Picture Source: Link
It is the famous sipho described by Pliny the Elder and Vitruvius... This kind of pump, which looks like some nineteenth-century contraption, was in fact invented by Ctesibius of Alexandria, a sort of Merlin who lived in 250BC.
It consists of two identical cylinders, each with a piston, that converge in a chamber with valves that open and close alternately to let water pass through without interruption.
Foothill below the Monastery
Sir Harold calmly watched from the second tower on the left side of the gatehouse, where the command staff had gathered. Wooden planks had been fitted with narrow slits like castle windows, meant to guard against incoming bolts. The staff had chosen this position not because it was safer, but because it offered a clear view of the entire battlefield. From there, they could see not only the main assault, but also the movements in the enemy’s rear.
Despite having fewer men, their side currently held the upper hand against Saint Nay’s Believers.
The water pump the Lord had supplied them, originally meant as protection against fire attacks, was now proving invaluable. It was no coincidence. The Lord had long taught his commanders not to think only in terms of sword and bolt, but to consider other means of war, whether fire or, as in this case, water.
Gripping the wooden railing tightly, watching as the torrent scattered the ram crew and left the battering log behind, the vice muttered, “To think it would be this useful.”
Around him, the other staff members shared his reaction, grinning nervously or nodding in approval.
The men on the walls were also clearly excited and emboldened, cheering, taunting, and mocking the Believers’ failed attack.
Sir Harold gazed toward the twelve pump operators below, along with members of House Tedzeus who supervised the machine. The bronze pumps being fielded here were further proof of the Shogunate’s strength. The Lord was always keen to see potential where others could not. Moreover, he tended toward careful overplanning, knowing that every bit of sweat in peacetime would spare his men blood in wartime.
A Lord who made sure his men had all the means to overcome every obstacle imaginable.
For Sir Harold, ever since his first battle with Lord Lansius in the forests of Korelia, his eyes had been opened. Battles were no longer simple clashes of strength where heroism decided everything, but contests where preparedness, cunning, and resourcefulness were far more likely to bring victory than mere stubbornness or superior force.
And this way of thinking had also affected almost all of the Lord’s top retinue and veteran officers. As a result, this very camp had been built with more functions than it strictly required, including a clean water system equipped with robust wastewater management. Knowing how vital such measures were in preventing disease and securing future victories, there was none of the usual “this is good enough” mentality. The command staff operated on the principle that if something was worth doing, then it was worth doing properly.
Thus, the clean water well was located far from the latrines, with barrels kept as reservoirs for quick use. Meanwhile, the wastewater, which in most camps or even towns was simply dumped into a cesspool, was instead guided through a proper sewage ditch. It ran from the latrines to the duck pens, and then onward to the wet moat outside the walls. From there, they could draw as much water as needed, whether to fight fires or to repel attackers at the gate.
Now, the water from the attack slowly flowed back into the moat, refilling their supply with even more filth than before.
“Cut the water,” Sir Harold instructed when he saw that they had broken the enemy’s attack.
“Sir,” the vice responded, and relayed the order.
Soon, the water attack ceased, and half the crew finally rested, while the other half checked the hoses for leaks and maintained the pump to prevent clogging.
Sir Harold's main concern right now was whether any Saint Candidates were among the attackers. But so far, there had been no sightings of them. If such a group appeared, their most effective counter would be himself, his knights, and Big Ben. However, he had briefed his men that while Saint Candidates were strengthened by magic, they were not Mage Knights. They were far from individuals like Sir Morton. As such, they were to be treated as skilled fighters, simply with smaller physiques that often caused them to be dangerously overlooked.
“Knight Commander,” Gregory, the officer in red brigandine, called.
Sir Harold turned to him, not a knight, but a well-respected veteran horseman nonetheless.
“The heavy cavalry is ready. Please, grant me the honor of leading the counterattack," Gregory added.
Sir Harold gave a firm nod. “Form the cavalry at the gate, but keep the men calm and follow my command.”
“Sir.” Gregory turned to his brethren below and signaled them to ready themselves before he climbed down.
The cavalrymen in plate armor mounted their steeds and took their lances from their squires or attendants. Gregory quickly mounted his horse and rode to join them.
Still on the tower, Sir Harold said to the vice, “Inform the Gate Master. Also, get the herald to tell these misguided people to lower their weapons.”
“The usual, Sir?” his vice asked.
“The usual,” he confirmed.
As the heavy cavalry waited and the Gate Master’s men began to unseal the gate, the herald on the wall shouted in his powerful voice, “Drop your weapons and surrender. Or else... the skies know what we will do to you.”
The veterans of the Blue and Bronze grinned. That threat harkened back to their time in Korelia, first used by the nomads and later popularized by Lord Shogun himself.
As expected, the enemy froze but did not concede. The damage they had suffered was not enough to force them to capitulate.
With a steady stare and a nod from Sir Harold to the Gate Master, the camp’s battered gate swung open. A line of warhorses and knightly riders stepped forward, their warhorses restless, their long lances ready to charge across the muddy field, slick with brown, stinking filth.
The enemy’s nine hundred-man formation gasped, showing clear concern and distress.
It was understood by everyone that a heavy cavalry charge was the most devastating force on the battlefield.
As the heavy cavalry waited for the command to advance and Sir Harold watched for the enemy’s reaction, another scene unfolded behind them. In a quieter corner of the camp, the half-kin Big Ben sat with one foot bandaged, being treated by the Lord’s Medical Corps. Suddenly, he jolted upright.
“Don’t move,” one of the female infirmarians instructed.
“Later, sweetheart. I need to give a report,” Big Ben explained bashfully and remorsefully, his broad maw opening in a sheepish grin.
She furrowed her brow and tightened the bandage to keep it from loosening. “But you said it was so painful.”
“It is, but I have my duty.” The half-kin laughed jovially and carefully slipped away from the field tent while the ten medical women watched him with suspicious eyes.
Big Ben had caught his foot and fallen when he tried to jump the palisade wall instead of climbing it on his return from scouting. It had hurt his pride more than his foot and forced him to dramatize his pain to save face. He had not expected the medics to rush him and drag him to their field tent. One had even been zealous enough to nearly shave the fur from his injured leg to check for open wounds. He had barely avoided that, but still earned the stares of envy from the other men, since half of the medics were beautiful women. Even the knight commander’s wife was part of the team.
Not even ten paces away, the half-kin broke into a sprint on all fours toward the camp.
Surprising everyone with his nimbleness and speed despite his large build, Big Ben climbed the wall and wooden tower with animalistic fury, without using the ladder.
The tower creaked and groaned under his weight. The guards and the command staff were startled, but Sir Harold merely glanced at him and asked, “You have something to report?”
“Yes. I think it’s better to hold the charge,” Big Ben said.
Sir Harold did not hesitate and shouted down to the gate, “Hold the charge!”
Gregory looked up and nodded before turning to his riders and signaling them not to advance.
The vice added on his own initiative, “Make space. Make space to the rear.”
At once, the cavalry adjusted its formation, widening the space behind them in case they needed to withdraw.
Sir Harold watched his men do as they were told before turning to Big Ben. “What’s the reason?”
“When you opened the gate, I caught that stinking scent. Even among the foul water, I remember it. It reeks everywhere.”
The vice asked, “The fanatics’ incense?”
Big Ben nodded several times. He had been there during the One Night Rebellion and knew firsthand what they were. “The ones you people call ghouls.”
Sir Harold turned back to the field and saw a different column, several hundred strong, entering the battlefield. Among them, several men in grey robes carried incense burners, thin smoke trailing behind them. The first of the hundreds also moved with an unhurried gait, as if they were not on a battlefield.
He drew in a slow breath and said to his command staff, “Change of plan.”
***
The Believers
Following their grey-robed leaders in helmets and ringmail, columns of the True Believers took to the field. Despite the recent setbacks and the threat of heavy cavalry, the faces beneath their helmets were calm. Their footsteps were steady and without fear. The front line carried shields, some kite-shaped, others round, and bore spears or swords. Having received some training, the men knew basic formations, but it had taken great effort for Toye’s lieutenants to bring them into proper order.
Unlike the True Believers they commanded, Toye’s lieutenants constantly glanced behind them, wary of the ever present threat of a cavalry charge.
Once they were ready, Toye gave a nod. His lieutenants in grey robes began to goad the True Believers into marching toward the gate.
“Behold the Black Demon’s army. Now it’s your time,” one cried.
“Do not be afraid. Now is your chance for salvation,” another said, mimicking the cadence of the Monastery men he had once listened to.
“Salvation!” a third shouted.
“For the Living Saint!” a fourth followed.
They rallied the men without leading or joining the attack themselves, knowing it would be far too risky.
The throng of True Believers remained unaware of this and simply pressed forward, stirred by the words and convinced they must fight for salvation. Thus, they picked up speed, their formation barely holding.
The stretch of land leading to the gate rumbled as a column of three hundred, packed in tight order, launched their silent charge. Not even the splashing mud or the stinking air slowed them down. They were a mass of bodies, driven to fight in their Saint’s name.
“Kill, kill, kill the unbelievers,” they muttered under their breath.
The rest of the faithful watched wide-eyed in disbelief, soft chants on their lips, amazed by their brethren’s bravery. They believed the Living Saint had granted them the blessing of courage.
Meanwhile, Toye himself gathered a separate column with his heavily armed brethren, ready to exploit any opening if the heavy cavalry became trapped among the True Believers.
Even in such conditions, there was fortune to be made. Captured riders could be ransomed and used to open paths for negotiation. Their gear and warhorses would also fetch high prices.
“Get the mancatchers ready,” a Monastery Guard instructed.
At once, three men stepped forward, each carrying a long pole topped with a broad, forked iron head, designed to hook a rider by the neck and drag him down.
The scores of crossbowmen they had were also ready, including several windlass users capable of piercing plate armor.
Thus, Toye and his hundred-strong brothers watched, a little excited, as the column of True Believers rushed toward the gate.
Yet, it did not take long for many of them to realize that something was off.
One whispered, “The Lord’s cavalry isn’t making a move?”
“They’re scared?” another replied, doubt thick in his voice.
Toye felt the oddity even more keenly now, yet he could not pinpoint what the enemy was attempting.
And just as they had suspected, chains clattered above the gate. The battered timber gate shuddered, then lurched inward and crashed shut, cutting off the charging column in an instant.
“Huh?” several men exclaimed in confusion.
“Fuck...” Toye muttered weakly, knowing exactly what would follow.
Too muddled to think from the potent mixture they had been given, the True Believers were too slow to react and rushed straight into the fortified gate. They crashed forward in blind frenzy. Not stopping. Not slowing. The three hundred simply slammed into it.
So powerful was the momentum of their charge that the heavy wooden gate shuddered. But on each side, thick columns of solid timber had been driven deep into the ground, reinforced with stone and packed earth to absorb the impact. It held firm, as if the punishment meant little. Unlike a battering ram, which focused force on a single point, a blunt charge like this would have required the weight of massed elephants to succeed.
The front ranks of the True Believers were mercilessly crushed between the unyielding wooden gate and the mass of their own brethren behind them.
Bodies were pressed together. Skulls and bones cracked. Breath was forced from the lungs. Eyes bulged and popped as the pressure reached its breaking point. Men were trapped against one another, mouths opening and groaning as they struggled for air. Some collapsed where they stood, stuck amid the surging mass of flesh.
Toye, his men, and the remaining six hundred could only watch in horror, hands rising to cover their mouths at the carnage unfolding before them.
“Toye,” his men called, pleading with him to intervene.
But the Inglesian could only stare ahead, his face twisted with pain and anger, knowing he could do nothing.
The Lord’s men had created the perfect foil against the True Believers, who were too drugged and without leaders among them to herd and direct them properly.
As if it were not enough, the jet of water resumed, splashing into the middle and rear columns, blinding and agitating them further. Driven by chaos, most of the True Believers kept pushing forward. Only several dozen broke away, realizing that something was wrong, only to be cut down by accurate crossbow attack from the walls.
Some were struck by bolts in the back or limbs but reacted sluggishly, as if they barely felt the wounds, convincing the defenders that they were facing the infamous ghouls. That made the crossbowmen more merciless in their attacks. Now, they aimed for the head.
Under the relentless counterattack, the True Believers’ columns began to die where they stood.
The wet, muddy ground and the blind charge against the gate exhausted them quickly. Men fell and were trampled alive. Packed too tightly, many were impaled by their own spears or cut by their own blades as they struggled in the crush.
“Get the pavises! Crossbowmen, do your job,” Toye commanded, grasping at a sliver of hope to reclaim his force.
“Aye, boss,” his men responded.
“Get those robed men to pull our brothers out. Quickly,” Toye urged.
Once again, the crossbowmen, protected by their pavises, dueled with the defenders on the wall to ease their brethren’s plight. Meanwhile, the robed lieutenants rushed to restore order within the column of True Believers.
Yet the Lord’s men spotted them, realizing their intent, and showered them with deadly bolts. The line of pavises barely held. Many of the shots were from windlasses, and several struck hard enough to burst or chip the wood. Still, they survived the barrage.
The robed men had barely begun to call to their brethren, grabbing them by the arm and shoulder, when a powerful stream of brown water suddenly rained down on them from another direction, knocking them aside like scattered debris.
“There are two!” Toye’s lieutenant cried out in stunned alarm.
But nobody needed the warning. They could all see it. Two powerful streams of water were pouring in from either side of the gate.
“Keep at it! Get them back, get them back,” Toye practically barked, but it was already too late.
They had no chance.
Amid the onslaught of filthy water and the relentless hail of bolts, the True Believers’ army perished almost to the last man.
The Lord’s crossbowmen were better armed, possessed superior marksmanship, and were well-experienced. They bared their fangs and rained bolts down on every Believer within range. The blood of their brothers who had fallen in the One Day Rebellion was finally paid in full.
After the last bolt had claimed its victim, the jets of water stopped, and the grim aftermath was laid bare for all to see.
The dead lay scattered haphazardly among spears, helmets, and shields. Some were piled together in several places, while many were strewn to the sides like bodies washed away by a flood. The muddy water was now darkened with blood. It was a gruesome sight. Many of the Believers who watched from afar could not help but grow nauseous and vomit. Dozens began to retreat toward the Monastery, still disillusioned, yet knowing the situation was hopeless.
Today, there was no miracle. The Black Demon had won.
Sweating profusely, despite the sun not even being high in the sky, Toye knew he had already lost his command. Worse, he had lost all means to win.
With defeated expressions, his remaining men gathered and spoke among themselves. At last, they formed a rear guard so the main force could withdraw. Toye vowed to return tomorrow with a plan, but he did so more to save face. His defeat had been too thorough.
For the hundreds he had sacrificed, not even one of the Lord’s men had been killed.
Even his Inglesian brethren lost all confidence in his command. Nobody, would ever fully trust his lead again.
Slowly, the Believers’ army retreated uphill, knowing that to linger would invite disaster, as the Lord still had his heavy cavalry.
Only the narrow, snaking path up the slope provided them with any cover. And so, the first battle in the siege of the Monastery came to an end.
...
With exhaustion piling up, the Believers’ march back was far slower than their descent. The sermons and the effects of the drugged incense had completely worn off. Now, they were sweating heavily and felt the gnawing pain of hunger in their bellies. Their steps were weakened, their stamina ebbing, and their thirst growing worse.
Many stopped when they saw puddles of water along the path, while others wandered off to search for streams among the forked trails that crossed the hills.
Some remembered paths leading to nearby hamlets that should had wells. Many believed they might also find turnips, carrots, or fruit. A few set off, and others followed after them.
Toye’s limited number of men were unable to keep order. Soon, the retreat turned into a bottleneck.
The path became crowded.
Yet there was little fear. With the battlefield far behind them, a fragile calm had returned. Without proper provisions beyond what they carried with them, hunger and thirst now felt more pressing than any enemy.
Toye and his brethren tried to marshal them and keep them moving, but it was difficult. After all, these Believers were not trained troops.
But who could blame them? Danger seemed distant. To their left and right, the forest surrounding the hill was yellowing and reddening with autumn colors, yet still teeming with life. Despite the siege, there were the sounds of birds, and many tried to find nests for eggs. Some even reported sightings of fat squirrels, deer, or even boars, which stirred excitement. After all, normally, only guards or Monastery men were allowed to venture this far, for fear of capture.
When Toye listened carefully, he heard a wealth of sounds. From the chirping of small birds to stranger noises like quacks and honks.
And just when everything seemed too peaceful, screams rang out, raising the hairs on his neck.
“What’s happening?” Toye asked his men. All of them had noticed that the cries were not isolated or sporadic, but spreading.
“It’s not coming from below," one reported, confused.
It made no sense, yet Toye glanced back and saw nothing. No pursuer. That meant the threat was coming from ahead, toward the Monastery.
“Impossible,” he muttered, and pushed forward, elbowing past other men as he tried to learn the cause of the chaos.
The Believers around him began to panic at the sound of the screams. Many scattered into the forest on either side, stumbling as they fled across the steep, sloping ground.
Soon, both sides of the path were clogged with fleeing men, leaving no space for anyone else. With no other option, like a flood, the men and women at the front began to surge back toward Toye. Whatever they had seen had terrified them so deeply that they turned and rushed straight toward the battlefield.
Toye and his brethren braced themselves, but many were swept up in the crush. Some were helplessly dragged along, barely managing to avoid being trampled, only to be scattered among the sea of retreating people.
Only then did they see the cause of the chaos.
Ahead of them, emerging from the haze of dust and confusion, the Lord’s men appeared. Hard to know their true number, but they looked numerous and well armed. Worse still, they rode incredible beasts. Some were grey-feathered, others darker. They were taller than warhorses, with great, wide beaks. They wore barding like cavalry mounts and bore helmets upon their heads.
Their riders sat with quiet confidence. Despite the beasts’ size, they were nimble and moved with a majestic air, as if they owned the hill.
A group of Believers froze and tried to raise their spears. Dozens of bolts struck them at once, scattering the survivors.
One man remained standing, defiant. The nearest beast was not impressed. It lunged forward and pecked at him with its massive beak, again and again, until he could no longer move.
“How did they get here?” one of Toye’s men asked, his voice cracking with fear.
“Toye, what should we do?” another demanded with desperate urgency.
Standing still, the Inglesian did not know how to answer. His voice stuck in his throat. One of the beasts fixed its gaze on him, as if recognizing him, and suddenly charged.
Toye saw doom. He turned and ran, shoving his own men aside. Everyone fled, shouting wildly. Toye threw away his weapon and helmet as he ran. They meant nothing to him anymore.
The Monastery Guard behind him stumbled and fell. He groaned as the pursuing beast trampled the guards without mercy, not slowing in the slightest.
“Fuck it all. Fuck the Monastery,” he cried as the beast closed in behind him.
It was the last thing he managed to say before a massive beak struck him from the side. The blow shattered his ribs. He was sent tumbling down the steep, slippery slope. Weighed down by his ringmail, he rolled helplessly over stone and mud until his body finally broke, just like the Believers he had sacrificed for his own gain.
Trapped by the Lord’s men at the rear and the beasts in front, the Believers finally surrendered unconditionally.
The clash came to an end, and Sir Harold announced that his three day ultimatum was now void. The attack on the Monastery had begun.
***
PS: Yay, I managed a big chapter!
The image shows a Roman era double piston bronze pump. It's based on Greek designs. It is possible to enlarge it and linked with another pump in tandem to create and maintain even stronger pressure. Essentially a riot water cannon.
Kudos to Sir Harold for realizing this capability, even though Lansius never directly explained it. 🤗
So, the thousand human shields the Monastery possessed were now out of the picture. We’re moving forward with the main assault! 😱
As always, gratitude for your awesome support! 💎💖🦆