Horizon of War Series

Chapter 195: A Spin of Fate

A Spin of Fate

Cascasonne

The guardsmen burst into the gatehouse, breathless and bleeding, their eyes wide with panic. Inside, crossbowmen kept releasing bolt after bolt through the arrow slits, their shouts mixing with the clash of steel as more enemies reached the battlements.

“Are you the last ones?” the lieutenant roared, eyes darting as chaos erupted around him. “Answer me!”

“We’re the last!” a guardsman wheezed from the floor.

His confirmation sent his allies scrambling to bar the door with a thick wooden plank. The metallic scent of blood and sweat hung heavy in the air, while the shouting grew louder outside. It was clear the enemy had taken the battlements. After enduring a siege that lasted through the entire winter and almost all spring, Cascasonne’s defenses had finally been breached.

Amid the chaos, two men sat in a shadowed corner of the room as if detached from the ongoing battle. The senior guard stroked his thin beard, observing the scene with calm, tired eyes. “It seems we’re losing it,” he said to the steward, his voice unnervingly steady.

“Well, it can’t be helped.” The old steward turned to meet his friend's gaze. "Ever since our alchemist ran out of supplies, the result was inevitable.”

“Indeed, it can’t be helped,” the old guard echoed with a resigned nod.

It was unfortunate that their whole defense had been built on the liberal use of burning sands. The fine white powder caused a debilitating burning sensation to the eyes, nostrils, and mouth, and worse if inhaled. They depended on it so much that the alchemists assumed the role of defense coordinator, as they knew best the spread and limitations of their potent weapons.

It was the only thing that prevented a mass assault and made their situation controllable despite being greatly outnumbered. But even with the alchemists working day and night, scrambling to create fresh batches from any ingredients they could get their hands on, they had depleted the stockpile.

Nearby, Hannei sat on the floor, still clad in plate armor splattered with blood and grime. Surrounding her was a ragtag group of courageous individuals: kitchen assistants, gardeners, and even servants who had taken up arms in desperation. As expected, many were injured, even in their roles as reserves. The brutal toll of combat had reached everyone. Their stares were now empty, aimless, tired, and in pain.

The Frenchwoman's hair was now short-cropped and matted, and her face was streaked with sweat and blood. She had fought tirelessly, leading her makeshift force and joining the guardsmen repeatedly, only to see them pushed back and cornered, barely surviving a desperate stand. Hearing and absorbing the nonchalant exchange between the two old men finally ignited her frustration. Rising to her feet, she approached them. “What can’t be helped?”

The two turned to her but were slow to respond.

Hannei slammed the table with her bandaged hand, raw and aching from wielding her sword. “What can’t be helped?”

The steward tried to reason. “Please, Lady Hannei—”

“Do not advise me as if I were a noble! We are losing the castle,” Hannei howled, her voice driven by anger at Bengrieve's seemingly botched plan and the fear of torture and certain death. By now, the enemy must have learned that the defenders employed mages, and what besiegers did to captured mages was always brutal. Worse, she knew there was no way out for her.

Mages couldn't escape from sieges; they would have to surrender, or the enemy would kill everyone suspected of magic out of fear of assassination. Thus, for Hannei, losing would mean facing the certainty of torture that made her skin crawl.

Meanwhile, the two old men did not answer but slowly rose from their seats. The wounded servants, gardener boys, kitchen assistants, and guardsmen at their posts looked on, except for the crossbowmen who were frantically reloading and firing through the arrow slits.

With moist, reddened eyes, Hannei was about to press further, but the steward raised his hand. “Patience. We’re still following our lord’s orders.”

That failed to stop Hannei. “You know I have a lot of respect for you, but any moment now, they’ll come with axes and hammers to tear down this door. If you have something, do it now,” her eyes glowed an unnatural golden hue.

The steward, suspecting her intention, quickly tried his best. “Please, calm down. We can still avoid this."

“Avoid? Don’t tell me you’re going to surrender?” she asked, her eyes blazing with disbelief and fury. She had no intention of allowing herself to be tortured. It pained her to recall that mages couldn’t suffocate themselves by drawing air from their lungs; they would lose focus and faint before succeeding. Yet, the thought of using her knife on her own throat was unthinkable. Suddenly, the old dread of being mutilated and eaten by goblins resurfaced. She had seen several explorers end that way. Her breathing quickened, and the air felt suffocating. Her mind raced as she struggled to recall the familiar faces of Calub and Felis.

“No. We’re not surrendering. There’s always a plan, even when losing,” the steward exclaimed firmly, trying to reassure her.

“What plan?” she pressed, regaining control of herself while reminding herself that she still had Tia. The little girl needed her. Moreover, she had taken it upon herself to be responsible for Lansius’ family.

Instead of answering, the steward and the senior guard motioned for the guards to help move the large wooden cypress table they’d been using for maps. The men rushed to help, revealing that underneath the table, the wooden planking was removable, concealing a hidden trapdoor.

“Don’t tell me it's an escape route,” Hannei said.

The old guard chuckled, while the steward explained, “No one would build an escape route here; it would be too difficult to construct or conceal.”

“Then?” Hannei asked as the men opened the trapdoor, revealing a storage space filled with wooden caches.

“They’re coming with shields,” one of the crossbowmen warned, still firing tirelessly to keep the encroaching enemy at bay. Stacks of bolts and crossbow parts lay scattered around them, three crossbows had been broken from prolonged use since the start of spring.

“We have time; they’ll be more focused on bringing ladders and climbing down into the castle yard,” the senior guard shouted to steady the men, as the others carefully pulled out the boxes one by one.

“Is that a weapons cache?” Hannei asked as they pried one open.

"More burning sand grenades?" another asked with great interest. It took several attempts; the lid was glued shut with a thick, tar-like substance.

“We’ll soon find out,” the senior guard said. Meanwhile, the steward moved to another chamber, where large kegs of water were kept for fire emergencies. He ordered the men to remove several older, smaller kegs, each sealed with the same black, tar-like substance.

Hannei watched, her eyes darting between the men and the encroaching noise outside the gatehouse. Just then, they managed to pry open the wooden lid, revealing the contents: long objects carefully arranged on dried hay. The sight stunned her—it wasn’t the round clay or glass bottles she had expected. Worse, she recognized the shape.

“It’s just an old prop,” one man commented to his friend with a frown. They recognized it too.

But the old steward suddenly exclaimed, “You know this. You’ve been trained with it. Now, it’s time to use it for real.”

...

Sir Stan

In great haste and with the ever-present fear of patrols hunting them, Sir Stan and his men advanced closer to the besieged castle. They crept from the edge of the forest, where their scouts had been keeping watch. It wasn’t the most advantageous position, but it was relatively safe, and they had secured the area.

Immediately, Sir Stan’s eyes caught sight of dozens of ladders propped against the walls, with steady streams of attackers scaling them. The ferocity of the assault was staggering. His heart sank as he surveyed the scene, quickly realizing the dire state of the defense. Since his departure to attack the supply convoy, the deep defensive ditch had been completely filled in, and the attackers had brought forward wider ladders.

The counterattacks from crossbow bolts were sporadic, coming only from the tall towers, and no attackers fell from the battlements anymore. It was clear that several wall sections had been overrun. The assault was so overwhelming that, even with Hannei, two other mages, and an alchemist armed with a healthy stockpile of potent items, the defenders were losing their hold on the battlements.

Now, the attackers had secured a foothold, and more swarms of men climbed the ladders unimpeded.

“What do you see?” one of their hidden men whispered.

“The castle’s west battlements have fallen,” the lookout beside Sir Stan replied.

Several men turned, their faces marked by shock. “What?”

“Cascasonne has fallen,” Sir Stan stated, the bitter words leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

A stunned silence swept through the gathered men, broken only by sharp intakes of breath and disbelieving murmurs.

Sir Stan struggled to place the blame. Was it on himself? Yet, he recalled that Bengrieve had never explained anything about Cascasonne’s defense, only insisted that it would hold. “Where is his master stroke?” he muttered, clenching his fist until his knuckles turned white, aching to strike something.

“Sir, a scout has seen us," the lookout warned. "We must retreat.”

But Sir Stan was still conflicted. Losing Cascasonne would be the final nail in the coffin for him. All the effort and blood of his men would be in vain. Worse, his Toruna barony, held by his family for generations and built with his father's hard work, would be confiscated.

“Sir,” the man urged again, this time with more urgency, as horsemen began to close in on them.

“I hear you,” Sir Stan said, his voice strained as he wrestled with the reality before him. He couldn't fathom that he couldn't save the maids he had shared a bed with or that he would have to abandon Hannei. Even bold, condescending, and fierce, the mage was more than just a friend.

The captain emerged from a different spot and grabbed Sir Stan’s arm, pulling him back. “We must leave. There’s nothing we can do here.”

Staring at the captain, the baronet asked, “Bengrieve said Cascasonne would hold. You heard it, right?”

The captain’s face was somber as he continued to tug Sir Stan toward the rear. “I heard it,” he said. "I heard it clearly," he repeated, preparing their escape.

Suddenly, piercing screams and strangled shrieks erupted along the battlements. It was so abrupt and chilling that Sir Stan and the captain exchanged a stunned look before scrambling back to their observation spot. They saw a sickly green fog rolling over the attackers' ranks on top of the battlements, spreading like a living, corrosive tide.

Wherever the green gas crept, chaos followed. Men clutched their throats and fled in panic, their bodies convulsing, limbs twisted in unnatural spasms. Some clawed at their eyes and faces, gasping as if their very nerves had ignited with fire. A few, maddened by pain, threw themselves from the battlements, while others were too paralyzed to move, vomiting or choking on air that seemed to burn them from the inside.

"Green miasma," Sir Stan muttered, recognizing the weapon, one even more potent than the burning sands.

"Is this a clever trap?" the captain asked, his spirits rising.

"No," Sir Stan shook his head. "Green miasma is better used near the ground, where it lasts longer. On top of the battlements, it’ll easily scatter in the wind."

The captain glanced at him. "So this is desperation?"

Sir Stan clicked his tongue. He knew even the green miasma wouldn’t be enough. It might cause panic and accidental deaths, but it would only buy the defender a small amount of time. They would still need to wrest control of the battlements with spears and swords.

Out of nowhere, loud, jarring cracks filled the air. The sound was sharp and unlike the clash of swords or the dull thud of arrows striking wood. It made even Sir Stan and his men cower in surprise.

“What was that?” the captain asked.

“It’s nothing like alchemist bottles," Sir Stan commented, eyes wide. They scanned the castle walls just as the noise reverberated again. From their vantage point, it wasn’t clear what caused the sound, but panicked shouts and screams erupted from the contested battlements.

"By the Ageless," the captain muttered as a tense pause settled over the battlefield. Confusion had spread among the attackers. Even the advancing group halted, their horses skittish and agitated.

Thin trails of white smoke coiled up from the battlements. Suddenly, red-golden flashes erupted, coloring the smoke as piercing sounds shattered the air again. Attackers fell from the battlements, and mass confusion broke out as those on top frantically tried to climb down. To their horror, more flashes and piercing sounds erupted. Blood and bodies rained downward.

Even from a distance, Sir Stan could see the carnage unfold. He was about to speak when a tremendous explosion erupted somewhere beneath the wall, right in the thick of the enemy’s formation. The blast and shockwave flung dirt, splintered ladders, and dismembered limbs into the air. Against all odds, unearthly powers had been unleashed by the castle defenders.

Sir Stan didn’t understand why the defenders had waited to employ such a weapon—whether it was a ploy to break the attackers’ spirit, or a last resort—but he knew it meant the castle still had a fighting chance. He locked eyes with his captain, who quickly nodded in agreement.

“Bring the horses!” the captain shouted to his men. “The wind favors us.”

“Men, the time is nigh! We shall join in this carnage!” Sir Stan rallied his men, who quickly took to the field. They knew it would be like a cat against a lion, but even a small bite might give their side a fighting chance.

***

Battlement

The smoke had yet to dissipate when the female mage led her men in a rush against the remaining survivors. Their arrival at the harrowing scene struck terror into the attackers. The tide had turned, and now they were the prey. Yet nobody wanted to surrender their lives. In a great struggle, they gathered their courage and brandished their arms.

"Come and take it!" the new Midlandia army roared. Their lives were not yet forfeited.

"Saint Nay will save us from this wretched life," echoed another, as they regrouped to form a cohesive line. However, their effort was fraught with hardships as many were debilitated by their wounds and the terror-inducing green miasma.

To the defenders, the new Midlandia army's shouts rang hollow. Clad in full plate, the female mage charged head-on at the front of her men, a force half composed of guardsmen, half a ragtag group. Her sword style matched the men she led: bold and reckless, without finesse or honed skill, yet deadly. Her movements were basic, almost a mockery of formal sword styles, but none could deny their bloody results.

The mage believed she was granting her opponents a merciful death, as inhaling a great deal of green miasma led to a slow, agonizing end. More importantly, their survival depended on this fight, and she had no reservations left about taking lives. She wielded her magic to the fullest like when she’d fought fell beasts in the labyrinth, and with every blow, thrust, and strike, she pressed the enemy further into a corner along the narrow battlements.

Advancing much further than the rest of her group, she fought like a possessed spirit in the thick of the enemy’s ranks. Her armor turned red from the blood of her opponents.

Deafening screams did not make her pause, and none of the spear and sword tips brandished against her could dissuade her from claiming lives. What finally stopped her was a splatter of blood that seeped through the gaps in her visor. Only then did she realize that hot blood had leaked into the crevices of her armor, soaking into her arming doublet and dripping uncomfortably down her neck.

She stood poised for another attack, her sword ready, while the panicked Midlandians shrank back, pointing their spears like cornered men facing a red-clad monster. Their shield-bearers struggled to protect them from bolts that still raining down from the towers.

The mage noticed that the stone floor had become dark and slippery beneath her feet. Her eyes were blurred, her breath tagged, and she felt the stifling heat building inside her armor. After several attempts, she opened her visor, revealing a fierce yet feminine face with golden hair peeking from beneath her helmet.

Her opponents gasped; they had never expected to see a blonde knight—let alone a mage. One soldier clutched his wooden rosary necklace, beginning to pray to Saint Nay.

“I hear your murmurs,” the blonde mage addressed them in a clear, cutting voice, while her own group formed at her back, brandishing swords, spears, crossbows, and their new accursed weapons.

The attackers dared not respond. “Your hearts beat with false conviction,” she said, continuing. “Sons of Midlandia, listen to me. There is no salvation to be found here, only death. Go home, return to your wife’s embrace. Don’t follow your brethren to their tragic fate.” She nudged toward the bodies strewn across the floor, limbs missing, wounds gaping, and eyes empty.

“Don't listen to her!" one of the men insisted from the crowd. "Saint Nay will save us!”

“Blasphème!” the mage responded harshly in her foreign tongue. “Your Saint is nothing but a false god. That’s why you’re losing—even after months of fighting against women and children.”

Only then did the attackers realize that among the defenders were young and feminine faces.

Suddenly, noises from below caught their attention, and both sides looked to see a surprise cavalry charge tearing through the encampment, wreaking havoc and causing great destruction. For the first time in months, the forces loyal to Lord Bengrieve finally committed to an all-out attack. The surprise attack finally forced the remaining attackers to throw down their weapons.

“We yield,” some declared, and when the fanatics tried to protest, they shoved them forward, pressing them toward the blonde knight.

“Do you yield?” the mage asked the three fanatics.

“Never,” one spat. “I’d rather die than betray my Saint’s teachings.” Grabbing her sword, he lunged at her.

Her men rushed to her aid, but none could approach. An ethereal wind formed around her, holding everyone back, including the fanatic’s blade. She took his sword from his hand with her left hand as effortlessly as a maiden plucking a flower.

The fanatic was about to try again, but shouts and tremors from below caught his attention. He looked down to see the cavalry, which had wreaked havoc across the field, now turning toward the wall, forcing the remaining attackers to abandon their ladders.

Before anyone realized it, the mage had placed the tip of her sword on the man’s chest. “If you wish to die for your faith, be my guest.”

The man finally relented, shrinking back in fear, marking the end of their struggle.

“Lady Hannei, we’re victorious!” one of her men shouted, tears streaming down his face as the defenders rushed to secure the remaining attackers.

The mage turned to him, offering a faint smile before beginning her walk back toward the gatehouse. She knew that this victory could only be attributed to the Lord of this castle. She had only taken a few unsteady steps when she collapsed into the waiting arms of her men. They carefully carried her to the gatehouse, where many gathered around, calling her name in reverence.

“That’s not my name,” she whispered, feeling the heat radiating from her body, which kept rising. She wasn’t like Sir Morton, who had trained all his life. Her last reckless action had taken an extreme toll on her body.

“Tanya and Tia, take good care of them,” she said urgently to the people who grasped her hand. Suddenly, fresh blood came from her nose, alerting everyone who hurriedly undid her armor to look for wounds.

“She has a fever,” one shouted.

“Get me a sharp knife,” another replied, preparing for bloodletting.

She was in pain, yet oddly, she had no regrets. For the first time in her life, she was doing it for someone else. She fought at the front not for glory or fame, but to ensure no more losses on her side. Her eyes became unfocused, and her voice turned faint. “My birth name. It’s Valerie.”

While many hastily tended to her with gentle care, outside, the defenders seized the opportunity. With the battlements firmly in their grasp and the ladders left unguarded, they, in a stroke of ingenuity, pulled them up, capturing dozens. This secured a critical advantage, delaying the enemy’s supremacy for several more days.

The steward stood at the tower overlooking everything. One of his men stood next to him, resting the new weapon against the window.

“You’re trained for this, yes?” he asked.

“Trained?” The man looked uncertain. “I thought it was just a prop for play. I never knew it was actually real.” He offered a nervous grin.

The steward chuckled dryly. Only a few of the most trusted knew about the dwarven weapon brought to life again. It was one of House Bengrieve’s secrets. They hadn’t maintained a costly relationship with explorers simply to fill their collections like mindless nobles. In truth, they were gathering samples to study and replicate. The musket and the gray powder were among their creations, constantly improved upon.

“A prop for play,” the steward mused as he headed downstairs through the stone spiraling staircase.

For three generations, the men of the castle had been trained for a play unique to Cascasonne. They learned to use these dwarven weapons and were taught to handle them as if they were real. They practiced with sand in place of gray powder and metal balls as projectiles, even using loud metal clashes to simulate the noise.

They hadn’t known until now that the real weapon existed. It was only to be used if the castle were overrun. However, they had never anticipated facing the full force of Midlandia. Sir Reginald’s rise to power, along with his alliance with the fanatics they had originally introduced, was beyond their wildest imagination.

The new concept of organized religion had been intended to counter the Ageless One’s influence, to prepare Midlandia to separate itself from the Imperium. Instead, it had turned against them. Now, even with these new weapons, the steward wasn’t sure if they could hold out.

With the abundance of forest nearby and likely thousands of men remaining, siege ladders could be rebuilt within days. Worse, the castle certainly didn’t have ten or twenty thousand bullets and gray powder to fend off all the fanatics. They were running out of options.

***