Besieger Side
In the dim light of flickering torches and lanterns, lines of men stood in battle formation beneath the blue and bronze banner. The assault had been called off, and the wounded were carried to the medical tents, where physicians, surgeons, and infirmarians worked without pause. At least half of the thousand men assigned to the night attack had taken part, though only three hundred had been designated to climb the ladders. Of those three hundred, not all managed to scale the wall, as the enemy’s defense proved stubborn and frustrating.
While the medical teams rushed to save lives and limbs, the front of the camp remained controlled. Within canvas screens raised on three sides, the Vice, his two staff officers, and their two guests sat beneath dim lantern light. Despite the late hour, they remained awake and had watched the assault unfold from beginning to its abrupt end.
From the front, the stout-looking assault commander approached, followed by three other officers. As before, he carried his helmet tucked under one arm.
The Vice rose from his seat to receive them.
The assault commander halted before the Vice and gave a sharp salute. “Sir, I have brought the officers in charge of the attack.”
Three officers stepped forward, one already with splints of wood bound to his bandaged wrist. They saluted. “Sir.”
The Vice looked at their weary faces and the marks of battle upon them. He knew these leaders of the hundred well and was glad the three had survived.
“Take your men to rest. They’ve earned it.” His tone was sympathetic.
A little to the side, Sir Stan quietly leaned forward in his folding seat, listening. He and his men had tried to join the assault, but the approach had grown too crowded and chaotic, forcing him to call them off rather than risk disrupting the Shogunate forces already pressing the wall. Unlike a fortified town that could be surrounded and attacked from several angles, the Monastery claimed the entire height of the hill. Only the front could be assaulted. The rest of the wall hugged the steep slope.
Though told to stand down, the officers still felt the need to explain. “We almost gained a foothold, but there were exceptional individuals—”
“Saint Candidates,” the officer with the broken arm added.
The first officer nodded. “If it were only one or two, we could manage. But there were more than five or six. And they fought recklessly, almost mad. My men managed to bring down two, perhaps more, but we couldn't be certain. Not with so little light.”
At that, the third officer muttered in frustration, “They move so well in the dark, unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”
The Vice drew a deep breath and stepped closer, resting a hand on the first officer’s shoulder. “Take it easy. Losses are part of war.”
“We lost many,” the first officer said, his voice low. “The blame is mine. I told them to push harder than you ordered.”
The Vice gestured to his squire and took a wineskin, offering it to the officer. “Drink. I need you rested for tomorrow.”
“I can still fight,” the officer insisted.
“So can I,” the third officer added.
The Vice simply uncorked the wineskin and handed it to the officer with the broken wrist. “Do not argue with me with that broken wrist. Get your men to rest.”
The second officer accepted the wineskin with his left hand but hesitated to drink.
“You managed to evacuate more than thirty injured men off that wall,” the Vice said, then looked at the others. “Gentlemen, this is a siege. Do not expect to win one without paying the price. Miracles happen in war, and more often when the Lord Shogun is leading. But he is not here. Sometimes we need to be reminded that most victories cost blood.”
After hearing that, the officer finally took a drink. Before long, the strong alcohol spread warmth through him.
Turning to the other two, the Vice instructed, “Decide this between yourselves. One assault group will accompany the main army as a reserve. The other will rest.”
With that, the three officers and the assault commander were dismissed.
As they left, the Vice sat down again and inhaled deeply, the loss of men weighing heavily on his shoulders.
Sir Stan, seated beside him, asked in a considerate tone, “How are the casualties?”
“Likely our heaviest losses yet,” he replied, his voice level. “We sent more freshly trained recruits tonight, thinking to let them bleed for experience, but the worst happened. Likely more than a hundred were lost. It would have been fewer if the officers had held back, but in the heat of battle, anything can happen.”
“What happened was the Saint Candidates,” lady Valerie said as she approached from her seat further behind. She had kept her distance, not wishing to appear as though she were presiding over military matters.
The Vice turned to her and nodded softly. Even during the siege, lady Valerie had already reported that the Monastery was fielding a large number of them, so it did not come as a surprise.
“It would be easier if we were not facing Saint Candidates,” Sir Stan remarked, crossing his armored arms.
“Indeed,” the Vice agreed. Without them, the matter would have been simpler and far less deadly.
From the start, they could have sounded loud horns, sent small mounted parties with torches along the visible stretches of the wall, and made enough noise to keep the defenders awake. But with Saint Candidates among the defenders, some of whom could see in the dark, a simple distraction would not suffice. The assault had to look and feel real, even if that meant accepting casualties.
Still, the Vice had promised the group leaders that if the men managed to break through, they would commit at once and send everyone forward to seize the wall. He had secured permission from the Knight Commander to launch an all-out assault should such an opportunity arise.
But tonight, despite coming close, they had failed to take even the section of wall deemed the weakest. That proved their siege assault was still far from what the Lord wanted. It would not bode well for the wars to come. Not every stronghold stood on flat ground where tunneling or siege engines would be easy to use. Some would be like this Monastery, perched on rocky ground and steep terrain. Too hard for tunneling, too steep for heavy siege engines. That left direct assault or waiting for the defenders to starve.
Sir Stan took a deep breath and exhaled sharply, muttering, “A limited assault is painful to plan and brutal to fight.”
“It is the hardest kind of battle plan,” the Vice agreed.
“It’s ridiculous.” Sir Stan snorted. “Attack convincingly enough that the enemy believes it, yet conserve our strength.” He paused. “And yet, I must admit, in the end, it might save more lives than a head-on assault.”
The Vice gazed at the baronet. “Against a well-fortified complex like this, it is wise to employ a ruse.”
“Still,” Sir Stan said, rubbing his chin, “I feel a bit guilty for not joining the assault. I might have made a difference.”
“Still intent on saving as many of your old lovers as possible, I see,” lady Valerie replied, her tone carrying a meaning only the two of them understood.
Sir Stan chuckled, running a hand through his long brunette hair. “I would drop them in a heartbeat if you gave me your hand.”
The lady scoffed softly. “You and I both know you would not keep that promise, and it would only ruin our friendship. I am only here because I need to earn my pay.”
“Is the Lord Shogun that strict with you?” Sir Stan asked with a half grin.
Lady Valerie gave a brief smile. “He has his council, and he is too considerate to ignore their advice.”
Sir Stan chuckled again, then turned to the Vice. “So what’s next?”
The Vice advised, “Sir, you and the lady should rest.”
“Certainly. But the siege, what happens now? Do we just leave the Monastery men to rest until morning? It seems like a waste after we pushed them so hard.”
“It's best to lull the defenders into thinking we are losing strength.” Before the Vice could explain further, he noticed his squire allowing a man to enter.
It was the stout-looking assault commander. He had returned, his heavy frame moving with surprising quiet. Even in ringmail, his footfalls were light, almost soundless against the packed earth, like a big mountain cat stalking in the dark. He halted before the Vice and gave a sharp salute. “Sir, the latest report.”
The Vice nodded and asked in a low tone, “How heavy are the casualties?”
He leaned closer and spoke carefully, mindful of the two guests and the squire nearby. “Within expectation.”
The Vice nodded twice, relieved.
“We still have seven hundred in formation, including a hundred in the assault force. Your command, Sir?” the man asked.
The Vice shook his head. “Send half of them to rest and the other half to night guard duty.”
“No more assault attempt?” the man asked, his tone perfectly calm.
“We have bled enough. More importantly, I want them to see us as weaker,” the Vice replied, meeting the man’s eyes. “Send the nomads with their horsehead fiddle.”
The assault commander’s lips turned into a thin grin.
***
Monastery
The night was deceptively calm in the last watch, some three hours before daybreak. The strong, cold wind had fallen away, leaving the battlements under the glow of torches and lanterns. After the bloodbath at the wall, a fragile peace had settled in. The Monastery Guards and the Believers kept their posts, sitting low with their backs against the walls, wary of crossbow bolts from below.
Only the lookouts remained standing, watching the enemy camp beyond the sea of darkness. Their eyes strained toward it, yet there was no movement. Nothing to suggest a renewed assault.
Now the earlier speculation began to feel true. The enemy had taken a bitter blow and was forced to reconsider their approach.
Like wounded wolves, the Lord's men licked their wounds in the dark and made little sound.
Relief moved quietly along the walls, but no one trusted it. Few dared to sleep. Some found their bodies too alert, their minds still braced for the crash of ladders and the scream of bolts. Others stayed awake out of terror. The moment they closed their eyes, the fighting returned, too real, too vivid, and deeply disturbing.
Yet for a few, they were simply too exhausted after fighting for more than two nights in a row. They drifted into sleep where they sat, leaning against the cold wall.
Then a sound rose from the enemy’s direction.
It was not the blare of horns.
It was strange and unfamiliar, yet it was clearly music. From what sounded like a stringed instrument came a beautiful yet haunting melody. Its voice was low and resonant, carrying long, wavering notes that lingered despite being so foreign. The sound rose and fell like wind over open grass.
To hear such music on the very walls where they had just killed each other felt deeply out of place.
Yet most of the men were too fatigued to question it. They heard it as they heard the wind, without thought.
Then a voice joined it, powerful and raw. It sang in a language none of them understood. But the sorrow and pain within it could be felt.
Inside the gatehouse chamber, even the Captain, half asleep on his mattress, listened through the narrow slits in the wall.
“I wonder,” one of his staff muttered to another, sitting on the stone floor, “what the singing is about.”
His friend had no idea and only shook his head weakly.
“Longing.” It was the Captain who replied.
“Longing...?” the staff echoed. The other three were curious as well.
“For home,” the Captain explained. "Originally, there were no nomads in the Imperium. Those who now live in Lowlandia began as captured people sold into slavery. They ended up in the Great Plains, but it was never their home.”
“So longing for their ancestral land,” the staff muttered, now with a better understanding of the sorrowful singing.
Another man, lying on the stone floor on a wicker mat, asked, “Where’s their true home, Commander?”
“In the great northern pastures of Caladania. They call it the Caladan Sea of Grass.”
The longing melodies continued for hours, as if accompanying the exhausted defenders. It played many songs, sometimes with vocals, most often without. At least two men were singing, both of them likely nomads.
The music stopped just before sunrise, and many did not think much of it. For the defenders to have listened to it at all felt like a brief absurdity amid the siege.
...
As the sun rose from the east and cast its first rays of light over the hill, the men on duty snuffed out the lanterns and torches. They were collected and prepared to be lit again that evening. If only the head had burned, it would be scraped clean and new rags applied. If the shaft had burned too far down, it would be discarded and reused as kindling. In a siege, nothing useful was wasted.
Heavily armored patrols began to make their rounds along the wall, walking at a brisk pace to avoid becoming easy targets for crossbowmen. Meanwhile, many of the Monastery Guards peered cautiously through the crenels to observe the enemy’s camp. Like the lookouts on duty, they quickly felt uneasy as they watched the camp bustle with activity. The broken siege ladders were laid out in rows, and two groups of carpenters was already at work repairing them.
Though none said it openly, the thought of having to endure another assault weighed heavily on every defender.
They had been reduced to less than half their original strength. What remained were their best, and they worked well together even in the dark. Even so, they were not immune to wounds and exhaustion.
Despite the lull in the fighting, not everyone had managed to sleep, and even then only for a little more than two hours. It was not enough after two nights of combat, yet the mind refused as danger lingered.
Those who slept did so lightly. It only stretched their breaking point.
With so little sleep, headaches became common, along with a constant daze. Many found themselves staring at nothing for minutes on end before forcing their thoughts back into focus.
As the morning light reached every corner, the Monastery stirred to life again. There were guard changes, queues for breakfast, wounds and bandages to be checked, and other duties. One of their priorities was to haul stones up the staircase for defense. The humble stones were the unsung heroes of the Sacred Walls. They had broken many of the Lord’s men and shattered ladder rungs, stalling and at times stopping an assault ladder on their own.
The Believers who had rested overnight would do most of the backbreaking labor, carrying stones from an unfinished building.
Ideally, the guards who had fought through the night would be given rest and replaced by another group, but their numbers were already too few. There was no one to relieve them. They could only rely on the Believers to keep watch while the guards took what little break they could.
Inside the halls, still untouched by the damage on the walls, the morning crew began their routine. Most were women, as many of the men had volunteered to assist the guards. They cleaned, carried supplies, and saw to the daily tasks that kept the Monastery functioning. Yet they too, looked worn. No one had been sleeping properly with the fighting on the walls.
However, there was one piece of good news.
A messenger entered after knocking on the door of the gatehouse chamber. His face was bright.
“Good news, I presume?” the Captain asked, seated with his breakfast of onion soup and bread. It was the fourth messenger he had received that morning.
“Yes, Commander,” the messenger replied, unable to hide his excitement. “The Saint has spoken. She will take care of the deceased. We are to clean them and make them presentable before sending them to her care.”
Of the two staff who remained with him, one looked relieved while the other nodded, pleased.
Still, the Captain had some reservations. “But the mortuary is too small. Where does she plan to conduct the last rites?”
The messenger raised his brow, thinking. “I imagine she would not want to do it there.”
The Captain took a drink of pale ale before asking, “Did she tell you where she intends to bury them?”
“No. Not to me, I mean,” the messenger corrected himself.
The Captain raised his hand and signaled that it was enough. The messenger bowed and withdrew.
Certainly, he knew no one would question the Saint’s decision. Besides, where the dead would be buried was the least of his concerns. While, it involved his fallen men and was tied to the guards’ morale, his duty lay with the living.
He had a wall to defend, and the dead could not fight.
The peace lasted for another hour.
The Captain was washing in the washroom when a messenger found him. He sat on a stone bench while a young attendant drew water from a bucket and poured it slowly over his shoulders. A dark bruise marked the flesh just below his shoulder, near the base of his neck, where an arrow had struck but failed to pierce the gambeson beneath the ringmail.
“Captain, the enemy is at it again.”
The report stilled the small chamber.
“Are you certain?” the Captain asked, water running down his back.
With a pained expression, as if burdened by what he had to say, the messenger replied, “Yes. The enemy has arranged their ladders once more.”
The Captain inhaled deeply. “We rested, and so did they,” he said, though he knew it was not entirely true. The enemy had enough men to rotate their assaults through the night and at noon.
At his urging, the attendant stopped pouring water over him. Cleaned, he put on a fresh tunic, his first in two nights, and headed toward the armory in the gatehouse.
The corridor he passed was filled with volunteers fixing bolt shafts and resetting fletching. From several chambers came the steady ring of hammers. One room had been turned into a makeshift smithy, where men tried to flatten bent bolt heads and hammer them back into usable shape. There were even attempts to modify their crossbows to fit the Lord’s bolts better, as their own stockpile was nearly gone after so much fighting.
Armored in ringmail that one of his men had wiped clean, despite the broken rings just below the shoulder, the Captain headed to the battlements.
There he saw gray-robed Candidates, rarely seen on the walls, now gathered along the battlements. Some held spears, others swords. With so little training, they looked almost as dangerous to themselves as to the enemy. Still, they needed every able body they could muster.
Crouching low, despite the pain in his knees, he advanced to where his staff had gathered.
“Captain,” his three staff greeted him. All looked weary under the morning sun.
“How is the situation?” he asked as he moved toward the narrow slit between the crenellations.
“They have prepared even more ladders,” one of his staff replied.
That answer said enough. Despite last night’s bloody assault, the enemy was not giving up. They were ready to press the attack again.
The Captain swallowed dryly. The third day was going to be another deadly day.
“Get more stones,” he instructed. “And make sure all the bolts we have are distributed.”
From below came a different sound, deeper and more rhythmic than men moving in formation.
He turned as a nearby lookout reported, “Horses. It’s the nomads.”
“More tribesmen?” one of his staff asked while peering through the crenel.
The Captain did not need to look. He had learned that Lowlandian horses trotted with a different cadence.
The guards around them grew tense at the thought of the enemy’s new allies. Their losses in Cascasonne had been attributed to a nomad charge, and many feared them.
“Let them be,” the Captain said calmly. “Their horses cannot climb walls. They are the least of our worries.”
There were a few chuckles and snorts. It was not entirely true, but it steadied their morale.
Thus, they waited, carefully observing the enemy’s movements.
Minutes passed, and there was little activity aside from the crude archer tower being manned once more. The crossbow duel resumed, though by now it was considered a low threat. The defenders had grown used to it.
An hour went by. More stones and bolts were distributed, yet still there was no attack.
The enemy seemed occupied with something. The defenders could only speculate.
They had already seen more siege ladders. They had seen the nomads arrive. Now they saw what looked like a crude battering ram being dragged into position.
“They are switching tactics now?” one of the staff asked in disbelief.
“Aiming for the gates, perhaps,” another said.
“But what are the nomads for?” a third one asked.
The Captain declined to comment.
Slowly, the sun rose higher, and yet the enemy made no concrete move. Before they knew it, it was already near midday.
...
The Captain sat beside his men with his back against the parapet, his helmet resting next to him, the linen padding protecting his head from the sun. It was hot, though clouds drifted across the sky.
Only the lookout remained standing, watching through the narrow gap between two planks in the embrasure, where an arrow already protruded from the wood.
Still, there was nothing.
Even when trumpets sounded and rallying shouts rose from below, the enemy seemed occupied only with shifting formations.
The strong wind returned, carrying an earthy scent, a sign that the end of autumn was near. By midday, drinking water and bread were distributed among the men. They ate in relative peace, interrupted only by brief exchanges as crossbowmen traded bolts.
Some chatted quietly to pass the time, as the enemy continued to hesitate.
No one complained. Many were grateful not to face another assault. They were simply too drained.
Despite the heat, many dozed from fatigue, though it felt no longer than a blink.
The Captain could not resist resting his eyes as well. The monotony was heavy. There was only the flutter of banners and the moving clouds.
Hours passed, and the sun sank lower.
Awakened after two short bouts of sleep, the Captain, convinced no assault would be launched before nightfall, led half of his men down from the wall. They were famished and, for once, ate in the hall. They did so quickly, wary that the enemy might attempt something unexpected.
By the third day, the kitchen staff was better prepared. Fully aware of the strain on the defenders, they cooked more than usual, even beyond the normal allowance.
The men ate heartily. They needed their strength restored.
As the sun dipped low, casting long bands of orange across the sky, it finally set. Many returned to the wall, rotating with those who had yet to eat.
They resumed their guard duty, now supplied with more stones and bolts. They were glad to be in better condition than the day before.
As before, the walls were lit with torches and lanterns, and so was the enemy’s camp.
Yet there was little immediate concern.
For hours, there was only the occasional trumpet call or horns in the dark, as if signaling something none could fully discern. By then, the men had eaten and returned to their posts. Even some who had been injured came back, their wounds dressed and bound.
Another hour passed in uneasy calm.
Then, instead of trumpets, came the sound they had heard the night before. The familiar melody returned. A stringed instrument carried across the dark, and, as expected, the nomad began to sing his song once more.
“Monkh khokh tengeriin dor…
Tal nutag… tal nutag mini khol…
Salhi… geriin uner…
Salhi uner avch odno…
Khar mori yantsgana…
Yantsgana shono dund…
Toos… toos tengert khurne…
Etseg nutag… khol bolovch…
Setgel tasrakhgui… tasrakhgui…
Shoniin odod…
Deerees harna…
Urt zam… urt zam…
Bi butsna… bi butsna…"
The Monastery men did not understand it, but to the nomads it was their longing for their homes.
“Under the Eternal Blue Heaven
My steppe lies far away.
The wind carries the scent of my home
Into the distance.
My black horse whinnies,
Its dust rising toward the sky.
Though my father’s land is far,
My heart does not part from it.
The night stars look down,
Though my road is long, I will return.”
Captivated by the melodies, worn down by monotony and piled-up fatigue, cooled by the evening breeze, and with their bellies full, the men began to fall asleep. And those who remained awake felt there was nothing wrong with it.
After all, there was no immediate threat.
Five Saint Candidates made their rounds, and they too confirmed there was nothing to fear outside. There was no sign of impending attack. Three of them stayed behind, giving more peace of mind.
The men remembered that the day before, the nomads had played their tune, and there had been no attack while the song carried across the walls.
Moreover, since that morning, there had not been a single assault, despite all the siege ladders the enemy had repaired.
The Lord’s attack had been blunted.
“Probably tomorrow they’ll send a man to negotiate,” one said to the lookout.
“You think so? I think they’ll try to starve us,” the lookout replied, fighting a yawn.
“Ha, let them try. Without the thousands, we can hold out just fine until next year.”
The lookout’s eyelids felt heavy, but he managed a snort. “And winter is close at hand.”
There was only peace amid the ember glow of lanterns and torches. Even the Saint Candidates had fallen asleep. After three days of fighting, many could endure no more.
At that moment, a dark silhouette crossed the clouded night sky. Its slim shape moved swiftly for eyes to see. The night concealed it as it descended in a rapid glide. It circled wide behind the Monastery, angling toward the vast inner courtyard.
***
PS: There’s a long holiday next week, and I’ll be taking a day off because my family has insisted. Otherwise, my relatives will camp at my house, throw a party, and stay over. Please, the cleaning alone would be painful. 😵💫
Now, based on Lansius’ Art of War, it is better to wreck a relative’s home than our own. 🤭
Also, I am already so behind schedule and need a breather to organize my drafts before the Monastery finale. So, see you next Friday. 😅
To make up for it, this chapter is properly long at 4.4K!
The song in the text is not a direct historical piece. It is a partial translation inspired by an older, incomplete Mongolian song tradition from the 13th century.
Now, a Mongolian song that fit the scene in chapter:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cg1WVua5OzU
I hope you can feel the longing part. 🤗
The Morin Khuur is the instrument, and it is a fascinating one.
"The instrument consists of a trapeziform wooden-framed sound box to which two strings are attached. It is held nearly upright with the sound box in the musician's lap or between the musician's legs. The strings are made from hairs from nylon or horses' tails,[2] strung parallel, and run over a wooden bridge on the body up a long neck, past a second smaller bridge, to the two tuning pegs in the scroll, which is usually carved into the form of a horse's head.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morin_khuur
Also, here is a link that shows the capabilities of the Morin Khuur.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ixPZghTW3f8&list=RDixPZghTW3f8&start_radio=1
Next chapter, we're going to find out what that silhouette is. The Monastery finale arc begins. There will be many deaths.🗡️
As always, thank you for supporting Horizon of War! 💎💖🦆
Have a nice holiday, and happy Lunar New Year if you’re celebrating! 🧧🏮🧨🍊🥮🐉