The Walls of the City of Mortensholm, Northern Border Princes IC 2524
Jochem peered through the spyhole in the sally port.
“I can see nothing … I mean, there’s no-one there,” he whispered to the man next to him. “Let’s open it and go now, and pray we get to them before they have time to reload.”
Tomas and two others began winding the handle of the windlass mechanism, and the iron grate began to lift. They had taken the precaution of oiling the mechanism so that no sound would be made. Considering that the mechanism had not been used in years, and the grate and its chains stood in a little ditch dug into the ground for concealment sake, then the oil was necessary, if only to get the rusted gears and chains moving.
Five minutes later and the grate was as open as it was going to get. The forty young men began crawling through it and assembling in the shadows of the ditch upon the other side. Jochem had taken his bearings from the wall above, and now began to move forwards toward what he hoped was the gap in the stormpoles he had espied. The rest followed him, swords, axes and spears in hand, moving as silently as they could. The lack of torches or lanterns did mean they stumbled here and there, tripped and faltered, but none of this distracted them, nor did the ominous dark of the night sky or the eery glow cast by the burning city behind them. They had other fears on their minds.
Suddenly Jochem halted, and once more whispered to Tomas,
“There, that mound – they made that. It’s one of their bastions, and there are two mortars emplaced upon it. Can you see the gabions, and the light of the match cord in a linstock?”
“I think so,” answered Tomas. “I do see something. Are you sure it is the right place?”
“As sure as I can be. Pass the word back, in one minute I shall yell ‘attack’ and we’ll rush them all at once.”
That minute was the longest minute Jochem had ever experienced. It amused him that he had not counted to sixty like this since he was a child at his petty school lessons. Once he had finished his counting he kissed the blackened blade of his sword and screamed his command.
Thirty yards away Luitpold von Jorgen snapped awake. He had been drifting off, which was not surprising considering the day he had had and the duty he was now about. What woke him was a shout, close by – at least certainly closer than the wall.
“Attack!”
Luitpold stood and looked over the edge of the ditch. For a moment he was confused – for there was no-one there. He could see the bastion upon which the battery sat, and he could see the ground between it and the walls. But no source of the shouting.
“Capitano, look,” came the voice of one of his duellists.
Luitpold followed the man’s gaze and saw a body of men rushing from the shadow of the walls towards, well … towards nothing. At least, not one of the bastions. They were, it appeared, charging towards a mound of earth, behind which stood one of the army’s wagons. An empty wagon, apart from the wagoner sitting upon it smoking his pipe.
“Tonto!” said the man next to him.
“Aye, and soon to be dead!”
Within moments Luitpold was leading his own band of men towards the flank of the sallying men of Mortensholm.
When they engaged with the foe, it was a bloodbath. The duellists were mercenaries of many battles’ experience, fighters of skill and vicious cunning. Jochem and his men were apprentices, journeymen, farmers and herdsmen, not only unskilled in swordplay but also confused by two things – the sudden onslaught from their flank and the fact that there seemed to be no mortars ahead of them.
Before even half of a quarter of an hour was up, thirty three of the sally party were dead, six were back inside the walls frantically closing the sally port, and one, Jochem himself, was lying still in a muddy ditch desperately trying not to move, praying to Myrmidia that he might escape and live to fight another day, to exact vengeance.
The goddess was not listening.
“Buenas noches, amigo,” came a voice from the darkness. Jochem felt the point of a blade at the back of his neck, sharp as a needle and already drawing a trickle of blood.
“Stand up,” added the heavily accented voice.