Monastery
Under a hardening sky, the Monastery Guards mustered all their men to defend their sacred walls against wave after wave of assaults. Hot blood was spilled along the battlements as they fought desperately on almost every section of the wall. Nearly all of the defenders were exhausted from the night’s fighting. Many fought on with only a few stolen moments of sleep. Some moved in a daze, as if trapped in a half-remembered dream.
Cloth and padding had soaked up sweat and blood, growing heavier with every passing hour. Limbs felt slow and unresponsive. Muscles burned and cramped. Heads throbbed from thirst and sleeplessness. Yet they gritted their teeth and fought on.
But it was not without cost. In the span of only a few hours, more defenders were killed and injured than during the entire night attack before. Only through stubbornness and fanaticism did they manage to fend off the massive onslaught.
Just before midday, the siege ladder assault was finally recalled. The defenders breathed their first sigh of relief. It was likely because the enemy had suffered heavily, though no one could be certain, for even under the burning midday sun, the attackers refused to abandon their threats.
The enemy had fashioned a simple archer tower from several ladders tied together with shields, planks, and leather on one side for protection. It was crude and wobbly, needing many ropes and wooden supports to keep it from collapsing, but the nomadic bowmen on top were a real danger. Immediately, a deadly duel began. The crossbowmen on the walls tried to pick off the two bowmen, while the bowmen returned fire just as fiercely.
Soon the Monastery learned how cunning the nomads truly were. They had hidden second and third ranks of bowmen and crossbowmen on the lower levels, concealed behind leather screens and planks. Their rapid, accurate arrows struck down many careless defenders. If not for helmets and ringmail, there would have been far more fatalities.
The duel, though lower in intensity than the earlier assault, kept everyone on the battlements tense. They knew that the moment they showed weakness, the ladder attack would be launched again. None of them wished to face such an onslaught once more.
Still, the stalemate bought them time. The Captain of the Guard had called on everyone in the Monastery for help. They needed more than just fighting men. They needed hands for every task that kept the defense alive. In corridors and halls, anyone willing was trained to mend bolts, straighten spears, and patch cracked shields. Meanwhile, those with even the slightest skill in carpentry were gathered and put to work building a hoarding.
The structure was a temporary wooden gallery mounted atop the battlements, roofed and walled with timber to protect the defenders. It made assaults with siege ladders far more difficult, as attackers would first need to break through the wooden wall, or attempt to climb onto the roof if their ladders could reach that high, each option adding significant effort and risk.
The Monastery walls already had a hoarding above the main gate, spanning a dozen paces to the left and right, but it was clearly insufficient. With the Lord's crude archer tower effectively suppressing their crossbowmen, the Captain feared that a second or third such tower might completely pin them down.
Under the autumn sun, nearly two hours passed in tense stalemate. Bolts and arrows punished the unwary. The defenders kept low behind the stone parapets as best they could. Sweat matted their hair and ran into their eyes. Then, without warning, bronze buccina rang out from below.
The defenders’ eyes widened at the sound. Fear returned at once. Many swallowed hard.
“Captain!” one of his men called as he peered through the wooden planks, his voice tight.
The Captain did not answer. He moved toward the opening and looked for himself. Below, movement surged again. Columns of men were forming. Ladders were being raised and steadied. An assault would likely follow.
“Get the stones and restock the quivers. All of them,” he instructed.
His officers relayed the order, and frantic last-minute preparations began.
The Captain turned to his men and added, “Drink. You’re going to need it.”
...
The assault came and nearly did not stop until near sundown. By then, many of the defenders were bloodied. Even well-trained men faltered after fighting from the dead of night into the fading light of the next day. The attackers nearly breached one section before the Captain deployed the last of his reserves.
They were saved by the Monastery’s wide battlements, broad enough for three men to walk side by side. Had they been any narrower, the defenders would have paid dearly for that moment of weakness.
Now, as darkness settled over the bloodied walls, a brief respite returned.
Both sides allowed their men to eat and tend to their wounds. Only the crude archer tower remained a threat, looming in the dim light.
In an act of defiance, the Captain ordered more lanterns lit along the walls. He sent a group of volunteers, shielded and armored, to walk the length of the battlements as if on patrol, trying to project strength to the enemy. He hoped the enemy would believe the midday assault had achieved little and might return to negotiation again.
Many believed that the day-and-night attack had been the Lord’s ultimate plan, and that they had weathered it.
With that in mind, the battered men, eyes reddened and faces streaked with sweat and grime, sat more at ease in the long corridor. They had removed their helmets, linen padding, and unlaced their gambesons to catch the night air. Their swords, shields, and crossbows lay within reach.
That evening, the kitchens and the Inner Sanctum were generous enough to provide extra bread and hot soup, and the men ate heartily.
Warmth returned to their bodies, and they felt alive once again. Chuckles and banter rose for a time, but they soon died down. They were too weary, yet only a few could sleep.
Even those who were injured and instructed to get some rest were unable to close their eyes. Many had never seen battle before, and whenever they closed their eyes, they saw flashes of battle. None managed more than a few restless moments.
“Do you think the Lord’s men will attack again tonight?” one whispered, daring not to disturb his comrades.
His question drew some attention, but none wanted to answer and instead averted their gaze to the stone floor. They were simply exhausted.
The Captain had retreated to his chamber. He had took an arrow to his shoulder, but the sturdy riveted rings had protected him from harm. It would have been different if it had been a crossbow bolt. The defenders had seen just how effective the Lord’s crossbows were compared to their own. Several men had been struck through their ringmail and required surgery to remove the deeply lodged bolt heads.
They were fortunate that the Monastery had no lack of physicians and healers, and that had saved many from the grim fate so common on the battlefield.
He tried to rest his weary body but did not dare lie on his mattress, fearing he might sleep for hours on end. The risk of a night attack was still high. So the Captain labored instead, gathering the officers who were still awake to ensure they were prepared. He also needed to make sure a length of wooden hoarding was ready to be installed at their weak point, to the right of the wall where the Monastery tower could not cover it as effectively due to the wall’s natural curve.
Yet, even the Captain felt that the battle would only lessen in intensity.
“The Lord’s men seem to have learned their lesson,” one of his officers remarked, watching the quiet camp outside through the narrow window slit in their command chamber.
Two other officers nodded, their faces hopeful.
The Captain, seated, did not offer comment at first, but then said, “Aside from replenishing our bolts, treating the wounded will be our priority.”
One asked, “I have men asking me. When do we bury the dead?”
The Captain had not expected that and pondered before replying, “We can let the Gray Robes arrange that.”
“Where to bury them is an issue,” the same officer argued. “As we all know, the site inside the Monastery is considered sacred.”
The Captain exhaled deeply. “They’ll make an exception. I’m sure they will.”
His officer could only nod. From the Captain’s tone, it was clear he did not wish to discuss the matter further, knowing how sensitive it was to the men’s morale.
But another officer refused to back down. “Commander, this will not bode well. The men bleed and die for the Monastery. By tomorrow, if the dead are not buried, they will question their very reason to fight.”
“I’m aware,” the Captain replied strongly. “We’ll think about it after we get through the night.”
The answer offered no solution, but the officer relented, sensing that arguing against the Monastery leadership would require tremendous effort and patience.
Hours passed slowly.
Outside, the camp was quiet. There was little activity, only the wind stirring the banners.
A different Saint Candidate who volunteered for the watch confirmed that the enemy did not seem to be preparing anything. Aside from patrols on both sides, it was mostly calm. Even the dreaded archer tower looked abandoned.
Many of the guards, for the first time, finally fell asleep, still in their armor, sitting along the corridor with their backs against the wall, leaning on their brothers in arms.
Others, like some of the crossbowmen, too restless to rest, inspected the bolts allotted to them and performed maintenance on their crossbows.
The Captain, still awake after only a brief respite, had commanded the carpenters to install the hoarding. They had made it in separate pieces, to be lifted by hand and mounted on the battlements. Mallets wrapped in cloth were to be used to mask the sound of the construction.
A team of twenty men was carefully lifting the materials into the corridors when a single trumpet sounded in the distance.
Many guards were startled, looking left and right.
The one in charge of the lookout took a peek, but it was too dark. He waited, but saw nothing.
“What is it?” the comrade nearest to him asked.
“I don’t see anything.”
His friend pressed, “The torches, how many?”
“The same as before,” he replied without turning.
Then, just as the lookout had said, it was quiet again, prompting his friend to remark, “Probably just a mistake.”
The lookout nodded and breathed a sigh of relief.
Many did not lower their guard, and soon they were proven right. Several trumpets sounded in the dark.
“That’s the signal to gather,” one of the older guards remarked, his face hardened.
“We need the Saint Candidate. Quickly,” the lookout said to the men behind him, who crouched low and ran.
But it was not needed. As he turned his eyes back to the enemy's camp, dozens of long torches were being lit. He gasped. It was just like yesterday.
With shaking hands, he turned to his brethren. They did not need words. The pallor on his face was enough.
“By the Living Saint,” one muttered.
Another said in defiance, “The Sacred Wall will prevail.” Yet even his tone could not hide his fear.
The lookout turned to a younger messenger and said carefully, “Get to the watchman. Tell him to wake everyone. The enemy is coming.”
The young man, barely more than a boy, crouched low, one hand holding his oversized helmet as he ran toward the gatehouse. Soon, the metal alarm bell began to ring.
***
Besieger Side
As the camp prepared for their second night assault, the troops heard the clear strike of metal against metal echo from the Monastery walls. Moments later, silhouettes appeared along the battlements, figures moving quickly to their stations. Now, the walls were awake and alive with movement.
The leader of this attack, the Vice, stood tall, flanked by his officers and guards. A canvas screen had been erected around them so the command staff could confer without fear of eavesdropping or a sudden bolt from a hidden crossbowman. With the space so tight and the risk of enemy crossbowmen slipping through secret paths or climbing trees behind the camp to gain a clear shot, it was a necessary precaution.
The Vice himself was weary, and his voice had grown hoarse, but it was manageable after a meal and some light rest. Unlike the enemy, they held the initiative. They had chosen the hour and the manner of attack, and that allowed them to dictate the pace of the fight.
Unlike him, the thousand men gathered in formation were fresher. They had slept from dawn. Though anyone in the camp could hear the din of battle, many had managed to rest well enough.
Tonight an even fresher column joined the ranks. The hundred from Toruna were eager to prove themselves and win glory.
Sir Stan, the Baronet of Toruna, was also present to take part in the assault.
His red plate armor was striking under the torchlight, and so was his tall figure and composed face, marked by a certain charm. Like his cousin, Lord Bengrieve, he was in his early thirties, but broader in the shoulders and in stronger physical condition.
Next to Sir Stan stood Lady Valerie, wearing an unassuming gray cloak. A staff member stood before her, providing cover as she used an Ekionia optic to observe the wall. After a long moment, as their own battle formations took shape, she lowered the optic and turned to the Vice, who had been waiting for her report.
“I spotted at least one Saint Candidate,” she reported.
Although Valerie was not a visual like Sir Morton or Lady Audrey, healers, much like mages, could still be identified when they used their abilities. Their magic, even something as subtle as night sight, could give them away. Still, it required time and careful focus for her to pinpoint them, especially from afar and with the walls and wooden planks obscuring her view.
“Gratitude for the confirmation,” the Vice remarked.
“Then your order?” Sir Stan asked, his voice spirited.
“Unchanged.” The Vice Commander's voice was firm.
From the front lines, a stout-looking officer who commanded the assault approached, his helmet tucked under one arm. He halted before the Vice and gave a sharp salute. “The troops are ready.”
“Let the crossbowmen trade bolts first. Then commence the assault at your discretion,” the Vice ordered.
The battle began.
***
Monastery
Within the hour, a brutal battle erupted. The Lord’s men once again scaled the Monastery walls, and the night sky bore witness to the ferocity of the fight. Nine siege ladders were erected, and dozens of men launched a coordinated assault.
The plan to raise the hoarding was quickly abandoned. Even the carpenters donned armor, taking up shields and axes to hack at the tops of the ladders. The Captain and his officers joined the struggle, fighting like common men, as guards and brave volunteers were pushed back in several places at once. Despite all their fanaticism, they could not withstand the massed onslaught.
It was obvious the enemy was improving, growing fiercer with each attempt. Bowmen and crossbowmen from the crude tower were relentless despite the darkness, striking at any movement along the wall.
At several points, the situation seemed hopeless until help arrived. Two male Saint Candidates reached the battlements and promptly joined the fight. At first, their presence did little, but soon more came from the Inner Sanctum. Within the hour, five more Sisters and Brothers of the cloth took their place on the wall. Near midnight, four more arrived. With eleven Saint Candidates, they managed to stabilize the line and even damage five of the ladders.
Around midnight, it became clear the assault had been blunted. Yet the enemy persisted. They focused on the remaining ladders while secretly bringing forward two more from the camp.
The fight dragged on for two more hours, but its fury was spent. Like the last sparks of a receding forest fire, it slowed to a crawl, then abruptly stopped.
After hours of fighting in dim light, there was no enemy left on the battlements. Even the archer tower fell silent for a moment. The men looked around and saw only their own still standing. The defenders breathed a slow sigh of relief, though the air was thick with the smell of iron and piss.
In sheer jubilation, the defenders raised their swords and claimed victory.
“The Sacred Wall stands!” the guards shouted in triumph, and chants erupted along the walls.
Some even mocked the attackers, hurling taunts into the darkness below, as if daring them to return.
But in the corridors turned into makeshift infirmaries, there was grief. Despite the presence of Saint Candidates, thirty-five had lost their lives, and nearly all bore the brunt of the fighting. Some had lost teeth, fingers, or even limbs and were carried downstairs to receive treatment. They had been reduced to nearly half of their original strength. Even among the Sisters and Brothers, six were wounded. One Brother and one Sister even perished in the fight, and another was in critical condition.
Even as healers, they had fought bravely and paid the ultimate price.
As the enemy made no further move, the guards and the rest of the defenders paid their respects to the dead. In their eyes, the sacrifice had stopped the Lord’s ferocious advance.
An hour passed with only the archer tower loosing bolts at moving silhouettes along the wall. Then a Brother of the Cloth hurled his iron spear, and it nearly struck the makeshift structure. After that, silence followed as the Lord’s bowmen and crossbowmen withdrew into the dark.
“The enemy will harm us no more,” one guard muttered among the men. He managed a cheerful tone despite all the horrors they had endured.
“They’ve given up,” another echoed merrily, convinced it was true.
Chants spread along the walls as the guards who were still awake raised their voices alongside the Believers, who formed the bulk of the auxiliaries.
Yet beyond the reach of their torchlight, on the ground below in the direction of the camp, the Vice, his staff, and their guests watched in calm silence.
The Monastery believed they had won. It was all according to plan.
***
PS: I hope this chapter isn’t late.
As I mentioned in Discord, my tire got punctured this morning, so my schedule was wrecked. A 2 hours commute turned into 4 because I had to wait for the nearest tire shop to open and get it fixed. It was a pretty big puncture, not just a nail, so the tire had to be patched from the inside. 😱
And because of other commitments, I ended up missing lunch by 4 hours. 🫠
My head is still pounding, but I hope you enjoy the chapter. The second day of the siege is over, yay! Now comes the third, and it will be the final one.
Chapter Picture features the heart of the Inner Sanctum. It's a place of beauty, like a palace.
As always, gratitude for your awesome support! 💎💖🦆