CHAPTER 279: BLOOD AND ABANDON

Blood and Abandon

Kapua City, Nicopola

It was a wet, cold gray morning, the drizzle falling almost constantly upon the heads of the new King’s army encircling Kapua. The sea of men had eaten their warm gruel beneath leaky field tents, a meal that might well be their last. Slowly, as they had done before, they assumed formation in the field, arrayed themselves before the city walls, and waited for the order. Today, they were assigned to the second wave. Ahead of them, the first wave was already locked in combat.

The men of the second wave stood waiting, soaked through, all but the hair beneath their helmets. The din of screams and shouting battered their ears, broken only by the incessant coughs from their own ranks. Many shivered as the cold wind cut through their damp tunics.

Before them loomed the crude but massive siege ladders, each manned by a hundred crewmen who hauled, braced, and shielded the towering frames so that others might climb. Crossbowmen stood nearby, providing cover. To the left and right stood more of the same, long ranks of men filing into the ladders to feed the assault.

Many of these wooden behemoths had been rebuilt several times, their beams blackened with scorch marks from being burned again and again, only to be raised once more.

Under the dull gray weather, the men nervously waited for command. All around them, hundreds upon hundreds of men formed lines toward the numerous siege ladders. Shouts of orders and encouragement mingled with screams of pain and terror from above.

Men fell again and again, ending with the wet thud of bodies striking the ditch. As many had feared, the defenders were merciless. Even without fire, today they would certainly claim many lives.

A few vomited as they saw blood seeping into the overflowing muddy water.

“Move out!” a recently made lieutenant shouted. It was finally the second wave’s turn.

They began to march with heavy steps toward their doom.

“Keep going,” the ladder crews commanded. “Don’t let a gap form.”

“There is food in that city and beyond it,” another crewman cried, his voice hoarse.

An officer bellowed, “Do you want bread for your family? Take the city and warm bread shall be yours!”

Yet their cries fell dull. The men cared little and believed less. They had seen the futility of storming a well-defended wall. Many knowingly had salvaged helmets, shields, swords, or other gear taken from the dead in previous assaults. Death had never felt so close.

The wounded from the previous day’s assault were among them, limping forward with the rest. Fear gnawed at all, but each knew there was no other way. It was not discipline but desperation that drove them to heed the call to climb and fight. Everyone had been hardened by three long years of starvation, and they remembered all too well how narrowly they had escaped that fate. There was no justice in this world. There was only the struggle to survive.

In this army, it was not the single men who formed the core strength, but the heads of families with wives and children to feed.

These older men now marched in line, protected only by their helmets and gambesons. A few of the fittest carried shields and climbed with them to open a path.

“Keep going! The men before you have already carved a way. Don't waste it. Climb!”

In the drizzle, the men set foot upon the mud-soaked wooden platforms, which squeaked under their weight and shifted unsteadily. The rungs were slick with mud and rain, yet still they climbed amid the chorus of shouted commands and hoarse cries of encouragement.

“Harvest is just around the corner! Defeat the Dawn, and a bountiful harvest shall be ours!”

“We have killed every noble but Lord Dawn. Show him no mercy!”

There were also some with good sense who shouted warnings: “Clean the mud from your soles before you climb! By the Ancients, you will slip to your deaths!”

As tens of men ascended, following the first wave as quickly as they could, a royal herald arrived from another section, escorted by tall men in knightly armor. He gazed at the climbing soldiers, the crews, and the hundreds still waiting behind, and then declared in a magnificent, commanding voice:

“Hear me, O my King’s brave subjects! The foolhardy Dawn and their lord, Avery, have rejected the King’s merciful and benevolent offer. They cling to the magical soil they stole from our land. Without it, no field will yield its grain, and no man shall see a bountiful harvest. So follow the King’s order and quash this injustice that has befallen us, take back the soil from these thieves, and by next year the earth itself shall reward you with a merry harvest!”

The young lieutenant of the siege ladder, unshaken even as another man fell to his death not far from where they stood, shouted excitedly, “For the new King!”

“For the new King!” his men roared back, their voices rising with raw energy.

The new King was the only face of hope they had left. All had heard of his dream of Nicopola for all, unbound from the shackles of the Imperium. A place where men of every origin could coexist in a society of merit, where food would be plentiful, and every family would have homes and farms.

The irony was lost on them that the northern lands they had seized were more fertile, yet they depended on conquering the south to survive.

“Get to the top, get to the top!” The men of the second wave shouted with ragged breaths as hundreds climbed the dozen siege ladders surrounding the city walls.

Three thousand had already perished along the walls after several days of fighting, cut down in endless assaults on every section of the battlements. By comparison, only a few hundred reinforcements from recently conquered warlords had joined the King’s fold.

The King’s army was bleeding out, yet the men kept iron in their hearts.

All knew they had to fight, for without victory here, there would be no food for the coming winter. Many had once been simple men, never bred for war. Others were refugees from distant provinces, driven here by the western nomad incursions.

With shaky hands and muscles bulging and burning, they hauled themselves up, one by one, until the first group reached the final rungs of the ladder. They stepped onto the battlements where blood-stained the stones, and bodies lay scattered. But there was no enemy.

Their breath escaped in tense bursts as eyes darted left and right. Yet again, only the cold drizzle and the howling wind greeted them.

Everyone was as confused as they were drenched. “Where are they?” one shouted to the men who had climbed ahead of them.

“We're chasing them. Do not let your guard down!” a man from the group in front shrieked back in a hurry.

The group scrambled onward, shields raised in the front, moving toward the nearest tower. Behind them, more men crested the ladders and met the same eerie emptiness, yet pressed forward quickly.

What remained of the advance group, bloodied and battered, stopped at the tower entrance. The door was locked. They had suffered heavy losses, but for the moment, the situation seemed under control. No counterattack came from inside, and even the arrow slits stayed silent.

“Hatchet!” one man at the front shouted.

“Here!” another answered, passing forward a woodcutter’s axe.

Then a man stepped up and hacked at the door with savage blows, each strike echoing over the battlements.

But the door held firm. The timbers had been cured for defense, dense and hardened, difficult to split.

“Look!” one shouted, pointing past the wall toward the heart of the city.

Every head turned, and in the drizzle they saw it: a majestic airship descending from the clouds, its black hull glistening with rain as it settled toward the highest point of the castle.

A hush of awe gripped them.

“They are escaping,” one blurted out.

Another turned back toward the ladder and shouted, “Call the crossbowmen, we need them here!”

“Faster!” someone else urged the man with the hatchet.

A second man seized the axe and began hacking at the door. Behind them, the third group that had climbed joined with the fourth to haul up a smaller ladder, angling it for a direct descent into the city. Below, after some confusion and hesitation, a dozen crossbowmen began their climb.

Against all odds, the Lord of Dawn had given up the city. Before the night’s end, Kapua, the foothold into the southern lands, would be under the King's command.

***

Border of Elandia and Nicopola

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Winding roads and ancient paths stretched before them, half-forgotten and overgrown. Few traveled this part of the province anymore. The column of three thousand moved slowly, burdened by the weakest refugees among them. What had begun as a few hundred had now swelled in number. Many had joined in search of safety, knowing that not even Elandia under Lord Bengrieve was truly secure. With the downfall of the Imperium, many believed that sooner or later, all would be touched by the fire of war.

Thus, their quest was to find shelter from the strife. Heading southwest, their destination was not Nicopola but the foot of the Targe mountain. Traditions spoke of forgotten cities of old, bastions that had once shielded mankind during the legendary Beastmen Wars. They might be abandoned ruins by now, but they would serve well enough as a sanctuary.

While nobody said it aloud, it was clear the people were ready to live a secluded life, as far away as possible from the dangers that came with the fall of the Imperium.

What they feared most was the succession wars, as nobles would eventually wage war, vying for power, influence, and complete domination.

The march had already lasted nearly two months, slowed by long halts for rest. This was why Knight Commander Bald Eagle had opposed letting the refugees join in the first place. Yet Lady Sagaria, their informal leader, overruled him each time, insisting the people be allowed to travel with them.

Still, little by little, their journey carried them ever deeper into the ancient borderlands.

For days, the path had drawn them into a vast forest. Towering old-growth trees closed around them like sentinels, their canopy swallowing the road. Beyond lay the Targe mountain range, looming in nearly every direction, its jagged ridges dividing the provinces of the old Imperium. Though summer lingered, the air was chill beneath its shadow.

“Amazing,” murmured Paulos, the Imperium official who had escaped from the Capital. He sat at the front of the horse-drawn cart that rocked and swayed gently, gazing downward in quiet wonder.

Sagaria, sharing the cart with Paulos’ wife, a lovely woman in her early twenties, glanced left and right but saw nothing to justify his awe.

Noticing her curiosity, Paulos explained, “We are deep in the forest, but the roads are surprisingly good.”

Understanding what he meant, Sagaria replied softly, careful not to disturb the sleeping woman beside her, “A long time ago, this was part of the Imperium’s border. They built roads so reinforcements could move quickly.”

“I see,” mumbled Paulos, fascinated.

Walking next to the cart, Sir Munius, a stalwart knight in his prime, gazed at Sagaria and said, “Your knowledge about the area surprises me.”

“I traveled here in my younger days with a company. They taught me many things,” Sagaria explained briefly.

Sir Munius nodded, and the conversation naturally faded. After traveling together since last winter, their words had long run dry. Asking more would feel intrusive. Sagaria rarely, if ever, spoke about her past or family, which remained shrouded in mystery.

Her last words did not help. How could a hat maker from Centuria or Tiberia have traveled so widely? She even claimed to know Elandia. Yet she barely looked older than her mid-twenties.

They continued their journey for another hour before the sound of trotting horses from the front shattered the quiet. Sir Munius signaled to his men, and the entire column halted.

The four hundred men-at-arms under Bald Eagle, who guarded the rear, quickly checked their weapons.

But it was only one of their scouts, riding hard and fast as if in a hurry.

“Hail!” Sir Munius called out, raising his hand to signal him. The mounted scout slowed and came to a stop.

“Sir Munius, we found a walled city at the end of this path,” the scout reported hastily from the saddle, his face drawn with concern while his horse panted heavily.

“That is good news, so why the tone?” Sir Munius asked.

“It’s eerie… wrong somehow,” the scout answered, drawing everyone’s attention. “The surrounding hamlets and villages look recently abandoned. We saw no one.”

Sir Munius exhaled sharply, but undeterred, replied, “It must be one of the cities raided by Nicopolan armed refugees and mercenaries last year.”

Their ever-youthful leader, Sagaria, rose on her cart, steadying herself against the bundles and packed goods piled within. “How far?”

“Less than half a day’s march on foot, my Lady,” the scout answered.

Sagaria nodded and turned to Sir Munius, who said to her, “We should reach it hours before sundown.”

“Then we must hurry,” she replied, her tone sharper than usual. “This forest is unsafe.”

Sir Munius’ eyes narrowed. “Bandits?” he ventured, which prompted the coachman, Paulos, and several nearby men to turn and look at her.

Sagaria’s voice grew heavy, her tone filled with certainty. “It is faint, but I recognize the signs. Fell beasts have reclaimed this forest. We are marching through their territory.”

***

Canardia Castle

Inside the Grand Hall, high within the castle, Lansius sat in his chair facing his first water clock, standing in the corner as large as an armoire or clothes cabinet. This intriguing piece was one of many confiscated treasures from the nobles’ estates. It bore the markings of Centurian workmanship and had been carefully maintained, every brass component of its inner mechanism polished near to perfection. The clock face was beautiful, brushed silver, as broad as a small shield, marked with twenty-four divisions, with noon at the top and midnight at the bottom.

Its delicate mechanism worked by the steady weight of water dripping from a long, narrow nozzle, each drop turning a series of gears that moved the hands across the face.

On another day, Lansius would have examined such a marvel with excitement, but now he found it foreboding, almost immoral, to take delight in it. He turned away after checking the time. A quarter to eight.

This morning, there was no court. Instead, Lord Robert, the Lion of Lowlandia, who usually roamed the Great Hall, was present here in the Grand Hall.

“None of you need to see it,” the older lord said to Lansius and Audrey, who sat beside each other.

Lord Robert continued, more to Audrey, “Even with the new method, it would still be a gruesome sight, My Lady. Not fit for a new mother."

“I understand,” Audrey replied gracefully on Lansius’ behalf. Though she wanted to see the death of the traitors who had nearly killed her husband, she took no pleasure in watching executions. She would have preferred to see them thrown against a bear in the arena.

“You too, My Lord Shogun,” the older lord said, turning to Lansius. “There is little reason to give them the satisfaction of begging or cursing before you.”

“What they do in their last hour under the sun is of little importance to me," Lansius remarked.

“Good,” Lord Robert said with approval. “This whole rebellion has been grim enough to erode what smiles remain for days to come.”

Turning to Audrey, Lansius asked, “Who do you send as our representative?”

“Karl and Sterling,” she replied. “They were there in the thick of the fight.”

“Yes.” Lansius nodded. “It is only fitting.”

The water clock struck eight and gave a merry dinging sound. One of the tones was off, evidence of its age, likely a family heirloom. And now, the former owner of this fine clock, along with twenty-two other condemned and sixty-nine of their retainers, faced their last hour under the sun. They had been found guilty without doubt of drawing their swords against their lord and conspiring against the ruling House. But the most heinous crime was the breaking of their oath, which made them universally despised.

Lansius rose, walked to the window, and looked out at the morning sun. Its warmth welcomed him after a night of drizzle.

The execution ground had been set at the foot of the hill path where Lansius had nearly made his last stand. There, thousands of rioters had died in the ditches leading to the Hill Camp. The place had been cleaned only days after the battle ended. He heard it took many stocks of the alchemists’ flammable concoctions to cremate the overflowing bodies in the ditches after the captured rebels had stripped them of everything of value.

As for the reason, Lansius felt it was only just that the conspirators who had pulled the strings should die where their puppets had fallen. It gave everyone, perhaps even the spirits, a sense of closure.

The execution method he had chosen was a heavy crossbow fired into the nape of the neck at near point-blank range. The force of the bolt would reliably snap the spine and bring instant death. He preferred this over an executioner’s axe or sword, which required great skill to perform cleanly. Lansius knew too well of botched executions in the medieval era, when several strokes were needed, turning the act into a gruesome and unnecessary horror for all who witnessed it.

The crossbow method was said to have been practiced by the Qin, who fielded vast numbers of crossbows in their armies. In an unmarked tomb near Emperor Qin Shi Huang’s mausoleum, the remains of an unidentified male were found with a crossbow bolt lodged in his skull. It was believed that even a Prince of Qin had met his end similarly, caught in a power struggle after the Emperor’s death.

The Romans, by contrast, practiced a similar execution with a downward thrust of the sword to the back of the neck, lending the method further credence.

Lansius looked westward but knew that unless he was at the tower, he would not see past the city wall, yet he still felt compelled to gaze that way.

By now, the crowd would be seeing the execution...

He exhaled with eyes closed, wondering whether the crowd would cheer at such a gruesome spectacle or merely watch in shock.

Lansius erased the thought and returned to his seat. There were reports to be read, but with Lord Robert present, he chose to talk instead. “Robert,” he called rather awkwardly.

The Lion of Lowlandia let out a gentle grin. He had always wished to treat Lansius as extended family. “Yes, My Lord Shogun.”

“It is only fitting if you call us by name as well, Robert,” Audrey remarked with a soft smile.

Robert chuckled. “I must admit, I am not prepared for this. Then, how about, Dear Audrey, then.”

“Acceptable,” she smiled and inclined her head graciously.

Lansius watched them with a warm feeling. Audrey had no family aside from Omin, who was only slightly older than her. For a long time, she had not had a father figure in her life, and Robert seemed able to fill that role. Outwardly, they looked quite compatible as father and daughter, sharing a fondness for horses and riding, both being adept horsemen.

With nothing urgent to discuss, they turned the talk to how Midlandia was so different, from the air to the food, and how the sheer number of people made everything noisy and crowded. Still, Robert concluded that the province was very rich, and no place in Lowlandia could truly compare. The only issue was the lack of vast grasslands to support horse breeding. Thus came the need for Korelia and other cities like Ornietia to keep promoting horse breeding, to meet their growing demand.

Finally, there was a knocking at the door. Carla opened it to check and allowed Francisca to enter.

“My Lord Shogun, My Lady, My Lord,” the half-breed greeted all three.

“Please,” Lansius gestured for her to step in.

“I will be swift,” Francisca said. “I bring a message from Sir Sterling: the condemned have been executed. The process was clean and quick. The crowd is under control, and the cremation is scheduled at sundown.”

Audrey and Robert exchanged a glance with Lansius, who exhaled before asking, “Is that all?”

“That is all from Sterling, but Ocelot also reported to me. What do you wish to know?”

“How were their last words?” Lansius asked.

“Most of the nobles from Krakusa begged for mercy until the very end. A few showed no remorse and were gagged for cursing. The crowd pelted these men with rotten vegetables and pebbles. As for the retainers, most faced it with guilt and shame. Some showed cowardice, but they met their deaths all the same.”

Lansius nodded. “Gratitude,” he said to Francisca, who bowed her head and withdrew. Carla closed the door behind her.

Not wishing to linger on the grim matter, Lansius shifted the subject and said to Robert, “This noon, I will tell my staff about our plan regarding titles and compensation under the Shogunate.”

“Ah, the enfeoffment you speak of. Have you consulted with your staff?” Robert asked, his interest piqued.

“I have spoken with the senior scribes and the clerk under me. They researched the rules and the laws regarding it.”

Robert looked pleased. “Then it is legal, so to speak?”

“We are stretching it a little, but they assured me that even if the Imperium still stood, it would not be breaking their law.”

Robert chuckled, clearly amused. “I look forward to the announcement. Let us pray your staff’s reaction will be favorable.”

Lansius nodded and turned to Audrey. “I do not wish to be seen as withholding the men’s prize any longer.”

“Yes,” Audrey agreed, “best not to appear greedy by keeping back the men’s rights.”

“Indeed. Especially after such meritorious conduct in battle,” Lansius said.

The question was whether the men would understand his intention or whether it would breed discontent. They had gone through prize-giving ceremonies and accolades, and he had given them coins and luxuries, but land and titles were everything in this era. By delaying, Lansius might be seen as a greedy leader clutching at what was owed. Worse, had Robert not pointed it out, he might never have realized at all.

Now that he had found a solution, he wanted to resolve this quickly, lest he face a crisis within his own House. After all, the Art of War said: “Rewards for good service should not be deferred a single day.”

He knew he had been late. With the battle against the Monastery looming, and his plan to send only his ranking officer as commander, Lansius needed everything in order.

***