Neziul
CassidyTheButch
mothcat
Not a Sayan
PrinceAlexus
NoriWasHere
Iwannabeyours
Simply Not RealThe Great Raid of Suen
Krasimir
Krasimir
You are certain of dhis ting Kr-rasimir?
As certain as anything. Our man came and went exactly as the ferryman said. I trust this man. It's too good an opportunity to pass up.
Dhese men you ask for dhough - dhey exactly dhe men we cannot afford to risk. Our enemy, dhey can lose armies. Vee, vee cannot afford
mistakes.
We are running out of time! The imperials are reorganizing...
Peace brodher...
We cannot keep passing up these opportunities! We've wasted too many already. Peacetime complacency won't last forever and we're...
I know! I know! But vee do not have dhe right people - dhis ees why we need dhe o'ters. Dhis ees dhe time for us to come toge'ter.
They're against us Skoti. The fewer mouths breathing word about this the safer those men will be. The mercenary. He and his Monchian blackguards are just what we need.
Our brodhers and esisters sweated, bled, and died for no'ting but food and dhe promise fr-reedom. Dhat treasure you want to give dhese men: dhey paid for eet. Not us.
I paid plenty. Riding through the night. Sleeping in ditches at my age. Much more of this it won't take an Elgan bullet to put me in the ground. They're the right tool for the job.
And expendable?
And expendable, yes. If I don't like the situation... they're on their own. Trust me. We've already passed on all the low hanging fruit we could've seized up north. This is what we have left. We pull it off, we stay ahead of what's coming, if we don't: it will come for us. You'll see at the planning meeting.
Vee vill esee. Make sure you come prepared.
Upriver from the Imperial City of Suen
The low canopy of trees stretched overhead as Warrin Montfault knelt by the riverbank, his grey beard catching the moonlight like iron filings. His coat, once richly dyed in Emiddley red, had long since faded into something more fitting for a mercenary living in exile; patched up and smelling faintly of old salt and powder.
Behind him, a half-circle of his men waited in silence: scarred, sun-creased faces, a mix of Monchians and a few strays picked up from local ports, all of them hardened. Across from them, clustered in a smaller number, laid a few of the Red Court’s partisans.
Out on the water, a lone barge slid slowly toward the pier, its outline barely visible. Warrin’s eyes followed its slow approach, hand resting lazily on the pommel of his belt pistol. Only a couple of men milled around the dock, shovelling the cargo onto the deck of the barge. From the sharp scent drifting on the wind, it was exactly what they’d been told: manure.
Warrin clicked his tongue and crawled back.
“There it is,” he said at last, voice low and rough like gravel dragged over wood, “That’s our ride into the city.”
One of his Monchian men let out a quiet laugh, and Warrin gave a dry smile beneath his beard. He cast a glance toward the Red partisans now, eyes glinting like steel in the half-light.
“Dark’s almost right. We’ll wait for dusk proper before we make our move,” Warrin continued, voice still pitched low, “When we do, it’s quick, quiet, no pistols lest it goes sideways.”
He closed slightly, boots shifting on damp earth.
“And as for you lot…” his eyes flicked toward the Red Court men, “I trust none of you has a problem getting dirty?” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Because we’re going in through a barge full of shit.”
A few of his crew snickered behind him, but there wasn’t much humor in it.
"Can't say I envy don't envy the accommodation." The grey-haired bargemaster commented, testing the half-laid planks that formed the false bottom of the barge with his boot, looking more anxious about this endeavor than the men who'd actually be doing the deed.
Not that he'd be any less dead if it failed.
The partisans opposite Warrin said nothing and started climbing into the barge with the water, and provisions they'd need for the trip downriver to Suen, where the load of nightsoil was destined for the town's tannery industry.
These men seemed at odds even with the stoic fanatics that occasionally emerged within the partisan rabble. This small group of men spoke and comported themselves like Owned Men who knew their business. They were educated men, lacking the harsh accents of serfs or field slaves who seemed at times to speak in tongues that were only understood among themselves.
Among partisans that rarely had a matchlock between any ten of them, this contingent had all come exceedingly well-armed with swords, breastplate armour, and flintlock pistols - each one a small treasure for desperate rebels. They stood well among the grizzled Monchian mercenaries, though weeks of fraught living was born on their faces and their threadbare clothes.
The partisans didn't use their real names - said it was better not to in this business. The one among them they called Elgaphagos remained with Warrin and his men, looking from Warrin with weary but steeled pale blue eyes to the company of grizzled veterans that Warrin had brought.
Nothing distinguished Elgaphagos from the others but he was clearly in charge among this group. "There is no shame if any man should wish to back out here. We all know what awaist. Once the barge is loaded, we're committed. More honourable to back out now, than spoil the whole endeavour."
Those present had all prepared themselves for this mission. Picked men, every one of them. "No? Well then. We all know what we need to do."
The barge will carry you into the city. These men are allies of ours - they told us they come and go so regularly, the guards all know them. They pass without notice. Hardly checked. Our man tested it - was able to get into the city, make contact with friends in the city and return.
You'll be packed under a false floor, beneath a load of night soil like herrings. The stench will be beyond foul but there's traffic on that river. Men on the banks. If you cough, if you wretch - if anyone hears anything from that hold any reports it - you'll be killing not only yourself, but every other man involved.
It was two days to Suen. Two days they spent packed inside that false bottom floor, their only air through narrow vents for the purpose. The days were hot. The nights were cold. By the end of it the stench of the nightsoil hardly mattered, with seventy some men crammed together amidst their own wretched offal, gasping silently by the vents for what breath was to be had.
There was hardly room to move without one man eating another's elbow or knee as the bargemaster and the poleman worked them down river.
Getting there will be the hardest part. Our enemy's complacency is their greatest weapon. Years of peace and bad habits are hard to undo. The Empire is stretched thin. They know the red and black armies are still far away for now. Our partisans, they know if they push us we must flee.
Their enemy is out there! Hiding in hills and forests and farms! They arrested the dissidents. It's a garrison town. They cannot concieve that we can, or would dare, hit them like this.
The Suen Regiment is 800 strong. The old walls of the city were rebuilt, nearly a century ago, and the defences expanded to contain any Calarian movements to south of the river with bastion works and a double moat with strong artillery. It has one of the only bridges spanning the course of the river. You need to control both sides of the river. A full field army. Heavy artillery. Attacking with anything else is a suicide mission.
Right now, the main threats are elsewhere, and we are reliably informed - stirred to action by pressure from the local masters and gentry - departed Suen two weeks ago, suppressing our brothers and sisters and supervising preparation of defences ahead of either our main army, or the Blacks, passing through the region. He took two companies with him.
They did this because they know we're a threat to farms - not them: we cannot touch them behind their walls and artillery. Their complacency is the rope we'll hang them with.
The truth is, the Empire is pressed thin. Our sources in the city tell us most of the professional fighting men were cannibalized, first to march west, then to march south, and the last contingent departed for Rodelkog and shant be returning. That 800 man professional garrison was gone long before the governor left. The guys he took - were the best of what they'd been able to scrape together since the war began.
That does not mean he left Suen unmanned. We're told they have four under-strength companies perhaps 300-400 men. Most of them recruits and levies just taken from the countryside and pressed into service. They'll be drilled, trained to march, hold pikes, then shipped off elsewhere so the next batch can be brought in. They're untested. No one, not even their own officers expects much out of them even in the sort of fight they're being trained for.
And we're not going to fight the way they trained: they're gonna fight our way.
Right now the officers and soldiers - the men who know what they're doing in Suen - are those too old and too wounded to campaign. They're overworked. They're old. They're tired. They're surrounded by idiots who know less than nothing about nothing. Each of them are filling roles that should be done by three men - they have too many tasks to perform and not enough hours in a day to do them right. They're used to peacetime. They're making mistakes. They're taking shortcuts because they have to get whatever the next big thing the governor wants done done. They're complacent and they know the main black and red armies are weeks away.
It's a garrison town going back a long way. People there are free men. Prove residence a year in Suen, a serf becomes free if the garrison doesn't find them first and drag them back to their lords. Our brothers and sisters in shackles are watched, and worked like animals. Those friends we have fear their friends, neighbours even their families may turn them in or say something to the wrong person: they have no inkling of what we're about to do. The point is, they have no fear of anyone from inside those walls. They control every entrance and exit, no one comes or goes without them allowing it and there's nothing we can do to change that.
So we're going to get them to let us inside. Then, they're on our time.
Upriver from the Imperial City of Suen
The barge slid through the early morning mist like a shadow come to life, the creak of the wooden hull barely audible over the soft lapping of the river. The bargeman, a wiry man with a weathered face known locally as Odran stood steady at the tiller. Odran wasn’t a man built for heroics or misadventure, but his father had been a serf emancipated in Suen and he still had family who lived the grinding miseries and toil of serfdom.
It was they who'd put him in contact with the Partisans.
He'd floated the idea more in jest than anything in trusted company: it'd be easy for him. Odran had never imagined one night men would come knocking at his door. He got by better than some, but the coin was too good to pass and there weren’t many ways out for a man with family to think about.
Odran's knuckles were white on the tiller as the town’s walls came into view through the mist.
Above, a group of young men with pikes, looking arrayed as if at parade, stared blankly forward from the bastions slopes and parapets looming over either side of the barge beneath them; they didn't even glance at the vessel though. Odran forced himself to lift his hat in the usual way, tipping it with a casual flick and calling up.
“Morning to you, lads, running late. Suen’s lot’s expecting their stink this afternoon.”
The guards said nothing, staring blankly ahead as the figure of an imperial drill instructor was briefly seen pacing behind them, giving instructions that could scarcely be interpreted from below.
The barge heaved forward at the direction of the harried, green looking soldiers that worked together to raise the final river boom that would permit them to continue forward towards the walls of Suen itself. The corporal along the shore greeted Odran by name.
"Still here?" The bargemaster called back from his position standing at the tiller as he started the barge's turn towards the canal proper.
"Same shit, different day." The corporal shouted back as he barked for the men to start repositioning the boom as soon as they'd passed. "Bit less than usual, yeah?"
"This is premium shit!" Odran laughed back. "It's a special delivery. Just for the governor."
The corporal laughed, following along the bank until he could catch the attention of the canal gatehouse men up the river to start opening to start hauling up the outer inspection sally port gate - through which they'd need to pass if they were to turn off the main river with its great walls on either side, and be admitted to the canal that ran to the city's river quay.
The outer gate came back down, the grinding of gears punctuated by the telltale sound of iron connected with heavy granite stone. The inspection officer greeted Odran and waived the barge towards the dock, stepping onto the deck of the barge as it pulled alongside.
Men in the hold could see him clearly through the vent-holes, but could only remain still and silent in awareness that if he bothered to look closely at all, they were all dead men. There as only a single bored looking soldier, leaning on his pike, on the pier with the corporal but it wouldn't matter. If they were discovered there was no escape for them here. The inner and outer river gates were both closed. The garrison would simply take its time lining men along the high parapets above and simply gun them down at their leisure.
The inspector seemed less interested in inspecting the barge, however, than chatting with Odran about life up-river, about whether he was up for gambling later. It seemed to go on forever, before finally, mercifully, another barge was announced approaching.
"Better move you on!" He said stepping back off as the poleman shoved the bow off the pier again. “Gods spare me from barge duty,” he muttered, waving his hand in front of his face with one hand while waiving farewell to Odran with the other.
Finally they started hauling up the inner sally gate.
Odran held is breath for a long moment, silently working the tiller with a forced smile as the inspector turned back towards the outer gate. Only then did he let out a slow, shuddering breath through his nose. His heart felt like it was about to hammer out of his chest.
Beneath the false floor, Warrin and his men, along with the Red Court partisans, waited in breathless silence, unseen, uncounted... and now inside the walls.
The ferryman will time your arrival to late afternoon. Enough for the dock-slaves to start unloading the nightsoil, not enough for them to finish and uncover you. These men are terrified for their lives; they are not our friends, don't expect them to cover for you if you give yourselves away. Once they turn in for the night, you'll wait until well into the nightwatch.
That is when the mission begins.
The main objective is the city arsenal. The city's defence is centered on that arsenal - all weapons, all powder, all shot, and equipment is stored there when not in use. Understrength as they are, you're looking at a nightwatch of maybe 60 men spread across the outer bastions, the citadel, east and west gates, and four postern gates. Most of these posts will only have been issued one or two old, matchlock firearms among them - maybe a few shots.
The rest of the garrison is billeted throughout the city and is unarmed. I've never been in Suen, but I seen old medieval fortresses like it that were just built around because it'd be too expensive to rebuild them proper. They'll have single refrofitted rooms for local armouries: enough weapons the watch station to get the watch into the fight and hold until the rest of the garrison can draw their equipment and start bringing resupply from the main arsenal.
We take that arsenal that garrison shrinks to less than a hundred men under arms: most of them still carrying sharpened sticks. They'll be spread out across the city. Green recruits everywhere. No orders. No coordination. No garrison drills for this. Until they draw their weapons and equipment from that aresenal: the rest of them are completely unarmed, coming alone or small groups from their billets.
First you'll need to take the western postern gatehouse tower: it overlooks the quay docks where you'll be unloading, anyone leaving the docks need to pass the nightwatch there. That post needs to be taken, quietly. These men are not looking to die... by the time they realize you're a threat to more than just them it should already be too late for them to sound an alarm.
The nightwatches are expected to monitor the streets and areas, in front and around the arsenal. If an alarm is raised though, the watch corporal will post one or two sentries outside, and lock himself and the rest of the post inside their towers or guardhouses and prepare for a fight while the garrison musters and arms themselves.
Once the postern and arsenal are secure. The secondary objectives are the western main gate - a few men holding the postern will have signalled us - but we'll need entry in. The final objective is to prevent the disorganized garrison from rallying at the citadel - put the unarmed garrison to route.
Your only evacuation route is that first postern gate, and even that will be closed if the western bastions get armed and manned: you'll have to pass under their guns to escape. Or swim for it. Now, here are the details - you all read, I expect you to memorize all this before we go.
The two guardsmen withdrawing back to the postern gatehouse overlooking the quay offered little respite as the work detail was brought forward, watched over by a pair of stern looking militia, ordering them pointedly to begin offloading the barge's contents.
The men inside shifted, but could do nothing, as until the night soil, stacked high as it was over the false deck, there was no escape from the compartment until the load was greatly reduced.
At this point the pier fell to uneasy silence as the wiry, half-starved looking men with gaunt faces set about their work and the watchmen huddled together looking bored and occasionally chatting with Odran while his assistant provided blessed cover for the men trapped beneath by furiously working the bilge pump.
Hours passed in this state until, well before dark, the workmen began approaching the false bottom of the barge. At times the men beneath, peering up, could see the workmen, even their two watchers, through gaps in the soil and planks.
It was here Odran, choosing his moment carefully stepped in. "Won't finish this tonight, might well get some rest, we'll have to finish early in the morrow anyhow."
The workmen didn't halt but waited as the two watchmen shuffled together and exchanged words before ordering the men to stop, marching them back to secure the slaves in their quarters for the night.
All long last the barge was finally let alone, albeit under the watchful eye of the riverside postern gatehouse overlooking the quay less than a hundred paces away - a few men standing or sitting around the open entrance. Occasionally leaving to perform patrols around the dock every hour.
The sun’s last light bled out behind the town’s rooftops, leaving only the pale glow of a half-moon filtered through drifting clouds. The quay and canal had grown quieter, save for the occasional clink of a chain or flap of a loose sail. Lanterns burned faint and far between; the postern gatehouse had two, posted at opposite corners sitting in old rickety chairs from which they roused, once an hour, to do their rounds taking turns while the other snored.
It was past midnight and one of the guards from the postern gate could be heard walking back to his post, a good twenty or thirty minutes were silently passed until inside the barge, Warrin’s voice was barely a whisper:
“Time.”
One of his men, a wiry fellow named Jakes, lifted the planks of the false floor carefully, pressing them up just enough to see. No shouts. No alarms. Just the dark stretch of river and dock with two shapes on the wall hunched against the cold.
The false floor shifted with a damp scrape of wood on wood as Warrin’s men slowly pushed it aside. One by one, grim-faced Monchians rose from beneath the muck and boards, pistols strapped at their sides, blades drawn quiet from sheaths.
Warrin emerged last. Older now, but solid as an iron keel. His grey beard caught the moonlight faintly as he moved to the dock, blade on one hand and an short pick in the other.
“Elgaphagos,” he murmured, glancing sidelong at the Red Court man nearest him. “We move now. Quiet as the grave.”
More of the men stepped over the side of the barge, boots landing softly on wet planks and then to the stone floor of the dock. A chain of silent shapes, moving slow, crouched low, bo clatter, no curses. The smell of manure still clung to them, but no one paid it any mind - open dung filled air was better than that accursed hold.
They were thirty paces from the gatehouse now. Close enough that even clearing one's throat might carry.
Warrin gave the smallest of nods, signaling to one of his Monchians to watch the lane from the quay while the others closed in.
The canal water lapped gently at the barge. The only other sound was the faint creak of wood and flapping sails.
The time for waiting had ended.
Elgaphagos and his men formed up with Warrin and his Monchians as they started towards the gatehouse.
The noise of so many men must have attracted some attention. Out of the darkness, a voice came from ahead. "Someone there?"
Somewhere behind the sound of a heavy door opening, two people muttering and the first light anyone saw - the familiar, but distant glow of a faintly burning match cord.
The first figure appeared then - much closer - as a silhouette emerging out of the formless darkness about ten paces off. "Who goes there?"
The figure ahead shifted, the faint ember of the matchcord glowing in the dark—a steady, soft light. Warrin's hand went up silently, signaling halt. His men froze where they stood, blades already half-drawn, pistols kept low. A second later, a faint birdcall echoed—soft and sharp. It didn’t match anything local, just enough to make a man turn his head.
The silhouette ahead flinched, half-turning at the sound.
That was all Warrin needed. He stepped forward with a fast crouch, pick in his hand. The pick hissed once through the air then thunked with a dull, wet sound as one of Warrin’s men, faster, threw a knife from beside him.
The man with the matchlock didn’t even cry out. The blade buried into his throat, just under the ear, and he dropped the match and weapon alike as he staggered.
Before his companion could even draw breath to shout, Warrin was on him. The old Monchian drove the pick in low, into the gut beneath the rib, his gloved hand clamping over the man’s mouth in the same instant. The guard’s boots scraped once against the stones, weak and useless.
“Easy now,” Warrin growled against the man’s ear, voice barely above a whisper.
The monchiana quickly entered the gatehouse and grabbed the one that still lived, dragging him down by the collar and slamming him against the quay wall. The crew had the man bound and gagged within seconds, rough but efficient.
Warrin watched both fall still, wiping his pick clean against his coat before sheathing it again.
“Armory next,” he murmured low. “We keep it quiet until we can’t.”
"They'll finish here." Elgaphagos said indicating the upper floors of the gatehouse as his men moved and stripped the bodies of keys, binding and gagging the other prisoners and moving them off the streets.
Elgaphagos and a trio of the partisans, familiar with Suen and the location of the arsenal remained with Warrin - leading the Monchian mercenaries away from the quay in the darkness, guiding them out of the open, through the narrow, cramped and meandering streets of the old medieval low district.
"Just ahead." Elgaphagos pointed across the open square.
Somewhere out there was the old granary, locked and reinforced. Outside it a simple gatehouse and the nightwatch detail guarding the arsenal.
Corporal Katsaratos stepped out of the guardhouse, glancing briefly at Toteas who was leaning back in his chair, feet up while his matchlock and matchcord resting against the side of the guardhouse. For a moment the corporal hesitated before speaking.
"Keep that cord lit guardsman" Katsaratos growled. "Watch sergeant will have a fit."
Toteas, greying, more than twice Katsaratos' age, barely stirred in his seat, just adjusted his legs. "Fuck the watch sergeant. Been in those britches half-a-lick think he knows fuck all."
"This is my watch." Katsaratos bristled.
"Aye. But nothing's happening. And if anything does happen we're gonna be up to our ears running herd on green faced kids bumbling around with live powder around lit fucking matchcord. That make a whit'a sense to you corporal?"
"Post orders say keep it lit. So keep it lit or I'll have you on disciplinary docket in the morn." The corporal said. "Besides you know so much better, been here so long, you should be sergent."
"I was. Wasn't for me, 'cause I ain't a fucking prick." Toteas grumbled shifted and looked like he was about to stand up then stopped.
"Now. If you please."
"You hear something?"
"Toteas. The cord."
Toteas grumbled again but rose from his chair, taking both the cord and musket and headed into the guardhouse closing the door behind him.
Inside two men, as old as him, dozed in the corner. Three others, younger lads were occupied at dice.
"Look lively lads!" Toteas made a show of interrupting the game as he leaned over to light the match cord. "New corporal wants lit matches around the powder house." He raised his voice so Katsaratos could hear him grumbling.
Instead of the salty reply he expected what came next was Katsaratos' voice calling out: "Who goes there!? Identify yourself!"
One of the men at the table stood up and went to the guardhouse door standing in the threshold while Toteas lit the matchcord. "Someone out there?" Toteas called after them as he waited for the cord to catch.
Warrin raised a hand, two fingers up; hold.
The Monchians crouched low behind crates and shadows lining the square’s edge. Across the way, the guards’ voices echoed sharp through the dark, but Warrin didn’t move yet. He watched, waited, until both figures stepped fully into view. One silhouette just past the threshold, the other standing in the doorway with matchcord now burning faint orange.
Then, with a subtle hand flick, Warrin gave the next signal.
One of his men rose slowly from the shadows, a tall Monchian with a shaved head, messy goatee and a threadbare coat. He kept his hands loose at his sides, no weapons showing. His steps wobbled deliberately as he crossed into the open, boots scraping stone.
“Ehh...! Who’s ‘at—?” the Monchian slurred loud enough to carry and slurred like a man deep in his cups, “Fellows... g-got turned ‘round...”
He stumbled once, planting a hand against the wall as if to steady himself, eyes down, face half-hidden in the gloom.
Warrin stayed where he was while two of his men began sneaking to the side slowly waiting for the bait to take hold.
Elgaphagos and the partisans, in the darkness were already circling wide the other way to approach the guardhouse while Warrin and his men fixed the guards' attention.
Outside the guardhouse next to the arsenal Corporal Katsaratos by the guardhouse. "In the Emperor's name, stand fast for you life sirrah - you approach the Emperor's men!"
Two guardsmen, hefting halberds from a rack filtered out of the guardhouse, approaching the corporal's flanks. Trateos, with the matchlock musket remained in the doorway, squinting into the darkness. He called out to the man he could not himself see in different terms. "Wrong way fella. So turn the fuck around!"
Behind him the three guardsmen still inside the barracks were up and alert, but waiting to see what was happening before they donned their helmets - one moved to light the covered lantern with the candle that rested on the table in the guardhouse.
The guards facing off outside the guardhouse were far better equipped than the postern guards: cuirasses, gorgets, proper swords and halberds.
The pair with halberds drew up with their corporal. All the men carried swords at their sides but only the corporal carried a pistol - though his hand rested on the pommel of his sword and only the man in the door carried a matchlock musket.
The Monchian didn’t flinch at Katsaratos’s challenge. He swayed in place, slapping a hand against his chest like trying to remember who he was.
“Emper’r’s men, aye... good lads... jus’... jus’ lookin’ f’r the tannery road... or was it the mill...?” He trailed off into a muttered curse, scratching at his jaw as if struggling with the thought.
One of the guards muttered something under his breath, already shifting his halberd like he wasn’t sure whether to jab or shove.
Meanwhile, in the alley’s darkness, two of Warrin’s Monchians had peeled off with Elgaphagos. One of them—a scar-faced man with a shorn scalp—leaned in close, voice a low rasp: “We move now or that act’s done for.”
The other already had his flintlock half-drawn beneath his coat, barrel low, eyes locked on the guards as the tension stretched thinner by the second.
It was a simple gesture from Katsaratos who remained stationary, hand on his blade that remained in its scabbard as the two guards with him lowered their halberds and advanced prodding the Monchian and ordering him to leave in voice that left little doubt there'd be violence if the command wasn't obeyed.
Elgaphagos and his men from the shadows said nothing, to the comment from the Monchian but instead drew their own flintlocks by way of reply and immediately surged forward, towards the door of the guardhouse, drawing blades as they did.
"No alarms if you please gentlemen." Elgaphagos' voice rang out clear across the courtyard as the men rushed forward. "You're quite surrounded. Any foolishness and you all die here."
There was a moment of hesitation from all of the guardsmen involved as all turned to observe the group hastening towards the open guardhouse door - with the corporal and his two guards turning, and Toteas belatedly moving to close - and presumably bar - the guardhouse door.
Warrin gave a sharp hand signal and stepped out of the shadows just as Elgaphagos made his call. His Monchians surged with him, boots thudding low and fast across the stone.
The “drunken” Monchian moved first, his act dropping in an instant. From beneath his coat two daggers flashed into his hands. He quickly threw one up under the first soldier’s eyes, the second across the throat of the other, silencing both before they could raise a shout.
Warrin himself was already on the move, boots skidding across the courtyard. As Toteas grabbed for the door, Warrin slammed into him shoulder-first, knocking the man off balance. Before Toteas could recover, Warrin’s blade was already at his throat, pinning him against the frame with his boot.
“Don’t.”
Behind him, blades and fists cracked into the remaining guards, Monchians moving to knock some cold while cutting down others down as needed.
The corporal, Katsaratos, having turned to face the newcomers and promptly having been dumped and pummeled on the ground shouts from his stomach to sound the alarm. "Ring the fucking bell, 'fore they kill us..." His voice was cut off by one of the Monchians on top of him bludgeoning him senseless with the back of a flintlock.
"Easy now everyone..." Toteas says his eyes wide, his voice strained as he stares at Warrin, holding up his matchlock in surrender as the partisans push past into the guard hut. "Let's no one do anything stup..."
As the Monchians and partisans surged in after the remaining guards, one of the guards saw one of the men cut down through the open door, his hesitation suddenly ending as he turned and rang the bell, once then twice before two of the partisans tackled him to the ground.
"It's over gentlemen - no one else needs to die out here tonight."
The rest of the Monchians began removing the bodies and moving to help secure the captives.
Elgaphagos, looking severe drew up next to Warrin as the Toteas was pulled away, bound and gagged. "I wager someone fucking heard that." He exclaimed, his eyes wide. "Shouldn't have killed them." He gestured to the two guards whose bodies were even then being dragged inside. "Spooked 'em. They saw we had pistols on 'em - knew we'd kill 'em all if they made a peep. You understand? We had them! Whichever of your men did that..." He drifted off stepped aside and took a deep breath. "No matter. We have it! We need to hold here AND the main intersection from the citadel. Keep 'em from mobilizing there. If we're lucky no one heard that."
The door to the gatehouse swung open and Corporal Sidaris looked up at the recruit, not even a private, that entered his office.
"Corporal." The recruit shuffled nervously from foot to foot, wearing armour that was clearly two sizes too large for the boy - whatever they'd had on hand down in the arsenal these days he supposed. "Uh, I was assigned watch on the citadel walls... and uh..."
Sidaris just stared at the kid, feeling his hackles raising just looking at this kid wasting his damn time. It was bad enough he was stuck on nightwatch, the only blessing of which was normally not having to deal with any of the snot-nosed recruits... but here they were so badly short-staffed this kid was sputtering about something.
"... I thought I ah, heard someone yell and then - I dunno sergeant - I think it might've been an alarm bell. It went quiet right after, but I thought I heard yelling."
Sidaris leaned forward, rubbing his temples as the kid stood in his office door, ready to piss himself.
"Should I ah... raise the alarm or something?"
"Where'd it come from?" Sidaris said, taking a deep breath, and resisting the urge to beat the kid senseless.
"I don't know sergeant. I mean, I heard yelling... maybe..."
"So you're telling me, you heard yelling and someone rang an alarm bell - somewhere, you don't know where - and you want to have me go down to the sergeant of the watch, and explain to him we woke up the whole goddamn garrison because you thought you heard some yelling, and someone sounding an alarm for half a moment and then nothing.?"
"Uh...?"
"What do you think recruit?"
The young kid said nothing for a moment, shifting from foot to foot and looking at him as though expecting an answer.
"It was an alarm bell right?"
"I ah... I think so corporal."
"And what do we do when we hear an alarm recruit?"
"We ah... sound the alarm?"
"You heard an alarm being raised, and yelling. Yes recruit. I think you should sound the alarm." Corporal Sidaris' tone was excessively condescending but there was a hint of hesitation that suggested he himself wasn't entirely sure about what he was saying. It was probably some idiot new person on post screwing around, but maybe this would teach them that contrary to popular belief around here - there was in fact a goddamn war on and all this screwing around needed to end.
Near the arsenal, just as things look like they're in the clear and the entry team is trying to get the arsenal open, using the key taken from Katsaratos, the quiet that had settled back into place was abruptly broken by another bell ringing from the direction of the town's main square - soon joined by the alarm bells from the east and west watch gatehouses.
"I think someone heard us." Someone exclaimed.
Warrin watched the shadowed rooftops to the west as the alarm bells spread like wildfire. No chance of quiet now.
He turned to Elgaphagos, “Take some men and head to the gatehouse, keep cover and we'll get their attention... Get it open once you hear the shots," he turned to the others.
“We’ll hold here,” Warrin added, “We draw their eyes, take em into the funnel. If they want their arsenal, they’ll pay for every inch.”
One of the veterans pried the last lock from the door. It creaked open to reveal rows of crates and barrels stacked tight with powder, shot, and weapons in abundance.
Warrin stepped in, took a glance, then turned to his crew. “Load what you can. Set the rest by the entrance if they charge us, we light it up. Let ‘em wonder if we’ll blow the whole damn place.”
He drew his pistol, thumbed the flint with a crooked smile, “Let’s give 'em a show.”
Elgaphagos split of his remaining partisans and several of Warrin's Monchians, under 20 men all told - but intending to meet up with whoever could be spared from the postern gate.
That left Warrin just under 50 men around the arsenal.
"Won't be long now." Elgaphagos said as he and his men prepared themselves. "Most of the garrison will be converging here soon. Once we take the gate, we'll move to take up positions blocking the central square approaching the citadel: once you beat them back here, that's where they'll go. One of my associates broke off earlier in the town to contact some like minded colleagues in the city. They'll be arriving soon. It won't be many but they'll help. Password is Eleftheria i Thanatos." Elgaphagos looked Warrin in the eye and smiled, giving Warrin a pat on the shoulder. "Victory or death my friend. Good luck."
And with that he and his men headed off towards the western gate.
Through darkened streets of Suen, bells ring as men rouse themselves from sleep - tired veterans, recruits - getting dressed while the civilians in whose homes they billeted watch on.
After a time the bells stop ringing. But the city is waking up. The gatehouses around the city begin locking up. The two or three men posted around the bastion walls suddenly alert, staring intently into the darkness - one of them seeing movement to the west and shouting for his corporal.
Somewhere in the central citadel Lord Elyon Inarel - son of the governor, Duke Inarel, sat astride his bed, trying to wipe the sleep from his eyes from a water basin. "How many? Whence do they approach?"
"Unsure as yet m'lord." The sergeant of the watch said grimly. "The alarm was raised. No one seems to know who raised it or why. There's been no runner. I sent ours, we should have reports back from all watches shortly."
"False alarm?"
"I don't know m'lord."
Elyon growled but tried to breathe in deeply. Drilling recruits and managing the garrison was annoying work even without being woken with what little sleep he was permitted.
"It'll be a good test for the recruits." The watch sergeant added. "I figured I should rouse you just in case."
"Yes. Fine." Elyon managed, trying not to sound irritable despite being very irritable. "Has the captain has been roused?"
"He's on his way."
"Wake me again once you're sure."
"Yes m'lord."
=========
Warrin stood in the center of the walkway leading out of the arsenal, pistol in one hand, sword in the other. Around him bodies were already being dragged into the old storage alcoves and tossed behind overturned crates. The few prisoners still breathing were gagged and bound with sacks pulled over their heads.
“Stack ‘em behind the grain barrels,” one Monchian grunted, wiping blood from his coat, “If we live, they might be worth something.”
Another came up beside Warrin, breathing hard, “A lotta gear in here, Cap'n, but most of it’s locked in vault cages... We’d need hours and iron to crack it.”
“Then we don’t waste time,” Warrin growled “We make what we’ve got count.”
Powder horns and bandoliers of shot were handed out. The matchlocks, flint pistols, and half-rusted sabers pulled from the unlocked racks were fewer than expected but good enough for one fight, maybe two. One Monchian crouched beside the door, loading a rifle then tapped the barrel.
“Here’s the bottle,” he muttered, “Let’s make it tight.”
Warrin pointed to the corner near the old office archway, stone-lined, with a heavy load of crates piled high for cover. “There. If they charge in, they’ll bottleneck and we hit them with volleys from both sides and finish whoever’s left in the gap.”
Another veteran was already moving crates into a secondary funnel beside the service hallway, “They won’t know how many of us are in here until they’re stacked three stacks deep trying to push through.”
Warrin looked up toward the shattered windowpanes above, morning light was bleeding in now. The bells had gone silent, he didn’t like that. Either the town was rallying or they were too disorganized to respond.
He turned to his men, “You get one shot. Make it count. You miss, you draw steel.”
They crouched low, weapons ready, nerves taut. Somewhere beyond the walls, bootsteps echoed on stone.
Warrin leaned back against a pillar, watching the entry with flint eyes.
Elred d'Miafel moved through the darkened streets calling out to the figures then stumbling their way through the darkness. "Make way!" He called out to the lone shadowy figures and small groups now filtering into the streets en route to the arsenal. It was clear to him from the way some lingered that some of these recruits weren't disoriented, and unused to making their way through the darkened streets. "The arsenal's this way! Come on now!" He called, spurring his horse around the bend towards the old market square where the arsenal lay.
This whole exercise was probably nothing - a waste of his time - he reflected. No one seemed to know anything about what was going on. In his experience, that almost always meant one thing: false alarm.
The hoofs of his horse beat their way up the cobbled street towards the arsenal itself. He could already see several figures gathered outside, waiting no doubt to get themselves outfitted before the place was overrun with green recruits who didn't yet know ho to muster properly, in and amidst the wagoneers looking to get their loads to the bastions.
"Look lively now!" He called to the men gathered about. "Fetch the watch corporal? We'll have you on your way soon enough!" Elred pulled back on the reigns, slowing his horse to a more measured trot as he approached the entrance to the arsenal itself.
Something about the posture of the shadowy figures here caused his hand to drift to his sword as he brought his horse to a full stop.
Something here seemed off here. Usually the watch corporal would be out to meet him and the few faces he glimpsed here looked unfamiliar, but there were so many fresh recruits, and wounded veterans shuffled off on them he didn't know half the faces anymore. "Where's Corporal Katsaratas? And get those firearms away from the arsenal. I swear, I'll have every one of you flogged! There's going to be powder everywhere in a moment!"
The snap of flint on steel echoed around Elred as a dozen men stepped from the shadows all at once, arms leveled, eyes hard. Some emerged from beside wagons, others from behind crates and corners of the walkway, all silent tight-lipped men in mismatched coats and worn cuirasses. The sound of steel and hammers being thumbed back made their intentions clear.
From the shadows beneath an arched entry to a house, a figure stepped forward from the darkness; broad-shouldered, grey-bearded, and hard-eyed. Warrin's heavy boots struck the stone with heavy beatings as his sword hung low in one hand and his pistol was already drawn in the other.
“Don’t move, elf.”
The horse shifted under Elred, snorting once as it sensed the tension in the air.
Warrin’s voice was low, rough, but without uncertainty. “You’re surrounded by more than a hundred well-armed men, with more spread through the city than stars above the Circle Sea.” His pistol leveled with uncanny steadiness, “Drop steel, dismount and maybe you’ll get to see tomorrow.”
The men flanking the street cocked their rifles in unison.
“You so much as twitch,” Warrin continued, “and you’ll die before you finish your curse. And when you get to whatever pale garden you Elgan pray to, tell them the spirits of the Circle Sea sent you.”
Elred's nostril's flared from atop his steed, it's hooves stamping impatiently against the cobblestones as he reigned the beast in a slow circle while he cast his eyes about. One could almost see the elven officer, battling internally to come to terms with what he saw around him.
He didn't dismount immediately, nor drop his weapons but perceiving enough of the situation he found himself the elga's gloved hand remained resting on the hilt of his undrawn sword. He rather gave the impression of a man hastily trying to make sense of the situation.
This stand-off was punctuated by the approach of yet another rider - another Elgan officer - and yet more voices then converging on the arsenal square. More would be coming soon as well.
Elred, glancing over his shoulder, seemed to percieve this as well drawing straighter in his saddle, his posture more defiant. "You dare address an officer thus? If this is about wages the governor has already promised remedy on that front, so let there be no more talk of mutiny. Which company are you men even with: was this alarm your doing!?"
Warrin took a slow step forward, boots scraping against the cobbles, his pistol pulled back slightly. The elf believed them to he part of a mutiny by all means.
“Wages?” Warrin spat the word as though it were poison, “You think this is just about coin? The men have bled in these lands while your governor feasts behind his walls. Half the men here haven’t seen their pay in months, and the other half have buried friends while waiting for promises that never come.”
He glanced to his men and they began to close in, their weapons aimed squarely at the rider.
“You call us mutineers...” Warrin continued, “maybe we are but we are done waiting for scraps. Get off the horse, slowly. Or we will take you down and your blade won’t even leave the scabbard.”
A quiet murmur rippled through the Monchians as they shifted position, forming a half-circle around the elf.
Elred's face went red with something resembling rage, staring at you a long moment - judging from his expression he looked to be deciding whether to climb down from his horse, or go out in futile blaze of glory and was seriously considering the latter, but finally he shifted to his stirrup and climbed down. "Mind yourself now." He said in a low warning tone. "You may yet hang for this."
One of the approaching elgan officers, drew up at a distance seeming to perceive something amiss in the interaction, other riders could now be heard - officers and several levies were now shuffling in, a dozen or so, observing from a distance, unsure what was happening. "Captain d'Miafel! Is something amiss now?"
"These men are mutineers!" He shouted back, heedless of your presence. "They've taken the arsenal!"
The conversation was diverted, suddenly by the distant rapport of a firearms discharge... followed by what sounded like a volley return that pierced the still lingering darkness ahead of the dawn. All present seemed to pause at this development.
Near the western gate Elgaphagos and his men advanced upon the gate, finding the gate itself closed tight to them.
They replied to the challenge from the gate with the watch word they'd extracted from the postern corporal, giving the name of unit of recruits recently arrived - they'd hoped it would be enough to gain entrance, but the guardsmen insisted nothing had been sighted and refused to admit them.
This had suited them well enough, since it allowed them to approach the gate doors, bringing up axes - unfortunately they'd been preparing to make their entry just as a runner from the citadel appeared. At first he simply confirmed no sighting but then saw them and their axes. "What are you men there doing with those axes? Who ordered axes out?"
This excited the attention of the guardsmen within the gatehouse. Sensing matters were about to turn hostile, one of his men fired point-blank into the messenger - at which point a the guards in the tower lit their matchlocks from within and the whole party unloaded at them to keep them under cover while four men took turns drying to hack through the iron-reinforced, thick oaken gate with axes: cursing every time the axe crashed against one of the iron studs or bands.
The firefight proceeded some time but forewarned, the guardsmen within had barred, barricaded then stacked furniture and crates in front of the doors - two men shot, and it quickly became clear the gatehouse could not be stormed by the party present. Elgaphagos gave the order to withdraw, exchanging sporadic fire with the guardsmen within the tower.
[/hr]
Warrin stepped in, the edge of his pistol pressing against Elred’s head as his other hand grabbed a fistful of the officer’s collar, pulling him just enough to make the point.
“You heard the man,” Warrin's voice carried through the scene, “We’ve got the arsenal. We’ve got men at the gates. And the Reds…” he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, “they’ll be pouring in any moment. You want to be the first corpses on the pile or do ye want to live long enough to see this end clean?”
He leaned in closer to the Elf, his voice dropped to a whisper, “Tell your men to drop their steel. No blood needs spilling here. You say the word, we walk out breathing.”
The Monchians around them had their flintlocks ready, forming a jagged wall of barrels and blades.
“Give the order.”
Elred stared at Warrin, not blinking even as the pistol was pressed against his head hard enough the elga's neck was forced to bend and he winced from the pressure. "You heard the man..." He finally grumbled, reluctantly to the officer then holding on his horse a distance off, joined presently by several others officers and a small, growing crowd of enlisted, some armed, others clearly not at all - though all watched the scene unfolding from distance in confusion.
"I cannot obey that order sir." The other elga officer called back, beginning to back his horse away, though looking to his own men - largely unarmed save a few personal swords, and most of them unarmoured. Opposite them a small host of Monchians mercenaries, ready and equipped for a fight the officer seemed hesitant. "Get these men in order!" He shouted to those behind him. "We're falling back to the citadel."
The officer atop the horse turned his horse about, but not before pointing in Warrin's direction. "We'll be back for you. Depend upon it!"
Warrin’s jaw tightened as the elga officer and his men began to withdraw.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath.
Then, without warning, he drove the butt of his pistol into Elred’s face with a sharp crack. The elf staggered, blood smearing down his brow as Warrin shoved him into the waiting arms of two Monchians.
“Get him out of my sight,” Warrin ordered, “Tie him, gag him, and make sure he doesn’t think about slipping loose.”
As the men hauled Elred away, one of Warrin’s veterans spoke up, “Captain, what now?”
Warrin exhaled slowly, forcing down the anger twisting in his gut, "Take five men and head to the gatehouse, Rogan. See if Elgaphagos has done his job or if he’s got himself pinned like a fool. Either way, I need to know.”
Rogan gave a firm nod, already signaling a few of the Monchians to follow as Warrin adjusted his grip on the pistol, eyes still scanning the dark streets. “And Rogan,” Warrin called after him, “keep low and keep your shots minimal on the way there, we need to keep them confused while we can..."
=====
Lord Elyon Inarel was once again up, reflecting on the sudden certainty with dawn shortly upon them, he would be getting no more sleep anyhow as he washed his face from a basin. "We're certain this time?"
"I had a runner confirm it m'lord." The captain replied. "Company strength at least advancing along the western road. No artillery spotted. We're still waiting check-in from all posts - I sent a detachment to help get the arsenal sorted - it's like to be a madhouse down there."
Lord Elyon had littls time to ponder this before another runner came in, breathless. "Gunfire at the western gate!"
Lord Elyon and the captain both looked at one another. They seemed to share the same thought at once: how had this group of men to the west closed on the gatehouse already.
"Captain take a team of picked men..."
"I'm on it m'lord." The Captain was already moving towards the door, gesturing for the runner to join him.
Lord Elyon hastened to dress himself. "Secure that gate Captain! I'll deal with whatever is holding up the arsenal!"
Back outside the arsenal, it was plainly evident the officers that had arrived were pulling back towards the citadel with what troops had already arrived - a group of about forty - leaving a few officers to intercept and organize the troops and recruits still arriving across the square and directing them to the citadel.
“Enough,” Warrin muttered.
He turned on his heel, voice gruff and set, “Set the fuse.”
A ripple of motion passed through the Monchians. Some looked shocked. Others didn’t bat an eye. One of them hesitated, “Captain?”
“You heard me. We’re not dying in a powder house waiting for their full muster to come marching down on us.”
The men moved fast now. No more questions. The powder boxes not locked were dragged together and shoved into a crude pile. One man pulled a length of fuse from his coat, already reaching for his striker.
“Make it long. We’ll give it a good stretch and light it on our way out.”
Warrin passed one of the bound prisoners, still gagged and groaning in desperate struggle.
He didn’t even look down, “Leave them.”
Another Monchian lit a taper and passed it to Warrin.
“We take what we can carry,” he said, voice low, “The rest goes up with the rats.”
The fuse was already snaking across the stone floor, curling toward the base of the powder heap like a viper. Warrin gave one last look around the arsenal. Weapons still locked in vaults. Powder wasted, men spent, he bit the inside of his cheek.
“To hell with it,” he said, and lit the fuse.
“Out. Now.”
With a grim nod, he motioned to the men to finish things outside.
The prisoners never got the chance to plead as steel flashed in the dim light, their throats opened, and their bodies slumped where they sat. The guards still milling near the square were little better prepared; locals with more nerve than training, clutching pikes and short sabres like they’d never had to use them in anger. A storm of fire into them, then Warrin’s Monchians surged forward in a hard, silent rush, breaking the formation before it could form. He was among them, his blade drawn, moving with the same strength that had carried him through battled past. A guard’s swing went wide; Warrin’s riposte went straight to the ribs and then the throat and the man folded, hitting the ground in a bloody puddle.
Within moments, the square was theirs. The officers dead, surviving guards scattered down side streets or crumpled in the gutter, and the arsenal stood silent behind them.
"Let's go!" Warrin ordered without looking back, stepping over a twitching corpse to reclaim his place at the front. The fuse hissed further down as the Monchians fell in around him, retreating in a loose column toward the gatehouse. Behind them, the arsenal’s death was already counting down.
The procession of imperial soldiers down the cobbled street towards the western gate of Suen, led by their captain atop his horse, proceed at a steady jog. Over twenty men, all told, several matchlock muskets among them, but at least half-slow the procession with their pikes.
There's no warning to any of them when the first shots ring out from the streetside - a volley of fire that struck their captain from his horse, and sent much of the musketeers near the head of the procession sprawling to the cobblestones before men emerged from the shadows - swords glinting in what little light was to be had amidst the smoke and darkness.
They descended upon the group, it seemed, from almost every direction.
A few shots rang out in the chaos. The pikemen fled almost immediately, unable to form against one side or the other. In the chaos only a handful of the musketeers held together - firing back into the darkness in all directions and crossing swords with their attackers. Most of them had been shot dead or were wounded in the initial volley, but nonetheless a small band managed to fight their way out of the ambush and drag their wounded captain down a narrow alley the Elgaphagos and his partisans dared not pursue them down.
Shot in the face and both legs, their captain's cuirass had nonetheless taken three pistol hits and saved the man's life.
The ambush though was over quickly - Elgaphagos and his men quickly stripping the dead and dying men left behind of their useful weapons - pistols, muskets, powder and shot - then quickly moved on.
========
"They're inside the city!" The panicked man was shouting moving down the street amidst the handful of soldiers and recruits then moving in the direction of the arsenal. "They've already taken the arsenal, the western gatehouse - the reds are already streaming in!"
Setting his horse to a gallop ahead of the men he'd collected, Elred rode up on the man and struck him to the ground roughly with the flat of his blade. "There'll be no more talk of that sort!" He shouted, looking around at the other men who had all heard the same eruption of gunfire. "Fall in with my detail! We're pulling back to the citadel..."
"The citadel's already been taken!" The man shouted impertinently from the ground.
Elred reached for his pistol, ready to put the man down on the spot like the mad dog he seemed to be - the distraction though meant he only belatedly caught sight of the other wayward recruit pointing a flintlock pistol at him: he had only time enough to wonder what a raw recruit was doing with his own flintlock pistol, to register the flash.
Chaos erupted almost immediately in the street as two of the other officers in Elred's column returned fire but much of the mass of soldiery, most of them still unarmed, were fleeing in every direction now as the ten or so partisans - for this it what it seemed they were - fled down an alleyway.
======
The exchanges of gunfire was already causing the remaining men in the courtyard to exchange uneasy glances. The captain had already left with the men he'd considered most competent to defend the gates, that left only a handful.
Many of them hadn't had more than parade drill on how to hold pikes straight yet - none of them had had musket training nor was Lord Elyon inclined to hand men that didn't know how to use them such weapons.
Elyon exchanged glances with the two elderly corporals and some of the proper Owned Men the captain had left him who the recruits - and their pikes - all formed up behind. They all knew those exchanges of gunfire hadn't come from the western gate or the bastions.
Whatever was happening, it was already inside the city walls.
How they hell are they inside the city!? Elyon couldn't fathom it.
The bastions had reported in. All the main gates were held, or had been. No force could move that quickly, unseen. No way the drunken idiots inside the city. They'd already arrested and sent the dangerous ones to the mines. There was no way they could've done this: it was simply impossible.
"We need to get to the arsenal as soon as possible." He ordered, waiving his saber at the gatemen to open the way.
They needed to get men armed and organized at the arsenal. If they were in the city, they'd take the fight to them from there. Reenforce the gates and bastions: cordon whoever this was. Kill them. Then deal with whoever was outside the wall.
The thought was interrupted as the muster yard briefly flashed with light - as though night turned to day for one brief moment before being followed by a sound more deafening than any thunder as several tons of black powder violently explodes...
...flinging himself from his horse Elyon rushed up the steps of the citadel, arriving panting atop the citadel wall even as dust and debris begins raining down over the city, a thick cloud of black smoke and nascent flames then rising over the lower district of Suen.
Flames flickered in the distance, rising above the housing blocks in the direction of the river.
This isn't happening He remembered thinking to himself.
Warrin and his men approach the western gate. The five men he dispatched before stop you short of the gate, explaining there's at least 10 men holed up and barricaded inside - it looked like Elgaphagos couldn't overrun the position quickly and a series of firefights that occurred sporadically towards the citadel was assumed to be him and his small team laying into any garrison members trying to make it to the citadel.
"We may need gunpowder to crack it." One of the men explains, right as the arsenal goes up.
Warrin stood there in the wavering orange glow, the heat of the waterfront fire licking at the early morning air. Bits of charred ash drifted past on the wind, catching in his coat and hair. He looked from the gatehouse to his men, a slow, almost amused smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“Well,” he said lowly, “looks like the Circle Sea smiles on us tonight.”
Then, without another word, Warrin stepped forward into the street where the gatehouse men could see him. His voice came up in a bark that cut through the crackle of flames.
“Gatehouse!”
Silence answered him, save for the muffled creak of timber in the wind.
“You hear that thunder just now?” he called, gesturing lazily toward the column of fire and smoke curling skyward from the waterfront. “That was just one of the little surprises we’ve tucked into this fine city of yours.”
He let that hang in the air for a moment, pistol resting casually in his hand, like a man speaking of an inevitable fact.
“You’ve got to wonder what else is next to go up, aye? The warehouses? Under your feet? We’ve been busy, lads. You want to watch the rest of your home burn while your wives and children roast in their beds, you keep sitting behind those barricades.”
There was movement behind the slits in the gatehouse wall, shadowed faces, but they were listening now.
Warrin’s tone shifted, coaxing and sharp all at once, “Or you can come out now, save what’s left of your city, and keep your people breathing. Up to you. But understand this, every moment you wait is another fuse burning.”
Warrin's call isn't answered immediately, as the first light as the sun approaches the horizon allows you to distinguish the profile of a firearm pointed, vaguely, in his direction from the firing port.
It's answered instead by what sounds like a volley of fire from the gatehouse. Though neither Warrin nor any of his companions saw it - it took a moment before everyone realized no one's been hit: the fire is being directed outside the city.
Inside the gatehouse, the nightwatch corporal waved away the smoke as he made his way by feel through the dark, winding, smoke filled steps led below to the excavated basement where the gatehouse tiny arsenal was located shouting at the two men hunched inside working under light from a lantern visible only through a glass port-hole from the corridor. "Keep that powder coming! They're on both sides now."
The men, covered in dust, looked up from their work as though to say:
What the fuck does it look like we're doing!? then immediately went back to measuring and pouring powder charges from the single small barrel they had there.
"Corporal! Corporal!" There was shouting this time from the other side of the gate as one of the men emerged, panting up the stairway lugging sacks of shot and powder charges up the well. "They're calling for someone!"
The man paused when he heard shouting the other way. "We are so fucked..." The man said before, with a sharp pointing gesture the corporal made clear he should get to the firing line.
The corporal wound his way around the narrow stonework to the other side of the gate.
"What now?" He asked, looking expectantly to the two raw, alleged soldiers holding this side of the gatehouse.
"I think they're offering a surrender."
"I think we should..."
The corporal struck the man once, across the face, hard enough to draw blood. "Shut the fuck up." His voice was sharp, his flintlock pistol out, and the corporal could see from the way both men turned towards him that the weapon in his hand and cold glare in his eyes were the only things saving his own life in that moment. "I'll talk to them, but you'll both fucking comport yourselves, hear me?"
The corporal took a deep breath himself as the two soldiers did precisely that.
"The fuck you want, can't you hear we're busy?!" Was the answer that eventually got shouted back at Warrin from the gatehouse as another round of gunfire was heard from the other side of the gate, shooting out at someone outside the city.
======
Krasimir heard, and saw the flash of musketry from the gatehouse in the distance, as advance force of the relief column - the whole of the twenty horses and riders he'd been able to scrounge together - reared and scattered in the face of fire from the gatehouse.
"Arsenal gone up. Gatehouse not taken." He muttered darkly under his breath as he handed the reigns off to one of the young boys - Aristidis - they'd picked up along the way as he dismounted. "Is that postern gate still signalling?"
"Eet does." One of the signalmen replied promptly.
"Call the riders back! Use horns - they bloody well know we're here. Make it loud. Like there's a lot more of us." The men nodded.
"We calling it off?"
Krasimir paused in thought. This wasn't ideal, but still within their planning. The loss of the arsenal, the fact the garrison was now alert - they'd had time now to very thoroughly spike every gun on the bastion beyond any hope of repair if they'd done it right - had diminished the prize greatly. If there was any chance the citadel would taken an honourable surrender to the Red Wyvern banner, it was likely gone now.
"Messenger pigeon!" Someone shouted, pointing into the distance.
Krasimir looked to one of the only three men mounted among them and said nothing.
"I'm on it." Raising his hand with the hooded falcon upon it as he pulled away the leather straps holding its blinded hood in place - and pointed it at the dark figure then flapping away from the citadel. The falcon perched forward, eyes narrowed for only a fraction of a second before it disappeared from his hand in a flutter of feathers.
Krasimir turned, shifting unsteadily on his bad leg and looked back at the men behind him.
Two hundred actual soldiers. Former owned men like himself or mercenaries they'd scalped for the cause. Or men that had been with them before the war and had years to whip them into shape. Barring stragglers then scattered over half of Inbur, this was probably the best trained portion of their so-called battalion; the men he'd need to whip the so-called red tide they'd been collecting into any sort of proper force. Two hundred men, twenty horse.
Getting bogged down in a knife-fight with the garrison in those narrow streets would ruin them - they had others with them, but these were all the fighters he could pull together for this without drawing attention.
Cut and run was within their planning too.
They'd brought porters. Collected stragglers - anyone who'd seen their little column moving through back country had been drafted forcibly into their little force. They left no one behind to betray their movement.
Some were partisans. Men willing to fight, able to move quickly, work and forage - but they were still not soldiers. No use at all if it came to an actual fight.
Still their approach had been spotted. No fire from the bastions: they were well within artillery range. They'd had time enough to man the guns, or should've.
"Still no movement on the bastions?" He called to the men he'd assigned to keep careful watch.
"I think the sentries fled. Haven't seen anyone so much as peep in ages."
They really needed a win here to keep the empire on the back foot while the rest of the army was now focussed on the Blacks.
"We're still on." Krasimir turned unsteadily on his bad leg to face the men behind him. "Change of plan everyone! We're slipping between the river and the bastion toward that postern gate!"
"Dhere's dhe palisade blocking..."
"Well - unless that main gate opens for us - I guess we'll need to knock it down now won't we? Any man here never chopped a tree before!? Bring axes. Let's go! We got a city to take. Let's make our entrance."
Krasimir squinted into the distance as the column shifted direction, looking off as his eyes followed the barely visible dot of the peregrine as it shifted direction in the air, curving down in a long arc upon its prey.
The birds master was already trotting off after the creature as it went to ground.
Warrin stepped forward into the open, hands away from his weapons but his voice carrying hard across the space between.
“You boys have heard the blast by now. That was your arsenal. All of it. Powder, shot, half the waterfront gone with it. What you probably don’t know is we’ve got more of those fuses laid under other parts of your pretty little city, enough to make this place a bonfire from wall to wall if I give the word.”
He let that sink in, his eyes fixed on the shadow in the firing port.
“Now, you’re not a fool. You’ve seen the smoke. You’ve heard the volleys. Your officers? They’re either dead, run off, or locked up in some alley trying to keep themselves alive. The only thing between you and the flames is that door you’re hiding behind.”
Warrin took a slow step closer, the faint glow from the fire down the hill lighting the hard lines of his face.
“I’m not here to waste my men or yours. You open that gate, stack your arms, and I promise, promise, every man here walks away. You keep your personal items, keep your coin, nobody gets strung up. You stay put, you’ll be ashes before the sun’s high.”
He glanced back at his own men, then leaned in.
“I’ve got no interest in burning families alive. But you? You keep that gate shut, you’ll be the bastard everyone blames when their wives and children roast in their beds. I’ll be long gone, but they’ll remember your name.”
He stepped back, spreading his hands wide, the fire crackling in the distance.
“Up to you, Corporal. You want to save Suen? Or do you want to be the man who let her burn?”
Warrin stood there, waiting for a response as the silence drifted on. There was no answer.
"I think they're deliberating sir."
The postern door of the main gatehouse was swung open as ten figures emerged, from the smoking entrance.
The first paused, squinting into the distance. "They're moving away from us now!"
The corporal who'd already moved passed stopped, turned and shouted. "That's fucking cavalry out there - this way, down here!" He gestured leading them all towards the nearest bastion moat, whose earthwork incline offered them defilade cover as they slipped around the moatworks to the north.
Warrin never did receive the answer to his offer of an honourable surrender - but with with the door already mangled and no one shooting, they took the abandoned gatehouse all the same.
Skotinodasos strained to read the report that Krasimir had sent him by pigeon to the old monastery they'd taken in the hills just a few days north-west of Suen.
"Ees eet done?" Several men were then clustered around the monastery study, waiting silently as he read they asked as he placed the letter back down.
"No big guns. Dhey espiked dhem all beyond r-repair. Dhe arsenal is gone - ee says dhey took it but one of dhe prisoners managed to set a spark." There was disappointment in faces all around. "And dhe governor's son still hold's the citadel. R-refuses esurrender. But dhe city, dhe granaries, dhe bridge, dhe walls, dhe bastions - dhey all ours."
"Until a relief force comes." One of the owned men responded darkly. "If we get caught in a siege, that garrison is a knife to our throats. You said the guns were all spiked?"
"Dhoroughly dhey esay."
"How many we lose?"
"Few hundred at least, K-rasimir sent dhis, dhey just getting fires under control."
"Of our men."
Skotinodasos snorted at the Owned Man like he disapproved. "One." He finally said without hiding the distaste in his voice.
"That's still a win."
"Estill a win, yes. Not our ideal outcome but estill, vee plan for dhis - vee estick to dhe plan. Now, break dhe camp - I like to esee our new city vhile vee estill hold it. Dhe men who do dhis, dhey are heroes yeah? Should vee not go esee dhem to celebrate!"
News spread by word of mouth from partisans among the serfs and slaves of south and central Inburia within a few days of the event itself. That Suen, the bastion fort that had stood as a bulwark that had thrown back every Morktree tribal raid that had ever been mobilized in its direction, and been meant to check any Calarian incursions at the south bank of the river had fallen to Red Wyvern partisans. A handful. A hundred.
The story spread the city had been captured in a night, without a fight, by slave-soldiers and serfs who'd slipped under cover of night in a barge loaded with shit. The citadel surrendered. The arsenal, with its tons of powder taken. Its bastions and artillery added to the Red Wyvern stockpiles: the garrison routed.
The first news out of Suen about this began to spread just about the time the first stragglers from the garrison managed to make the foot trek to the next imperial outpost down the river and report what had happened: which only served to give credence to the rumours. Men who had no idea what had befallen those who hadn't made it.
Then the story spread that the arsenal hadn't been taken: that facing total defeat at the hands of the rebels, an unnamed Imperial officer had chosen to sacrifice the lower city to prevent it falling into the hands of the red wyverns. It was the sort of story that spread like wildfire among even imperial ears - a heroic elgan officer who'd given his life in one last heroic act.
To others the story was about the two hundred men and women and thousands of innocent townspeople put out of house and home who'd been sacrificed by the empire before the fires were finally brought under control as the townspeople and rebels together fought to battle the blaze.