Tales of the Vangen: The Siege of Middengard (Book 2)

Chapter 35: Fortunate Son

{What is a miracle but a well-placed stroke of luck.}

-Chronicler Biblias, an excerpt from, "The Warrior Poet's Lament"

"Cease fire! Cease fire! Seven hells, stop it already!"

The last of the Thunderheads boomed out their payload before going silent. Regis pulled his fingers out of his ears, worked his jaw to get the ringing to stop. His nose still burned from the spent dwylo smoke billowing off into a great cloud, dark tendrils churning round like hungry shadows before being devoured by the mist. A horn off in the distance signaled the last trebuchet firing, their wooden arms lowering down in peace.

"We've done quite enough, I think."

"How can you tell?" Civis wafted the smoke away from his face, nose turned up against the rotten stench.

"Call it an old warrior's intuition," Regis muttered as he took a step down the hillside where the Thunderheads sat perched. "Besides, if it were me, I would have gotten the hells out of there first chance I could get. Doubt it's loyalty keeping those bastards fighting."

"Good point." They walked together towards the wooden palisade further ahead, a narrow wall built for the vanguard in case of arrow fire or raids. Trenches had been constructed behind it, and Regis could make out the silhouettes of guardsmen peeking over, glowering past the smoke and mist towards Middengard's outer wall.

Regis couldn't help but stare at it himself, the once-mighty stone wall now reduced to ruins from the early morning's bombardment. For hours now, Ohban's cannons had been chewing away at the city, half pointed at the walls, half pointed at shantytown beyond. Civis had elected they forgo the wall altogether, but the thought of having the mercenary fire her entire barrage made Regis' stomach churn. What they had done to the habitants was a question he wanted no answer to.

A line of guardsmen paused to salute as Regis and Civis marched past. Most were covered in an oily sheen from the dwylo smoke, faces ashen and grim, smelling like campfire smoke and horse piss.

"Cent?" Regis called out. "Cent? Where the hells are you?"

"He's still out there, Chief," One of the guardsmen said. "Him and Moss."

Regis grimaced. "Fecking foolish, if you ask me."

The guardsman shrugged. "His choice, I suppose. Outranks any of us saying otherwise."

"That might become a problem in the future," Civis whispered to Regis. "The man's been getting brash ever since...well..." and he left it at that.

"I'll have a word with him." As if on cue, two lumbering bodies dropped down into the trenches from the other side of the wall. Regis instinctively reached for his sword before the Vangen colors flashed into view, and he relaxed his grip.

"You called, Chief?" Cent pulled his helmet off to wipe the sweat off his brow. His eyes were hollow and pitted now where once they'd been clear and shining, a frown set permanently over a face that had smiled too often. On the other hand, Moss looked just as grim, a stone menhir made flesh.

"You shouldn't have gone in without my say so," Regis told him.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry about that," Cent shrugged, not sounding the least bit apologetic. "Someone's gotta keep an eye on those bastards, though, right?"

"I suppose that's true. Speaking of which, what's it look like out there?"

"Chaotic, to put it bluntly. Our bombardment set most of the city's shantytown ablaze, and what the fires didn't burn up, our trebuchets turned to rubble. Luckily, the bulk of Middengard's Warhost has retreated back towards the second wall, but there's still some activity worth noting."