Behold, A Man!
The rhythmic crunch of hundreds of boots on the packed earth was a sound I was still learning to associate with my own command, a relentless cadence marking our progress towards Marburg and the crucible of its siege. Each league covered was a league deeper into this brutal reality, and the weight of Volk's armor felt symbolic of the responsibilities I now bore.
I rode near the head of the column, the banner of the Ashen Pact—the sword in ash—snapping intermittently in the crisp morning air. This was an opportunity, I'd told them. An opportunity to carve our name into the annals of this war, or to be ground into dust beneath its turning wheels.
And they had believed me, with little question or hesitation. It spoke volumes of the kind of loyalty that Volk commanded from his troops, and put even more pressure on me to try and fit into the massive boots that I'd been forced to step into.
Johana rode beside me, her posture economical in the saddle, her gaze sweeping the treeline with the practiced vigilance of a veteran. Her limp was less pronounced on horseback, but I knew the ache in her leg would be a constant companion for a good while still.
"The men are restless, Commander," she said, her voice low, not quite breaking the rhythm of the march. "Good restless. Eager to prove your words from the assembly weren't just wind."
"And you, Sergeant?" I asked, turning to her. "Still think this is a fool's errand?" It was a subtle probe, testing the waters of her loyalty and her assessment of my leadership, which, to her, should have been a known quantity.
Her lips quirked. "My thoughts are my own, sir. My duty is to see your orders carried out. But I'll admit, the plan has… novelty."
"Fortifications are like any other building, Sergeant. Break the foundation, and the rest of the building follows." I wasn't sure if that was a quote from Sun Tzu or something Volk himself might have believed, but it sounded plausible enough. I needed to understand the bedrock of this company, the trust Volk had built. "Remind me again, how long have you served with the Pact?"
She looked puzzled at my question, evident by how high she raised her left eyebrow.
"Since the day of the embers, Commander. Like most of the veterans." Her gaze flickered towards the emblem on my pauldron. "We swore an oath on that day. Some of us remember why better than others."
A statement hopefully rather than an accusation, but a reminder in some form nonetheless.
Further back, I could see one of our mages, "Ged the Seeker" as he called himself, ambling along beside his pack mule, which was laden with an assortment of oddly shaped bundles and what looked suspiciously like a birdcage draped with a dark cloth. His wizard's hat, an absurdly pointed affair, bobbed with each step. I reined in slightly, allowing him to catch up.
"Ged," I greeted, keeping my tone even. "Enjoying the morning constitutional?"
He grinned, laugh lines crinkling around his eyes. "As much as any man forced to walk when he could be comfortably ensconced in a library, Commander. Or a tavern. Or ideally, a library within a tavern." He patted one of the bundles on his mule. "Still, the fresh air does wonders for the humours. And Gujong is convinced he's discovered three new species of beetle since we broke camp."
The frogman in question chose that moment to emerge from a cluster of ferns at roadside, webbed hands cradling something that chittered angrily. Gujong's bulbous eyes lit up when he saw us, robes flapping like damp sails as he scurried to intercept Ged's mule.
"Observe!" he croaked, thrusting a moss-covered beetle nearly the size of my fist toward us. Its carapace shimmered with iridescent patterns that seemed to shift in the dappled light. "This specimen exhibits chromatophoric properties previously undocumented in—"
"It's a bug," Johana deadpanned, though I noticed her hand drifting toward her belt knife as the creature's mandibles snapped dangerously close to Gujong's fingers.
"A scholarly bug," Ged corrected, producing a glass jar from his pack with a theatrical flourish. "One that may very well revolutionize our understanding of battlefield triage if Gujong's last 'discovery' is any indication." He caught my questioning look. "He once distilled a paralysis toxin from tree frogs that let us perform amputations without screaming."
"Yes, yes, we get it. Now either put that thing away or kill it already but don't shove it in our faces." Johana said with an annoyed huff.
Our procession crested a hill before I could inquire further. Below sprawled the siege camp—a ragged sea of tents and cookfires surrounding Marburg's brooding silhouette. Even at this distance, I could make out siege towers under construction and the glint of Midlandish banners above command pavilions. But it was the silver hawk emblem snapping proudly near the eastern trenches that tightened my grip on the reins.
Johana spat into the dirt. "Hawks must have beat us here by two days at least."
"Time enough for Griffith to charm every noble and quartermaster in camp, probably," I observed. Through Volk's memories, I recalled how mercenary leaders competed not just on battlefields but in war councils—trading favors, poaching contracts, undermining rivals through whispered truths and lies alike.
As we began our descent, Varaq materialized beside my mount without preamble—the construct's telescopic eye whirring faintly as he scanned distant battlements. "Southwest curtain wall," he rasped, brass fingers tracing invisible calculations in the air. "Mortar degradation between third and fourth merlons. Three degrees elevation variance in their ballistae mounts."
I nodded, even as Johana shot our sharpshooter an appraising look. This was why Volk chose to travel with engineers and scholars as part of his company as well as regular sellswords—any man could swing a weapon, but knowledge could shatter stone as surely as any siege engine.
Before we entered the camp, anyone abnormal like Varaq and Gujong had to put on robes or other obscuring clothing to disguise themselves among the camp followers and avoid drawing attention to the fact that they weren't quite... well, human. In the current age of Berserk's world, both magic and intelligent non-humans were basically the stuff of legends that nobody treated as anything but superstition and tall tales akin to folk stories.
The camp sentries barely glanced at our company sigil before waving us through—a telling sign of how many sellswords had answered Midland's call. I kept my face neutral as we passed groups of hard-eyed men bearing rival emblems: The Iron Bulls with their nose-ringed champions, The Dawnwardens in polished mail that would blind their own archers, The Crimson Rain's axemen lounging beneath blood-red canopies.
But all parted before Griffith's silver standard. They all knew his reputation. Even at this early stage of his career, he was one of the finest swordsmen around and that earned him a certain degree of respect by default without adding all of his accomplishments on top.
By unspoken accord, we made camp on an unoccupied rise overlooking the battlefield—close enough to observe the rest of the camp, far enough to avoid provocation with anyone else. As soldiers began erecting tents with practiced efficiency, I noted three separate occasions when scouts from other companies "strayed" near our perimeter.
"They're sizing us up," Johana muttered during one such incident, her hand resting on her sword hilt as a pair of Hawks pretended to inspect our picket lines.
"Everyone is sizing each other up, it comes with the nature of this job." I corrected her as I unbuckled my vambraces with deliberate calmness born from Volk's muscle memory. "We'll attend tonight's war council together. There we'll see who among them has an actual idea of how to take Marburg and who is just going in blind and hoping for the best."
Griffith's gauntleted fingers traced the rim of his wine goblet as the count droned through logistical reports. Moonlight filtering through the command tent's canvas walls cast dagger-sharp shadows across mercenary captains seated around the map table - crude men smelling of sweat and steel who shifted impatiently at discussions of supply lines.
"Your forces will assault the main gate at dawn," the count in charge of the leading the siege, Brummen, concluded, jowls trembling with forced authority as he gestured toward Marburg's miniature replica occupying the table's center. "The Hawks shall have the vanguard honor."
A chorus of relieved murmurs rippled through the lesser captains. Griffith noted each face, storing this information - who relaxed at avoiding first blood and who seethed at lost prestige. His own expression remained serenely neutral even as Casca stiffened beside him, her calloused hand tightening on the hilt of her still-sheathed sword.
"The honor is appreciated," Griffith said with precisely measured humility that made several nobles lean forward in their seats. "Though I wonder if a frontal assault serves His Lordship's interests best when-"
"Excuse me, did I ask for your opinion?"
The count's interruption hung like a hanged man in the tent. Nobles exchanged unsure glances amongst each other while mercenary captains suppressed smirks - all awaiting the White Hawk's reaction.
Griffith's smile didn't waver, though his fingernail left a hairline crack in the goblet's stem. "Of course not, my lord."
The count's fleshy face flushed with satisfaction at this submission, unaware of the calculation behind Griffith's placid expression. "Good. Now, as I was saying... The Hawks will act as the spearhead and lead the assault. The rest of you will support as needed." He waved his ringed hand dismissively. "Now, what of the siege equipment?"
Griffith's gaze drifted across the tent as a portly quartermaster began listing catapult placements. The mercenary captains' faces told their own stories - relief from those spared the vanguard position, barely concealed contempt from veterans who recognized poor strategy when they heard it. His attention settled on a new arrival - a lean commander with a weathered face and braided beard who stood near the entrance, observing with unnerving intensity.
The Ashen Pact. Their reputation had grown steadily over the past year - disciplined, innovative, and ruthlessly efficient. Unlike the rabble of thieves, swindlers, poachers and other petty criminals that constituted most mercenary bands, they operated with precision that rivaled royal forces. Their commander carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who had already calculated every possible outcome of this meeting.
Griffith's interest piqued. A worthy rival, perhaps.
"My lord," the count's aide interrupted, "Commander Volk of the Ashen Pact requests audience."
The count's eyes narrowed. "Bah, another upstart mercenary with opinions?"
"Another company answering your call to arms, sire." Volk corrected smoothly, stepping forward. His voice carried neither deference nor challenge - merely certainty. "With your permission, I'd like to offer an alternative approach."
Casca leaned closer to Griffith, her voice a whisper. "I've heard of these ones. They field large amounts of pikemen in combination with men wielding man-portable cannons that can pierce armor at a distance better than even crossbows."
Griffith nodded almost imperceptibly. "And their commander never commits without a plan."
The count huffed, jowls quivering. "Very well. Speak, mercenary. But be brief."
Volk approached the table with measured steps, his sergeant - a red-haired woman with a warrior's gait - following a half-pace behind. Without preamble, he indicated the southwestern section of the fortress model.
"A frontal assault will cost you thousands of men, rivers of blood, and likely fail," he stated, his tone matter-of-fact rather than argumentative. "Tudor has reinforced the main gate with a secondary portcullis and murder holes. They're expecting the obvious."
The count's face darkened, but before he could respond, Volk continued, "However, there's a weakness here." His finger traced a section of the outer wall where a small stream passed beneath. "My engineers have surveyed the foundation. The water has compromised the mortar. With targeted demolition, we can create a breach while your main force distracts their defenders."
Griffith felt a flicker of genuine interest. Not the typical mercenary bluster, but a clearly calculated assessment that spoke of thorough reconnaissance. He studied Volk's face, searching for the telltale signs of a man overselling his capabilities.
"And I suppose you want extra payment for this... insight?" the count sneered.
"I want victory same as everyone else here," Volk replied simply. "The same contract terms apply to all of us here. First company to plant their standard on the inner keep claims the prize. I'm merely suggesting a method that won't waste the lives of my men or anyone else's needlessly."
A nobleman with a thin mustache scoffed. "Undermining walls takes months, mercenary. We don't have time for sappers' work."
"Not with conventional methods," Volk agreed. "But my engineers have developed compounds that accelerate the process. We can dig a trench and produce a breach within a single week if given permission to proceed."
Now that was an ambitious statement if he'd ever heard one.
Griffith set his goblet down, the soft clink drawing eyes to him. "An interesting proposal," he said, his melodious voice carrying effortlessly across the tent. "Though I wonder how your men would fare once inside. Breaching a wall is one matter; surviving what waits beyond is another."
For the first time, Volk looked directly at Griffith, their eyes meeting across the table. Something unreadable flickered in the fellow mercenary's gaze - not the usual mixture of envy and admiration Griffith had grown accustomed to wherever he went, but something more complex. Almost like recognition.
"My men are prepared for close-quarter combat," Volk responded evenly. "But I would welcome coordination with the Hawks, should Lord Brummen approve this approach. Your reputation for adaptability is well-earned."
A calculated compliment, Griffith noted - one that acknowledged his company's prowess while suggesting partnership rather than competition. Clever. This man understood the dance of politics as well as the art of war.
The count stroked his double chin, clearly torn between dismissing the upstart mercenary and considering a strategy that might preserve his own forces. "And if this... breach fails to materialize?"
"Then my company forfeits payment and abandons the siege since we're clearly incapable of delivering on our promises and the Hawks proceed with their assault as planned," Volk answered immediately. "You risk nothing but a week, my lord."
Griffith watched the exchange with growing interest. Most men who spoke so boldly either overestimated their abilities or were concealing their true intentions. Yet Volk displayed neither the swagger of a braggart nor the shifty demeanor of a deceiver. There was something unsettlingly authentic about his confidence.
"I support Commander Volk's proposal," Griffith said suddenly, drawing surprised looks from around the table. Casca shot him a questioning glance, which he answered with the slightest tilt of his head. "A week's delay is a small price for potentially preserving most of our forces."
The count blinked, clearly caught off-guard by this unexpected alliance. "You would yield the vanguard position?"
"I would prefer to secure victory by the least costly means available," Griffith corrected, his smile as dazzling as it was calculated. "The Hawks' objective remains unchanged - to claim Marburg for Midland. If Commander Volk's method offers a better chance of success and a less costly assault, only a fool would reject it out of pride."
A hushed silence fell over the tent as the implications settled. The count, unwilling to be labeled a fool before his peers, cleared his throat. "Very well. The Ashen Pact has one week to create their breach. Not a day longer. If they fail, we proceed with the original plan."
Volk nodded, his expression betraying nothing of triumph or relief. "My engineers will begin tonight, sire."
As the meeting adjourned, Griffith lingered, watching Volk confer quietly with his red-haired sergeant. The mercenary commander's gaze flickered toward him once more - a brief acknowledgment before he departed.
"What game are you playing?" Casca asked once they were alone, her voice low and tense. "That man is clearly a rival. Why support his plan?"
Griffith's lips curved into a soft smile. "The surest path to victory is to recognize opportunity when it presents itself, Casca. If his engineers succeed, we conserve our strength for the battle within the walls of the fortress itself. If they fail..." He shrugged elegantly. "We proceed as before, but with the less competition and with the count's forces bolstering our assault."
"And if the Ashen Pact claims the inner keep before us?"
"They won't." Griffith's certainty was absolute. "But I'm curious to see what else Commander Volk might reveal about himself and his company in the attempt."
He turned toward the tent opening, where the first stars had appeared in the darkening sky. "Keep watch on their activities. I want to know exactly what these 'compounds' are and how they're deployed. Knowledge, Casca, is often more valuable than first blood."
Casca nodded, her hand resting on her sword hilt. "And the other mercenary companies? They seemed... relieved by this development."
"Let them relax their guard," Griffith replied, his voice softening to a near-whisper. "When the breach opens, only those prepared to seize the moment and lead the way will matter. Everyone else is just following along."
As they departed the command tent, Griffith cast one final glance toward the Ashen Pact's encampment on the hillside. Their disciplined rows of tents and precise positioning of sentries spoke of a commander who left nothing to chance. A worthy opponent indeed - or perhaps a useful ally, depending on how events unfolded.
Either way, the White Hawk would adapt and prevail. His dream allowed for nothing less.
Dunhilda the Depraved, Dunhilda the Disturbed, Dunhilda the Heretic…
The master necromancer had many names and titles that she had accumulated through her studies into the forbidden arts of death-magic. The Holy See's inquisitors would have burned her thrice over for what now squirmed beneath her stained fingertips, let alone everything she had already done up to this point in her colorful career.
The corpse twitched like a marionette with tangled strings as Dunhilda pressed an ampoule of grave-moss tincture against its desiccated throat. Her current alias—Sister Hildred of the White Mercy Hospitallers—required layers of linen bandages across her hands to conceal telltale alchemical stains. The stench of rosemary and yarrow boiling over her "healing" brazier did little to mask underlying rot.
"Steady," she murmured as much to herself as her youngest apprentice crouched nearby. The girl trembled while steadying their subject—a Tudor scout fished from yesterday's skirmish ditch still wearing Midlandish arrows through his eye socket. "Apostate hearts falter faster than their hands."
Volk had given them a task, something that would have churned the stomach of lesser men, but for the six necromancers it was pretty minor in comparison to what they had engaged in in the past.
He wanted them to turn corpses into plague carriers, which would then be launched into the fortress ahead of the breaching attempt in one week's time.
Dunhilda had been giddy regardless at being given such a challenge, not in the least of which because of how many corpses they'd have to work with, but also because their attention would be divided between directing the undead workforce that could only work at night and producing the plague carriers while also ensuring they maintained proper quarantine so they wouldn't accidentally infect the rest of the siege camp.
The challenge wasn't the necromancy itself—that was second nature—but the subtlety required. This wasn't about raising shambling horrors to tear down gates, a task far too conspicuous for Volk's current strategy. This was about insidious decay, a whisper of pestilence that would soften the fortress from within before the Ashen Pact's main thrust.
She selected a syringe, its needle fashioned from sharpened bone, and drew a viscous, greenish-black fluid from a clay vial. The concoction was her own refinement: a blend of marsh-rot fungi, powdered ghoulfinger, and a catalytic agent extracted from the spleen of a thrice-hanged man. It wouldn't reanimate the dead in any overt sense, not yet. Instead, it would accelerate putrescence to an unnatural degree, breeding a virulent contagion within the host tissues. The "Grey Fester," she'd privately dubbed it. Symptoms would begin with fever and delirium, swiftly progressing to suppurating lesions and a cough that atomized infectious matter. Highly transmissible, exceptionally unpleasant, and perfectly suited for cramped, besieged conditions.
"Observe, Elara," Dunhilda said, her voice a dry rasp. The youngest apprentice, Elara, watched with wide, unblinking eyes, her face pale beneath a smattering of freckles. "The injection point must be deep within the thoracic cavity, near the lungs. We want maximum aerosolization when the… pressure builds." She demonstrated, plunging the bone needle into the Tudor scout's chest with a practiced, almost tender motion. The corpse gave a soft, wet sigh as trapped air escaped.
Around them, the other four apprentices worked with similar diligence. Two were preparing more corpses, stripping them of armor and cleaning them superficially to avoid suspicion when they were later flung over the walls via catapults. The other two were meticulously grinding ingredients for further batches of the Grey Fester, the rhythmic crunch of mortar and pestle a counterpoint to the buzzing flies that Dunhilda's incense only partially deterred. This tent, ostensibly a refuge for the wounded, was in reality a charnel laboratory. The scent of herbs and poultices was a thin veneer over the cloying sweetness of decay and the sharp tang of her reagents.
The "undead workforce" Volk had also alluded to was a separate, nocturnal project. Simple animation, mostly. Corpses brought back to life and re-limbed to haul away dirt and dig trench lines for the sappers. Nothing that would draw undue attention from the more… religiously inclined elements within the siege camp, especially given they'd be working under the cover of night.
The plague carriers, however, were her current masterpiece.
"The efficacy, Master?" asked another apprentice, a gaunt young man named Silas, his voice barely above a whisper as he stirred a bubbling cauldron.
Dunhilda wiped the bone needle on a rag that had once been white. "If our dear Commander Volk ensures these… gifts are delivered with sufficient dispersal, the defenders of Marburg will be too busy clutching their bowels and coughing up their lungs to effectively man the ramparts when the breach is made. We are not just killing them, apprentices. We are demoralizing them. Fear is a more potent weapon than any sword."
She surveyed their grim handiwork—a dozen corpses laid out on tarpaulins, each awaiting its turn or already inoculated. The quarantine measures were stringent. Every apprentice wore thick leather gloves and masks soaked in vinegar-water, and a perimeter of sanctified chalk ringed their workspace.
A necessary concession to appearances, though Dunhilda privately scoffed at its supposed efficacy against her creations. Accidental infection of the Ashen Pact or, gods forbid, other mercenary companies, would be… inconvenient.
A/N:
I initially planned for this chapter to start off from Griffith's perspective when the Ashen Pact arrived into the siege camp, and his first impressions on them. However, I found that that didn't work so well, and having Griffith's perspective be during the strategy meeting would serve basically the same purpose.
Overall my goal with this chapter was to begin introducing some of the more colorful members of the protagonist's company (though obviously you can only cram so many revalations into a scene before it starts becoming infodumpy) as well as set the stage for the first arc of the story.
I'm feeling pretty motivated to write this, but my muse is a fickle thing and I'm juggling like a dozen published and unpublished projects at a time and working on each one incrementally, so don't be surprised if a story like this gets a third chapter and then seemingly goes on hiatus for like a month or more. It might just mean that I'm treating it as a milestone that I've reached and I've moved onto working on something else until I get more ideas.
Anyway, enough yapping. Your feedback, as always, continues to be valued and welcomed by yours truly. I'll see you all in the next one. Peace.Like Award Quote Reply100
Behold, A Man!
The stench of Dunhilda's work, a cloying mix of sweet decay and bitter herbs, clung to the air even at the edge of her quarantined zone, a grim overture to the symphony of suffering we were about to conduct. I watched from a respectful distance as one of her apprentices, face obscured by a vinegar-soaked mask, carefully bundled a Tudor corpse onto a litter. The Grey Fester. A vile name for a vile weapon, yet one I had sanctioned. Such were the necessities of this new, brutal calculus of war.
Later, as dusk began to bleed across the sky, the catapults were readied. Not the great trebuchets of a full-scale bombardment, but smaller, less complex machines, positioned to arc their grotesque projectiles over the outer walls and into the densely packed courtyards and barracks of Marburg. Dunhilda herself oversaw the loading of the first few shrouded bodies, her movements precise and devoid of emotion, like a priestess conducting a dark ritual.
The orders were given. With a groan of strained wood and taut ropes, the first corpse was launched. It tumbled through the twilight air, a silent, macabre messenger, before disappearing over the battlements. Others followed, one by one. There were no cheers from our men, only a grim silence as they watched. Even from our encampment, we could eventually hear the faint, confused shouts from within Marburg, the first stirrings of alarm and, soon, a creeping dread.
I had gotten the idea from a half-remembered history lesson regarding the Mongol conquests during the reign of Genghis Khan, a grim footnote about an effective tactic used in many sieges in Earth's long and bloody history. Now it seemed more like a tactic of desperation that felt disturbingly at home in this world as well. I probably wouldn't have to resort to it if it wasn't for the strict time constraints we were operating under. Time constraints that I had self-imposed for my forces.
One week to create the breach, and then we'd have to face whatever remained of the Tudor forces inside.
"Strange weapons for strange times," Varaq commented, appearing at my side so silently I nearly startled. His brass eye clicked as it adjusted, tracking the arc of another corpse sailing over Marburg's walls. "The Tudor commander will think it mere desecration at first."
I nodded, watching the next catapult release. "And by the time he realizes it's something worse, the damage will be done."
"Efficient," he said, his mechanical joints whirring softly as he shifted his weight. "Though not the method I would have chosen."
"What would you have preferred?"
"Poison in their water supply. Slower, but cleaner." His brass eye rotated with a soft click. "Less... theatrical."
The last corpse flew in a graceful arc toward the fortress. At this distance, it looked almost peaceful, like a bird soaring rather than a diseased body hurled as a weapon. I pushed the comparison from my mind.
"We work with what we have," I said. "And what we have is a week to breach those walls."
"The trench teams are assembled," Varaq reported. "The first digging teams have already gotten to work."
I glanced toward the shadowy outline of Marburg. "Will they be able to work in darkness?"
"I don't think the ones digging will be needing the light." The alchemical construct gestured toward a cluster of covered wagons where Dunhilda's other apprentices were making final preparations.
A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the evening air. This was the other half of our strategy – the undead workforce that would dig our trenches through the night while the living rested. Another grim calculation: the dead didn't tire, didn't require food, didn't fear arrows or stones hurled from the battlements.
"Ensure the perimeter is secure," I ordered. "No observers from the other companies. Especially not the Hawks."
Varaq nodded, his brass eye gleaming in the fading light. "Already arranged. The Red Death has established a cordon fifty paces out. Anyone approaching will be... discouraged."
I could imagine what form that discouragement might take. The Guild of Red Death – our company's assassins – weren't known for gentle warnings.
"Good. I'll inspect the trench line at dawn." I turned to leave, then paused. "And Varaq? Make sure the men who handle the corpses burn their clothes afterward. I don't want any... accidents."
"Of course, Commander." He tilted his head, studying me with that unnerving mechanical eye. "You worry for them."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Every commander worth his salt worries for his men."
"Volk before you worried for victory first." A simple observation, delivered without judgment.
I held his gaze. "Then perhaps I've learned something I hadn't yet earlier considered."
The brass eye whirred as it adjusted. "Perhaps." With that cryptic response, Varaq melted back into the gathering darkness.
I made my way toward the command tent, pausing to acknowledge salutes from soldiers I passed. Their faces showed a mixture of determination and unease – not at our tactics, but at what awaited them when the walls finally broke. Sieges were bloody affairs, with the worst fighting often coming after the breach.
Inside the tent, Johana was bent over the map table, various wooden markers positioned to indicate our forces and those of our rivals. She straightened as I entered, wincing slightly as she put weight on her bad leg.
"The plague carriers are away," she reported. "Dunhilda says we should see results within two days."
"And the trench preparations?"
"Already under way," she confirmed, then hesitated. "The men talk, Commander. They know what's digging those trenches won't be them, at least not after midnight."
I moved to a side table where a pitcher of watered wine stood. "Does it trouble them?"
"Some." She accepted the cup I offered. "Most are just grateful not to be digging under Tudor arrows all night. But the Hawks have been asking questions. Their commander sent a messenger earlier – wants to 'coordinate strategy.'"
I took a measured sip of the sour wine. "Griffith probing for information, no doubt."
"He's clever," Johana acknowledged. "And dangerous. The men say he's never lost a battle."
"There's always a first time." I set my cup down with more force than necessary.
Johana studied me, her weathered face unreadable in the lamplight. "You speak of him as if you've crossed swords before."
A dangerous slip. I needed to be more careful. "Reputation precedes the man," I said, redirecting. "What matters is our task. The trench, the breach, the fortress."
She nodded, apparently satisfied. "Count Brummen's messenger told us that he will inspect our progress personally in three days. The pompous ass wants to see if his investment is bearing fruit."
"Then we'll show him a trench half-completed and men working like the devil himself is judging their work." I traced our planned approach on the map. "By then, the plague should be spreading inside Marburg. Their attention will be divided."
"And if it doesn't work? If they identify the carriers and start burning any corpses before the contagion takes hold?"
It was a fair question, one I'd asked myself repeatedly. "Then we rely on conventional methods. The trench still gives us cover to reach the wall. The sappers can still undermine the foundation."
"At greater cost," she noted.
"At greater cost, yes." I agreed. "But we've committed now. There's no turning back. Not when both our reputation and payday is on the line."
The tent flap opened, admitting a soldier whose insignia marked him as one of our scouts. He saluted sharply, his face drawn with exhaustion.
"Commander, movement on the western approach. A small force flying Tudor colors."
I exchanged a glance with Johana. "Reinforcements?"
"No, sir. Too small. Looks like a diplomatic party. They're carrying a white banner alongside their standards."
Interesting. Tudor sending diplomats to a siege in progress could mean many things – a potential surrender, an attempt to negotiate terms, or a delaying tactic while actual reinforcements marshaled elsewhere.
"Alert the Count's representatives," I ordered. "And find out if they're requesting parley with the Midlandish command or specifically with any of the mercenary companies."
The scout saluted again and departed, leaving Johana and me to consider this new development.
"Could be coincidence," she said, though her tone suggested she didn't believe it.
"Nothing in war is coincidence," I replied, studying the map again. "If they're seeking terms now, something's spooked them." I tapped the fortress marker. "Or they're buying time."
Johana's expression darkened. "If it's the latter, our week just got shorter."
"Then we work faster." I moved to the tent entrance, pulling back the flap to gaze toward the distant outline of Marburg, now just a black silhouette against the darkening sky. "Tell the engineers to use any means necessary to get the work done faster. And inform Dunhilda we may need more of her... workforce."
"As you command." Johana straightened, her professional mask falling back into place. "What about Griffith's request?"
I considered for a moment. Avoiding the White Hawk entirely would only heighten his suspicions, but revealing too much could compromise our advantage.
"Tell him I'll meet him tomorrow at midday," I decided. "By then, our trench will be well underway, and he can see what he wants to see – but nothing more."
As Johana departed to relay my orders, I remained at the tent entrance, watching as the first stars appeared above Marburg's battlements. Somewhere within those walls, Tudor soldiers were discovering our grim offerings, perhaps already feeling the first stirrings of fever that would soon become something far worse.
War had always been hell, but here in this medieval nightmare, I was discovering just how deep that hell could go – and how willing I was to descend into it.
Before dawn even broke with the clang of metal on stone, daily work cycle had a change in shift as the living workforce relieved their unliving counterparts, who were put back in storage and out of sight.
I stood at the edge of our newly dug trench, watching as Dunhilda's apprentices herded the shambling diggers back toward covered wagons before the sun rose fully. Their movements were jerky, mechanical, devoid of the fluid grace of true life – yet they had accomplished in one night what would have taken living men three. The trench now extended nearly a hundred yards toward Marburg's southwestern wall, zigzagging to provide cover from archer fire.
"Impressive progress," came a melodious voice from behind me.
I turned, unsurprised to find Griffith standing there, his silver armor catching the early morning light. He had approached alone, without escort – a calculated display of confidence. His ethereal beauty was still more striking in person than any animated depiction, his white hair framing features too perfect to feel entirely natural.
"Commander Griffith," I acknowledged with a nod. "You're here earlier than expected."
His smile was disarming, his eyes sharp. "I find the early hours most instructive. Men reveal their true colors when they believe no one is watching."
A deliberate provocation. He'd seen the undead workforce being whisked away.
"And what methods interest the great White Hawk?" I asked, maintaining an even tone.
"Efficient ones." He stepped closer, gazing into the trench with apparent admiration. "Your engineers have made remarkable progress. Almost... an unnatural amount of progress."
I met his gaze directly. "My men work in shifts around the clock. Nothing unnatural about hard labor and proper planning."
"Of course." His smile never wavered. "Though I wonder why you feel they need to work under complete darkness at night. Doesn't that make the work harder?"
"Tudor archers have excellent visibility from their vantage points during daylight, which means the work is slower during the day," I replied smoothly, pointing towards the walls. "We minimize risks to our safety and avoid casualties by working in the dark without torchlight so they can't target our positions as effectively."
Griffith nodded as if accepting this explanation, though his eyes told a different story. He seemed to be contemplating something for a moment before turning back to me. "What do you make of the Tudor envoys?"
So he was also curious about the diplomatic party. "A delaying tactic, most likely. They're buying time for reinforcements."
"Perhaps." He turned to face me fully. "Or perhaps they've already noticed something amiss within their walls." His blue eyes held mine, searching for any reaction. "Curious reports reached me this morning. Tudor soldiers tossing bodies down from the battlements, burning them in great pyres. An unusual response to what should have been mere desecration with you launching those corpses."
A cold weight settled in my stomach. They'd recognized the threat faster than anticipated.
"Men often fear what they don't understand," I replied, keeping my voice level. "Superstition runs deep in siege conditions."
Griffith's laugh was like silver bells. "Indeed it does. Almost as deep as ambition." He gestured toward the distant fortress. "The Tudor commander is no fool. Baron Halsten earned his reputation in three campaigns against Midland. He knows how to fight during a siege given he's been on both sides of one."
I hadn't expected Griffith to know the Tudor commander by name. More information I should have had but didn't.
"Then he should know that he wastes manpower in disposing of corpses when that manpower could be defending his walls," I countered, leaving out the fact that said corpses were purposefully infected with an artificial plague. "Either way, it serves our purpose."
"Our purpose?" Griffith arched one perfectly smooth eyebrow. "I wasn't aware we shared one beyond fulfilling the Count's contract. What purpose may you be referring to?"
The dawn light caught his behelit, the egg-shaped pendant hanging at his throat. Even inactive, the thing made my skin crawl – knowing what it was, what it would become. The faint impression of a face seemed to shift across its surface, though I knew that was impossible this early in its awakening.
"The taking Marburg with minimal losses, obviously." I clarified. "Unless you and the Hawks prefer to throw yourself pointlessly against the walls rather than attempt a more practical path to victory?"
Something dangerous flickered behind Griffith's eyes before his pleasant mask returned. "The Hawks prefer whatever path leads most directly to triumph. Glory follows success, not the other way around."
A group of soldiers approached along the trench line – Midlandish regulars bearing the Count's insignia. Their captain, a heavyset man with a bushy mustache, saluted us both with obvious deference to Griffith.
"Commander Volk, Commander Griffith," he announced, "Count Brummen requests your presence at the command pavilion. The Tudor envoy awaits."
Griffith inclined his head gracefully. "We shall attend him presently."
As the soldiers departed, Griffith turned back to me. "Shall we discover together what has Tudor so concerned they would seek parley three days into what could well be a months long siege?"
It wasn't really a question. I nodded, falling into step beside him as we made our way toward the command pavilion. Walking alongside the man who would become the fifth Godhand member felt surreal – like strolling casually next to a sleeping dragon, knowing the destruction it would someday unleash.
"Your men respect you," Griffith observed as we passed a group of my pikemen, who saluted crisply. "Not from fear, but something deeper. How did you earn such loyalty?"
"By valuing their lives above my ambitions," I answered honestly, not even intending it as a jab against him personally.
Griffith's expression revealed nothing, but if I had to guess I probably struck a nerve. "A curious philosophy for a mercenary commander."
"Is it? Men fight harder when they know their commander won't spend their lives cheaply."
"True enough," he conceded. "Though sometimes the greatest victories require the heaviest sacrifices."
I thought of the Eclipse, of the Band of the Hawk sacrificed to elevate Griffith to godhood. "Some sacrifices are so great that by the end any sort of victory doesn't feel like it was worth the price."
He studied me with renewed interest. "You speak as if from bitter experience, Commander Volk."
"All experience in war is bitter," I replied. "Only fools and bards pretend otherwise."
A smile ghosted across his perfect features. "Then we are surrounded by fools and bards by the dozen, are we not?"
The command pavilion loomed before us, Midland's royal standard snapping in the morning breeze alongside the coats of arms of every nobleman present above its peaked roof. Guards flanked the entrance, their polished armor a stark contrast to the functional gear worn by mercenary forces. They straightened as Griffith approached, their eyes widening in recognition.
Inside, Count Brummen presided over a gathering of nobles and military commanders seated around a large oak table. The Tudor envoy – a thin man in diplomatic finery that had seen better days – stood at attention before them. He turned as we entered, his eyes darting nervously between Griffith and myself.
"Ah, so you two decided to grace us with their presence at last," Count Brummen drawled, his jowls quivering with barely concealed disdain. "Now we may proceed."
Griffith took a seat near the head of the table with the casual confidence of someone who belonged there. I remained standing, preferring to keep my back to a tent wall where I could observe everyone present. The Tudor envoy cleared his throat, unrolling a parchment with trembling hands.
"My lord Baron Halsten, commander of Marburg Fortress, sends greetings to the noble representatives of Midland," he began, his voice steadier than his hands. "In light of recent... events... he proposes terms for a surrender with honor."
A murmur rippled through the assembled nobility. Count Brummen leaned forward, his small eyes glittering with suspicion.
"Surrender? After merely three days of siege?" He scoffed. "What trickery is this?"
The envoy swallowed visibly. "No trickery, my lord. Baron Halsten wishes to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. He offers to yield the fortress in exchange for safe passage for his men and their families currently sheltering within."
"Families?" one of the nobles questioned. "What garrison keeps women and children in a forward position?"
"Marburg has been our holding for two generations, my lord," the envoy explained. "Many of our soldiers have established households within its walls."
I watched the man carefully. There was fear in his eyes, but something else too – a haunted quality that spoke of recent horrors witnessed. The Grey Fester was working, then. Not just among soldiers, but civilians too. A wave of nausea threatened to rise in my throat, which I forced down with effort.
I had to consciously remind myself that this would be worth the price in the end… even if the thought felt hollow against the knowledge that not just soldiers, but innocent women and children were succumbing to a horrific outbreak of disease that I was ultimately responsible for because I had overpromised and had to deliver results quickly.
Count Brummen stroked his double chin thoughtfully. "And what of the fortress itself? Its contents, its armaments?"
"All would remain, my lord. Baron Halsten asks only for the lives of his people."
Griffith spoke then, his melodious voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade through silk. "A curious offer, given Marburg's strategic importance. What has changed in three days to make your baron so... generous?"
The envoy's eyes flickered toward me for the briefest moment before returning to Griffith. "I am not privy to my lord's strategic thinking, only his instructions." He said, though the nervousness in his voice made it so even the most inattentive person could tell that it was a lie, and not a particularly convincing one.
Count Brummen puffed up his chest, clearly smelling blood in the water. "Hmph, tell your baron that Midland accepts no terms but unconditional surrender. His men may live as prisoners, but the fortress and all within it are forfeit."
Oh for fucks sake… Really!? We could easily have the fortress be handed over and he STILL insists on fighting for it!?
The envoy paled. "My lord, I beseech you to reconsider. There are women and children—"
"Who chose to bed down in an enemy fortress," the Count interrupted harshly. "Your baron has until tomorrow's dawn to surrender unconditionally, or we continue our assault with renewed vigor."
As the envoy was dismissed, Griffith caught my eye across the tent. His expression was thoughtful, calculating. He knew something was happening inside Marburg beyond normal siege pressures. The question was how much he had guessed.
The meeting dispersed, nobles and commanders filing out to return to their respective duties. I moved to follow, but Griffith appeared at my side, his voice pitched for my ears alone.
"An interesting development," he murmured. "Tudor doesn't surrender fortresses of this importance without dire cause."
I kept my face neutral, not revealing anything about the anger and frustration seething within me. "Siege conditions tend to be unpredictable. Things can change surprisingly quickly due to events none of us could see coming."
"Perhaps." His eyes held mine. "Or perhaps something has them more frightened than the prospect of starvation or our armies combined." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I look forward to discovering which it is when we breach the walls, Commander."
With a slight nod, he departed, his white cape billowing behind him like wings unfurled. I watched him go, aware that I had just fenced words with the man who would become the most dangerous being in this world—and that he was already suspicious of our methods.
I needed to accelerate our plans. If Tudor surrendered now, before we could breach the walls ourselves, the prize would go to whoever the Count favored most—almost certainly the Hawks. The Ashen Pact's reputation would remain secondary, our strategic innovations overlooked.
Outside the pavilion, I found Johana waiting, her face grim.
"You heard?" I asked.
She nodded. "The men are talking. Tudor's offering surrender after three days? It stinks of fear."
"Or an attempt at a strategic withdrawal," I countered. "Did you check the trench progress?"
"Thirty percent complete. The dead work faster than the living, but there are limits." She glanced around before continuing in a lower voice. "Dunhilda says she can provide more... laborers... if needed. But she needs more corpses than we currently have available."
I suppressed a shudder at the implication. "Tell her to prepare what she can. After nightfall, I want as big of a workforce as we can muster. We need that breach done before we're out of time."
"The men won't like working alongside so many of the dead," she warned.
"They better fucking learn to like it because if we can't deliver results before the week is over, we don't get paid. We don't get paid, the company goes under." I spat out as I started walking toward our encampment, Johana falling into step beside me. "And find Varaq. I need his expertise on something."
"He's with the Vambergers, testing some new powder mixture. What do you need him for?"
I lowered my voice. "I've been cooking up a means of breaching the walls. Something with more... immediate results."
Johana's eyes widened slightly. "You're talking about explosives. Black powder charges."
"Something like that, yeah, but not like any type of explosive employed by any army until now." I confirmed.
She studied me with narrowed eyes. "This is about the Hawks, isn't it? You're pushing harder because Griffith is watching."
"This is about completing our contract and securing our payment," I corrected, though we both knew there was more to it. "The Hawks are irrelevant."
"Tell that to the men you've had watching their camp," she retorted. "Nothing Griffith does is irrelevant to you."
I stopped walking, turning to face her fully. "The Hawks represent everything the Ashen Pact isn't—glory-seeking, reckless, bound to a leader who values his personal ambition above all else. We're professionals, Johana. We win through discipline and innovation, not heroic charges and noble sacrifice."
She held my gaze steadily. "And if your innovations kill as many of our men as a heroic charge would?"
A fair question, and one that cut to the heart of my ethical dilemma. Was I any better than Griffith if I risked my men's lives for my own agenda, even if that agenda was ostensibly to save more lives in the long run?
"That's why we plan," I finally answered. "That's why we use the dead instead of the living when possible. That's why we undermine walls instead of charging them with siege ladders."
Johana seemed partially satisfied with this answer. "And the plague carriers? The Grey Fester? Where do they fit into your calculation of lives saved?"
The question hit like a physical blow. I had no easy answer that wouldn't sound like rationalization.
"War is ugly," I said eventually. "If we can take the fortress without firing a shot because all the people inside it died from disease… then that's less of our own we have to bury."
It felt unsettling to realize how quickly I had adapted into the "us versus them" mentality that this world thrived on.
Johana's face hardened at my words, and for a moment she looked at me like I was a stranger. "That's the kind of cold reasoning I'd expect from the White Hawk, not you."
The comparison stung more than she could ever know.
On the dawn of the seventh day, when the time alloted to the Ashen Pact to make good on its promise of a breach was almost up… It was ready.
The "petard" was what they called it. It was filled with the same stuff those musketeers used in their hand cannons to shoot down both men and horses.
And now it was his responsibility to be part of the group carrying it to its final destination, setting it up and blowing a portion of Marburg's wall to kingdom come.
Maurice was certainly not someone who was very brave, or smart, or handsome for that matter. He never claimed he was special.
But he was damn good at following orders. And right now his orders were to carry the petard to its end destination.
Maurice hoisted the wood and iron container with Evrard and two other men whose names he couldn't recall, their faces grim in the pre-dawn light. The contraption was heavier than it looked, a reinforced box filled with Varaq's special mixture—more potent than regular black powder, he'd been told. The alchemist had explained it contained something special that was mixed in with the usual saltpeter, charcoal and sulfur. Said special ingredient apparently made it far more destructive than what the musketeers used and thus well-suited for the current task.
"Steady," Evrard hissed as they navigated the zigzagging trench that now extended all the way to Marburg's southwestern wall. "One spark and we're all meeting our ancestors before breakfast."
The trench itself was a marvel of engineering—seven days of relentless digging, first by men, then by things Maurice refused to think about. He'd seen them once, returning to camp before dawn, their jerky movements and vacant eyes sending him sprinting to the nearest shrine of the Holy See to pray for forgiveness for whatever unholy alliance Commander Volk had made.
"Almost there," whispered the point man, a specialist from the engineers corps whose name Maurice had already forgotten. "Remember, once we place it, we have exactly as long as that fuse burns to get clear."
Above them, Tudor archers still maintained their vigilance, though their numbers had thinned over the past week. The plague ravaging the defenders ranks had done its work well—even from the trenches, Maurice had heard the wailing from within the fortress, the desperate prayers to the heavens for salvation.
Each day, more bodies had been flung unceremoniously from the battlements, pillars of thick black smoke rose up into the sky from what he assumed were pyres used to dispose of what corpses the defenders could through burning them en masse.
They reached the final bend in the trench, beyond which lay their target—a section of wall where the stream had undermined the foundation, now further weakened by the sapper's work over the past week. The petard would do what might have taken months in an instant.
"On my mark," the engineer whispered, peering around the corner. "Their attention is on the eastern approach. The Hawks are making enough noise to wake the dead."
A diversion, Maurice realized. Commander Volk had coordinated with the White Hawk after all, using the famous mercenary band to draw Tudor's eyes while they delivered their deadly package.
"Now! Move it!"
The four men surged forward, half-carrying, half-dragging the heavy box toward the base of the wall. Tudor arrows whistled overhead as they were spotted, but the shooters were firing blind, unable to lean far enough over the battlements to target the men pressed against the wall's base.
That didn't mean they were safe though, as Maurice learned when one of the arrows glanced off the top of his helmet, causing him to yelp in surprise.
"Set it here," the engineer commanded, indicating a spot where the mortar between stones had already crumbled away, revealing the weakness within. "Brace it tight against the wall."
Maurice and the others positioned the petard, wedging it firmly into the crevice their sappers had expanded over the previous nights. The engineer worked quickly, his hands steady as he inserted the fuse—a length of treated cord that would burn at a predictable rate.
"Fire in the hole!" someone shouted from further down the trench.
The engineer struck flint to steel, sparks flying until the fuse caught with a hiss and sputter of angry light. "Run like the devil's bout to bite your arses!"
Maurice didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled backward, boots slipping in the mud as he fled down the trench. Behind him, the fuse burned inexorably toward the volatile mixture.
He had made it perhaps thirty paces when the world exploded.
The blast lifted him off his feet, a wall of pressure and heat that seemed to compress his very soul before hurling him forward. His ears rang with a high, persistent whine as he tumbled to a stop, face pressed into the dirt. Debris rained down—chunks of stone, mortar dust, splinters of wood. Something warm and wet trickled down his neck.
Hands grabbed him, hauling him upright. Evrard's mouth was moving, but Maurice couldn't hear the words. Slowly, sound returned—first the distant shouts, then the closer commands of officers.
"—breach! We've got a breach! Onwards!"
Maurice turned, still dazed, to see what they had accomplished. Where a section of Marburg's wall had stood moments before, there was now a jagged hole large enough for three men to walk through abreast. Beyond it, Tudor soldiers scrambled in confusion, their formations broken by the unexpected explosion.
The Ashen Pact's vanguard was already moving forward, pikemen forming their deadly hedgehog formation as they approached the breach. Behind them came the halberdiers, then the two-handed swordsmen, a relentless tide of disciplined violence preparing to pour through the gap they'd created.
"On your feet, soldier!" An officer Maurice didn't recognize in the heat of the moment yanked him upright. "Join your unit we need every man in front!"
Maurice staggered toward his assigned position, ears still ringing from the blast. As he fell into formation with the other pikemen, he caught a glimpse of Commander Volk riding toward the breach, his weathered face set in grim determination. Beside him rode a man Maurice had only seen from a distance before—Griffith of the Band of the Hawk, his white hair and armor gleaming like fresh snow against the smoke and grime of battle.
The two mercenary leaders made an odd contrast—Volk in his functional, battle-scarred armor, Griffith looking like some hero from a minstrel's tale. Yet both commanded absolute loyalty from their men, both had achieved what the King's own forces had deemed nearly impossible.
"Forward!" came the command, and Maurice found himself moving with his unit toward the breach, toward whatever waited within Marburg's broken walls.
I surveyed the breach with a mixture of satisfaction and dread. Varaq's attempt at a "petard" based on the descriptions I had provided for him had worked even better than anticipated after he added his own touch to it, sending both men and heavy debris flying at least a dozen meters into the air and blasting a hole through Marburg's southwestern wall large enough to admit our assault force. Stone dust still hung in the air like morning mist, and the acrid smell of Varaq's alchemical concoction burned my nostrils.
"Impressive," Griffith commented beside me, his voice betraying genuine admiration. "Your alchemist has quite a talent for destruction."
"A necessary talent in our line of work," I replied, watching as our pikemen advanced through the breach in tight formation. Behind them, Tudor defenders scrambled to form a response, but their movements were disorganized, panicked. The Grey Fester had thinned their ranks and sapped their morale even more effectively than I'd dared hope.
"Indeed." Griffith's eyes gleamed as he assessed the tactical situation. "Though I wonder why such methods aren't more widely employed."
Because they shouldn't exist yet in this world, I thought but didn't say. Instead, I shrugged. "Innovation requires both knowledge and opportunity. The Ashen Pact has been fortunate in both."
A messenger approached at a gallop, the Midlandish royal insignia bright on his tabard. "Commanders! Count Brummen approaches to witness your progress!"
Griffith and I exchanged glances. The Count's timing was suspiciously convenient—arriving just as the breach was made, probably to claim credit for his "brilliant strategy" of sitting on his ass and letting his hired mercenaries do the work.
"We should secure the breach before his arrival," Griffith suggested, a slight smile playing around his lips. "Ensure he has something suitably impressive to witness."
I nodded in agreement, an unexpected moment of alliance with the man who would someday become my enemy. "The Hawks take the eastern courtyard, the Pact takes the western approach?"
"A fair division." Griffith raised his hand, signaling to his sub-commanders waiting with their units. The Hawks began to move with the fluid precision that had already made them legendary, Casca directing their vanguard with sharp, efficient commands.
I turned to Johana, who sat astride her mount a few paces behind me. "Signal the advance. Full assault through the breach. Establish a foothold in the western courtyard and secure a path to the inner keep."
She nodded, blowing on the horn hanging from her neck to relay the commands. Our forces responded immediately, the disciplined ranks of pikemen and halberdiers pressing forward through the breach while musketeers provided covering fire from the trench lines.
The battle for Marburg had begun in earnest.
I spurred my horse forward, staying just behind our vanguard. The breach opened into what had once been a supply courtyard, now transformed into a hastily assembled defensive position. Tudor soldiers fought with the desperation of men who knew surrender meant imprisonment for ransom at best, outright execution at worst. But there were fewer of them than there should have been, and plenty moved with the sluggish motions of the ill.
The plague had done its work well—perhaps too well. As we pushed deeper into the courtyard, I saw evidence of its devastation. Bodies lay unburied in corners, faces contorted in the rictus of plague death. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air, mingling with the more familiar smells of blood and fear.
A Tudor knight charged toward me on a horse of his own, his face a mask of hate beneath his visored helm. I drew my longsword in a fluid motion that felt as natural as breathing, Volk's muscle memory guiding my arm. Our blades met with a clash that jarred my bones, but I'd already adjusted my grip, using his momentum against him and directing his blade away from me harmlessly before counter-attacking.
All it took was a quick twist, a precise thrust through the opening provided to me, and he fell off his mount, blood already bubbling forth from the gap between the gorget and breastplate, indicating that I'd hit his neck and likely slashed his throat open. It was a gruesome sight, but I didn't have time to dawdle given that the battle was still going on around me.
The Ashen Pact's infantrymen pressed forward with discipline and purpose. Our strength clearly laid in coordinated formations acting in unison. Pikemen maintained their hedgehog defense, creating a moving wall of steel points that Tudor soldiers broke themselves against. Behind them, our halberdiers stepped forward to deliver killing blows through gaps in the formation while the two-handers moved about causing as much chaos as they could in the enemy's ranks.
I caught glimpses of the Hawks across the courtyard, their distinctive white-blue capes fluttering as they carved their own path toward the inner keep. Griffith was at their center, his swordsmanship a beautiful, terrifying thing to behold. He moved like water, each strike of his saber flowing into the next with inhuman grace.
"Commander!" Johana called, pointing toward a narrow passage leading deeper into the fortress. "Their defenses are collapsing! We can reach the inner keep if we push now!"
I nodded, signaling for our reserves to move up. "Secure that passage! I want a clear path to the central courtyard!"
As our forces reorganized for the push, a Tudor officer appeared on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. His decorated armor marked him as high-ranking—perhaps Baron Halsten himself. He raised a white flag, waving it desperately, clearly struggling to even hold himself up.
"Hold!" I commanded, raising my hand to stay our advance. "They're signaling surrender!"
The Tudor officer shouted something, but his words were lost in the din of battle. Then, he unceremoniously collapsed, the white flag falling from his grasp.
"They're trying to surrender," Johana said, her voice tight. "We should accept."
"I agree."
However, the contract still stated that we'd have to plant the flag on top of the keep to get the payment and the fortress itself, otherwise all of this would have been for nothing.
It became a race as with the surrender every merc who was present now had a completely open path to plant their own standard and claim victory, I looked around desperately trying to find the best candidate to carry the standard to the finish line.
Only to realize that the best one was me. I was on horseback and I already carried our standard with me.
"Johana!" I shouted over the chaos. "Take command of the vanguard. Secure that passageway and take any surrendering Tudors as prisoners!"
Without waiting for her response, I wheeled my mount around, the Ashen Pact's standard gripped firmly in my hand. The inner keep loomed ahead, its stone walls blackened by smoke from fires that had broken out during our assault. Tudor defenders were abandoning their posts, some fleeing, others simply collapsing where they stood as the Grey Fester claimed them.
I spurred my horse forward, weaving through the courtyard. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Griffith doing the same, his white armor now spattered with crimson, his own standard bearer close behind. Our gazes locked for a moment across the battlefield—a silent acknowledgment that the real race had begun.
The inner keep's entrance was a chaos of abandoned barricades and fallen defenders. My horse leapt over a hastily constructed barrier, hooves clattering against stone as we entered the central hall. Here, the devastation of the Grey Fester was even more apparent—bodies lay strewn across the floor, servants and soldiers alike felled not by blade but by disease.
I dismounted quickly, the standard never leaving my grip. The spiral staircase leading to the keep's highest tower would be too narrow for horseback. I took the steps two at a time, armor clanking with each stride, my breath coming in harsh pants within my helm.
Behind me, I heard the rapid footfalls of another climber. Griffith, no doubt, racing for the same prize. I pushed harder, my legs burning with the effort, the weight of the standard and my armor becoming increasingly difficult to bear with each step.
The staircase seemed endless, winding upward through the heart of the keep. Sweat poured down my face beneath my helm, stinging my eyes and soaking the padding beneath my armor. Still I climbed, the thought of victory—of securing the Ashen Pact's reputation and future—driving me onward.
I emerged onto the tower's platform, momentarily blinded by the sudden sunlight after the dimness of the stairwell. The wind whipped at my cloak, carrying the stench of smoke and death from below. The tower's flagpole stood empty, the Tudor colors likely struck by the dying Baron in his final moments.
I staggered forward, standard in hand, its pole feeling heavier than it had any right to. Behind me, Griffith emerged from the stairwell, his breathing controlled despite the climb, his perfect features barely showing strain.
"It seems we arrive together, Volk," he said, his voice carrying easily over the wind.
I didn't waste breath on response, instead lunging forward toward the flagpole. Griffith matched my movement, his own standard bearer just steps behind him. We reached the pole almost simultaneously, our standards raised.
But I had the advantage of height and reach. The Ashen Pact's emblem—the sword in ash—unfurled at the tower's peak a heartbeat before the Hawks' silver falcon could claim the spot. I drove the pole into the mounting bracket, the metal tip scraping against stone until it locked into place with a satisfying clang.
"Victory to the Ashen Pact," I declared, my voice hoarse but firm.
Griffith's expression remained pleasant, though something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "So it would seem," he acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head. "A well-earned triumph."
Below us, the sounds of battle had largely subsided, replaced by the organized chaos of sorting out the surrendering enemy troops. Through the tower's crenellations, I could see Count Brummen's entourage approaching the fortress, banners flying, the nobleman himself probably already composing the version of events that would credit his brilliant leadership for the victory.
"So, the Count arrives to claim credit for our blood and sweat after we've already done all the work," I observed.
Griffith's laugh was musical, though it held no warmth. "The way of nobility since time immemorial." He stepped closer, his voice dropping so only I could hear. "You've won today, Volk, but make no mistake, this race is far from over. So, until we meet again."
"I look forward to it," I replied, meaning it despite everything I knew about his future.
I briefly watched Griffith descend down the staircase with the standard of his own company before turning around and walking over to the edge of the tower to look down at the courtyard again. The standard of the Ashen Pact snapped proudly above me in the wind, claiming for us not just a fortress, but a place in the chronicles of this war.
The Widow-maker had fallen. And with its fall, the Ashen Pact—and I—had risen.
A/N:
I was sort of torn with the pacing given that I didn't want things to wrap up ridiculously fast given how formidable I had imagined the fortress of Marburg in my head, but at the same time I knew I couldn't have the first five chapters of the story be just focused around the siege, because sieges are oftentimes a whole lot of sitting around and waiting that's occasionally interrupted with short sporadic, and bloody fighting. And given that I already set the ridiculously ambitious goal of "achieve a wall breach in one week" for the Ashen Pact in the second chapter, I knew I wouldn't be lingering on this arc of the story for too long.
The only reason I thought it would even be plausible was the fact that Marburg as a fortress is established to be at least a bit old given its reputation. Berserk's setting is basically fantasy late-medieval/very early modern period Europe and traditional castles with ninety degree non-sloped walls of stone that relied mainly on being tall and hard to scale by infantry rather than deflecting or tanking hits were quickly made obsolete by the introduction of cannons and purpose-built explosives like petards.
Thus I figured that two things needed to happen to justify the fast pacing. One was that the protagonist's company would either need to employ cannons, which they don't because cannons of this period were incredibly cumbersome to lug around and incredibly unreliable due to the metallurgy of the time and thus prone to explode upon being fired, or they'd need to use explosives to blow a portion of the wall up. I ended up going with the latter since that seemed like the more plausible route. The second thing that was needed was that the defense would need to be weakened so as to avoid massive casualties once the company was inside the fortress' walls. Thus I came up with the idea of the artificial plague because it also gave the necromancers within the company something interesting to do.
Is it plausible that a plague could cause such massive damage within just a week? I don't know, I'm not an expert on disease, I just read about the mongols throwing plague-ridden corpses into cities they were sieging and thought that was interesting enough to put into the story. Is it irresponsible as hell to engineer such a plague when your guys or the mercs from other companies could easily catch it at any point? Probably, but it's what I decided that Volk would go with.
Anyway, with that incredibly long explanation over with. Drop me some feedback and tell me what you think of the story so far. I'd really appreciate it. I'll probably take a small break now that I've reached this milestone, so I'll see you all when I see you. Peace.Like Award (Awarded ×1) Quote Reply1311