The First Siege Read online

  THE FIRST SIEGE

  Jonathan Moeller

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  Description

  A citadel held by brutal warriors. One knight’s boldness might make the difference between victory and death.

  When orcish warriors seize Castra Liria, the Lord of the Northerland must repulse them. Sir Gareth Arban rides to battle with him, seeking glory and renown.

  When he learns of a secret path into the fortress, it might mean victory, or a swift death…

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  The First Siege

  Copyright 2022 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Smashwords Edition.

  Cover design by Jonathan Moeller.

  Ebook edition published June 2022.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

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  A brief author’s note

  This story takes place between the events of the novels DRAGONSKULL: SWORD OF THE SQUIRE and DRAGONSKULL: SHIELD OF THE KNIGHT.

  A map of the realm of Andomhaim is available on the author’s website at this link (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4487).

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  The First Siege

  In the spring of the Year of Our Lord 1499, Dux Constantine Licinius of the Northerland rode to war with his knights.

  For years the Dux of the Northerland had spent most of the spring and the summer in the saddle, riding to defend the lands he held and to repulse raiders coming out of the Wilderland or the caverns of the Deeps. For much of the Northerland was still held by foes of the men of Andomhaim. The ice dwarves had their fortress in the valley below the Black Mountain, and tribes of the medvarth controlled fully half of the Northerland. Dux Constantine wanted to drive the invaders from his ancestral domain and resettle the reclaimed lands with new freeholders and knights, to rebuild his duxarchate to the strength it had possessed before the war with the Frostborn.

  But, as Gareth Arban had seen since he had become a squire and a knight, battle was a democracy. The enemy also received a vote.

  And depending on how clever or how numerous the enemy was, he might have enough votes to force the matter.

  The orcish raiders holding Castra Liria thought so.

  Castra Liria lay several days’ ride north of Castra Marcaine, on the edge of the Wilderland itself. In days past, it had been one of the northernmost fortresses of the realm of Andomhaim, guarding the boundary of the Northerland from raiders emerging from the uncharted wilderness. Because of that, it had fallen to foes many times. The Frostborn had seized it, and then a medvarth tribe had conquered the castra for themselves. The medvarth warriors used the castra as a stronghold, raiding their rivals and the men of the Northerland.

  Then the medvarth themselves had been wiped out by a band of orcish raiders, who had slaughtered the bearmen and taken Castra Liria for themselves. The Wilderland orcs had begun attacking the villages near Castra Marcaine, carrying off cattle and crops for themselves. The Dux had no choice but to ride to Castra Liria in hopes of driving off the orcs and retaking the fortress.

  Which was how Gareth found himself fighting for his life in a pine forest.

  He was a household knight of Castra Marcaine, one of the Dux’s own men, along with his friends Philip, Crake, and Jerome. Of course, they were the youngest of the Dux’s household knights, which meant they received some of the less desirable tasks – guarding the baggage train, overseeing the raising and the disassembling of the camp every evening and morning, and other such chores.

  But the orcish raiders from the Northerland were clever, and instead of engaging the Dux’s footmen or mounted knights, they swept out of the forest on their horses and attacked the wagons of the baggage train.

  An orcish warrior mounted on a shaggy horse rode at Gareth, spear raised to strike. The animal was smaller than a knight’s war horse, and just barely large enough to support the orc’s weight. The warrior wore leather armor reinforced with steel rivets, a wooden shield on his left arm, and the steel-tipped spear in his right hand. Gareth wore his chain mail hauberk and a helmet, his sword in his right hand and a heavy shield of oak and steel upon his left arm.

  The orc’s spear plunged down, and Gareth raised his shield and deflected the strike. The orc struck hard, so hard that the tip of his weapon carved a groove in the oak of the shield. Gareth caught a glimpse of his opponent’s face beneath his iron helmet, the black eyes gleaming with the red glare of orcish battle rage, the green face marked with warpaint of blue and black.

  Before the orc could recover his balance, Gareth struck, his sword stabbing upward. The blade punched through the leather covering the orc’s stomach and sliced upward beneath his ribs to pierce the lungs. Green blood gushed from the wound and poured down the sword, the smell harsh and metallic. A knight’s war horse was trained to stand the smell and sounds of battle, but the orc’s shaggy horse had not enjoyed the benefits of the same training. At the smell of the green blood, the horse reared back with a frightened scream, hooves lashing at the air, while the movement ripped Gareth’s sword from the wounded orc’s torso. Gareth jumped back to avoid the hooves, and the orc fell backward from the saddle, the spear tumbling from his hand.

  The horse whirled and dashed into the pine trees.

  Gareth looked at his fallen foe, but there was no need. The sword had pierced a major blood vessel, and to judge from the dazed look on the orc’s face, the warrior was only seconds from bleeding out. Even as Gareth looked, the orc let out a sighing breath and died, the red glare fading from his eyes.

  Gareth lifted his shield in guard and looked around for more foes, but the skirmish was over.

  The orcish raiders had tried to hit the supply wagons. But Lord Constantine was no fool and kept his supply train well-guarded. After the fury of the first rush, the orcs had faded back into the trees. Gareth saw dead orcs lying strewn across the ground, along with a few of the Dux’s men-at-arms.

  But the fighting was done for now.

  Hooves thundered against the earth. Sir Tragen Volarus, the Dux’s master-at-arms, rode at the head of a dozen knights. Tragen was a big man with a perpetual scowl behind a bushy black beard. When Gareth had been a squire, Tragen had kept him occupied from dawn to dusk with all manner of work and training. Now that Gareth was a knight, he and Sir Tragen were equals in rank – but Tragen was still the master-at-arms and only a fool would disregard his orders.

  “Sir Gareth!” said Tragen. “What news?”

  Gareth glanced at the others. Jerome and Crake stood a short distance away, orcish blood on their swords. Philip was behind them, his bow in hand, his quiver empty. A dozen men-at-arms stood around the wagons of the supply train, which had come to a halt during the attack.

  “I think we’ve driven them off, Sir Tragen,” said Gareth.

  “Good,” said Tragen. The knight glanced at the sky. It was a clear spring day, with a few puffy white clouds overhead, but it had gotten darker during the fighting as the sun slipped beneath the rocky, pine-cloaked hills to the west. “We’ve come far enough that the Dux wants to stop and camp for the night. We should reach Castra Liria tomorrow. Get the wagons into the center of the camp and the tents raised. We’ll need to set a strong watch tonight. No doubt the orcs will try to make more mischief.”

  ###

  “So why did all those orcs have blue paint on their faces?” said Jerome.

  That night Gareth sat at the campfire with Crake, Philip, Jerome, and a few other of the Dux’s household knights, mostly older men not inclined to conversation. Spring had come to the Northerland, but the nights were still cold, and the heat of the fire was welcome. Though it was nice not to worry about freezing to death. Gareth would be cold and uncomfortable in his tent, but he wouldn’t have to worry about his fingers falling off from the winter chill.

  Crake grunted. “Does it matter? Pagan orcs paint their faces when they go to war. One of their customs, I reckon.”

  “I asked Magistrius Korbin about it,” said Philip. “He says that shows the orcs are followers of Rhal.”

  “Rhal?” said Crake. “Who the hell is Rhal?”

  “One of the old orcish blood gods, the gods the orcs worshipped before the dark elves brought them to our world,” said Gareth.

  Crake took a bite of bread. “Brace yourselves, everyone, the Southron is about to lecture us about history.”

  Gareth ignored the jibe. “You already know about Qazalask. The bone orcs worship him. Mhor was the blood god of…well, killing, I suppose, and slaughter. The Kothluuskan orcs offer sacrifices to him and kill in his name.”

  “So what is Rhal the god of?” said Crake. “Blue face paint?”

  Jerome snorted out a laugh.

  “Battle, I think,” said Gareth.

  “How’s that different than the god of slaughter?”

  Gareth shrugged. “The difference between killing a man in a duel and killing him in his sleep, I suppose. There used to be a cult of assassins in Cintarra, aye? The Re
d Family. They would murder in the name of Mhor.”

  “I know the Red Family,” said Crake.

  Jerome blinked. “You know assassins for hire?”

  Crake rolled his eyes. “I know of the Red Family. I’m from Cintarra, remember? Everyone in Cintarra knew about them. My mother…well, people would tell their children that if they didn’t behave, the Red Family would come and get them. Of course, the Red Family all got wiped out when the Heptarchy came. No great loss, that.”

  “No,” said Gareth. His father had mentioned the Red Family a few times. They had worked for the usurper Tarrabus Carhaine during Andomhaim’s civil war. His father had always worried that the Red Family might try to seek revenge for their losses at his hands, but the arrival of the Heptarchy’s army had made that fear moot.

  “If they follow the god of battles,” said Jerome, “maybe they’ll march out from Castra Liria to fight us.”

  “I doubt that,” said Philip. “Rhal is the god of battles, not bad decisions. Castra Liria is a strong fortress, and they can hold there for a long time.”

  “Aye, lads,” said Crake. “Better get ready for a siege. I think we’re going to be sitting outside of Castra Liria for all of the spring and most of summer.”

  ###

  The next day, the Dux’s knights arrived at the walls of Castra Liria.

  Gareth looked at the walls of the castra and realized that Crake’s assessment of the situation had been correct.

  A long siege awaited them.

  Ruins dotted the Northerland. Some of them were recent, left over from the Frostborn war, villages and castras and monasteries that had been sacked and never rebuilt. Some were older, crumbling orcish towers and strongholds from before humans had come to this world. And others were older yet – dark elven towers and labyrinths from the ancient war between the high elves and the dark elves, places of evil that drew creatures of dark magic like maggots to carrion.

  Castra Liria, alas, was one of the stronger ruins that Gareth had seen.

  It was not a place of dark magic, but nonetheless, it would not be easy to take.

  The castra filled the top of a large hill. Its stone curtain wall encircled the entirety of the hilltop, reinforced with three watch towers. Twin towers guarded the gate, a massive slab of oak reinforced with iron bands. The gate looked new – either the medvarth warriors or the Rhalite orcs who had seized the fortress must have rebuilt it. On the northern side of the hill loomed a massive keep that had been built into the curtain wall.

  Portions of the fortress had fallen into ruin and had been rebuilt in haste. Gareth saw patches of the wall had that been repaired with rubble or portions of the battlements that had been shored up with crude planks. Despite that, the gate was strong, and the slope leading to the entrance was steep. Castra Liria would not fall easily.

  Nor would the orcs be taken unawares. Gareth saw orcish warriors standing guard on the ramparts, watching the Dux’s men. Like the raiders who had attacked the supply train, the Rhalite orcs wore a motley assortment of armor and carried a variety of weapons. But the orcs looked like they knew how to use their weapons, and they kept a careful watch on the path leading to the gate.

  “This is going to be,” said Crake, “a bloody mess.”

  Gareth could not disagree.

  He stood with his friends at the edge of the Dux’s camp, watching the walls of Castra Liria. They had one significant advantage – the Rhalite orcs had bows, but no ballistae or catapults or other siege engines. Their camp was just out of bowshot but much closer than it would have been had the Rhalites possessed a ballista or two.

  “The slope of the hill is too steep to get ladders to the wall,” said Philip.

  “We could get ladders near the gate,” said Jerome. “That’s not so steep.”

  “Aye, and they’ll have a clear field of fire at anyone coming up,” said Crake.

  “It will have to be a ram,” said Gareth. “Or we’ll batter down the gate with our own engines.” Among the Dux’s men-at-arms were competent engineers, and some of the supply wagons had held the parts to build catapults. In another day, they could start flinging rocks at the gate in hopes of bashing their way through, but that would take time.

  “I wonder if we’ll be able to starve out the orcs,” said Jerome.

  “I doubt it,” said Gareth. “The orcs have been raiding the outer villages for a while. They probably have enough supplies to hold out for at least a few months. I wonder why they didn’t retreat to the Wilderland with their loot.”

  “Glorious battle, aye?” said Crake. “Of course, Southron, if you seize the castra single-handedly, maybe that would be enough to impress that Lady Iseult of yours.”

  “Knowing Iseult, I think she’d be more impressed with the loot instead of the castra,” said Philip.

  Gareth swallowed the annoyed response that came to his tongue. “I don’t think the greatest Swordbearer in the history of the realm could take that place by himself.” He looked at the camp. “I think we had better talk to Sir Tragen and volunteer to patrol.”

  Crake frowned. “Why would we do something bloody stupid like that?”

  “Because if we don’t,” said Philip, “Sir Tragen will find us, see us standing idle, and volunteer us to help cut down trees for the siege engines.”

  “That is a very good point, sir,” said Crake, and they went in search of the master-at-arms.

  ###

  But as it happened, Sir Tragen had already been bidden to find them.

  “The Dux has a task for you lot,” said Tragen. He had the distracted frown of a man with a thousand different things on his mind. “This way.”

  Gareth and his friends followed Sir Tragen to Dux Constantine’s pavilion. Constantine Licinius’s banner flew from a pole in front of the pavilion, the sigil of a white hart upon a field of green. Constantine Licinius himself stood before the banner, clad in plate mail and a green surcoat. The soulblade Brightherald rested in a scabbard upon his belt. The Dux had curly black hair starting to turn to gray and hooded dark eyes.

  “My lord,” said Crake with a bow, and Gareth and the others followed suit.

  “What do you make of the castra?” said Constantine.

  “It’s a strong place,” said Gareth.

  “We’ll find a way to take it, though,” said Crake.

  “Let us hope so,” said Constantine. “I had hoped to have Castra Liria in our hands years ago, but it was too far from Castra Marcaine and the other strongholds of the Northerland. The medvarth the Rhalite orcs displaced were less troublesome. We will need to retake the castra and hold it, or else it shall be a dagger in the heart of the Northerland.”

  “It’s a long way to Castra Marcaine from here,” said Philip.

  “It is,” said Constantine, “which is part of the problem. This siege will take several weeks at the least. Our supply line is long and could easily be cut, and I doubt all the Rhalite orcs withdrew into the walls of Castra Liria. Sir Philip, you are one of the best hunters among my knights. I am sending out patrols to the north, east, west, and south to watch our flanks. You, Sir Philip, will take your friends and head to the south. Scout along the road back to Castra Marcaine and return. If any of the Rhalite orcs are creeping up behind us, I want to know well in advance.”

  ###

  An hour later, Gareth, Philip, Crake, and Jerome headed south, accompanied by six of the Dux’s men-at-arms. The soldiers ranged in age from fifty to younger than Gareth, but the Dux had given Philip the command of the patrol, so they would obey Philip.

  Of course, the responsibilities of command included listening to the griping of one’s men.

  “Why aren’t we walking on the road?” said Jerome, picking his way around the roots of a pine tree.

  Philip had led them south, following the road for a mile, and then veered west into the trees. Pine forests covered much of the Northerland, at least where the ground didn’t rise in endless rows of rocky hills, and Gareth and the others wove their way around the dense pine trees. Gareth kept trying to keep from getting branches in the face and was mostly successful.