the Saint Candidate shouted in support, and thousands roared their battle cries.

"Forward!" Sir Hohendorf commanded, and his signalmen sounded the horns.

Five thousand marched in formation, spears leveled and ready to protect against any sudden cavalry attack. They advanced carefully toward the Saint’s light, their strides eager, their grips on their weapons steady, their eyes fixed ahead.

On Sir Hohendorf’s order, a separate screen of men bearing lanterns and torches moved forward to scout. These daring men were paid for their courage and did not need to fight, only to learn the situation ahead.

"Shields," Sir Hohendorf commanded as they drew closer.

Those who had shields raised them, bracing for a crossbow volley. Yet none came.

It was all too quiet. Only the buzz of summer insects filled the night.

The men squinted into the gloom but saw nothing suspicious. All the while, the white light continued to shine down on them, glorious and unwavering.

"Sir, our riders are gone," one of his staff warned.

Only then did Sir Hohendorf realize his cousin and the other riders had vanished. Their yellow lanterns on the grassland were gone, and only the distant neigh of horses could be heard somewhere in the darkness.

"It can't be. There are three of them," the knight muttered through gritted teeth. "Search for him. Send a detachment."

"But where? Did anyone see where he was last?" one of his staff asked, concerned.

"To the left of the arena gate," one man offered, but it did little to help.

From the side, his twenty-something squire tried to reassure him. "If it were a bolt attack, he should be fine. His brigandine is well made."

The knight turned to the Saint Candidate. "What can you see?"

She shook her head, squinting into the distance. "It's hard to see... the tall grass, the white light," she mumbled, sweat beading on her brow. She looked paler than ever, barely able to stand without the support of her aides.

"Brace yourselves, we're getting closer," his father's old aide called out, rallying the men. The ranks answered with a fanatical roar.

Suddenly, the scouts ahead began to scream. As if that was the signal, a volley of bolts tore out of the darkness.

"We've found the enemy! Commence the assault!" Sir Hohendorf bellowed at the top of his lungs.

"Launch the assault!" his father's aide shouted in support.

The five thousand surged forward, spears lowered as they began their charge. Torches flared, and the battle line moved into the darkness like a living wall, hunting the Lord’s men. The assault had begun.

***

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