' Golden and Silver Snow ' Part III
POV: Denys Drumm;
Camp Ironmen, Bear Island.
About 30 minutes after the retreat horn was sounded...
It was still at least six hours before sunrise, winter had just passed and the days were beginning to lengthen. But it was still early spring, darkness still prevailed over sunlight...
For Admiral Denys, this was a disadvantage. Only hearing the screams of his men at 400 feet, the commander-in-chief of this army, previously composed of 5,300 men and now of 4,900, had made the firm decision that from here on out, his Iron Men would fight in the sunlight...
A lesson he paid with a salty and heavy price of iron.
Denys expected that of the five hundred men sent as a vanguard to test the enemy's defenses, at least three hundred would return. And if he had to sacrifice two hundred men, he hoped at least that those iron men, though inexperienced as warriors, would take at least fifty of the enemy with them to the grave...
In that case, it would have been an acceptable loss, but now the captain of that vanguard, who managed to survive that massacre, was babbling sentences that he couldn't believe or accept.
"Say it again...
Know that if I detect the slightest trace of falsehood in your words, face, or tone of voice, I will personally drown you with my own hands." Said Danys to the son of one of his father's bannermen.
"Yes...Yes, my lord admiral.
I swear by the Drawned God that what I have said and am about to repeat is the truth...
The enemy suffered no casualties, Admiral...
At most...a couple of wounded.
My Lord, their formation was impenetrable! They were defending and attacking at the same time, I...we didn't know how to break that line." Said the captain exposing his battle report for the second time.
"Why didn't you attack from the flanks? I only saw you attack the front line! My orders were clear!" Denys.
"My lord, that open ground is littered with traps! Not just the sharp poles, there must be hundreds of hidden holes...
We lost forty men just crossing fifteen feet of ground...it was impossible to avoid them in the dark, my lord.
We could only attempt to attack the front line." the captain.
"...
What else did you notice? Explain in detail the enemy formation.
I want to know everything." Denys.
"Yes, my lord.
There are two main lines of defense, consisting of at least sixty men in studded leather armor, helmets, spears, and shields. There is not the slightest chink or opening my lord...
We couldn't hurt them even with archers...not without an elevated position.
We cannot repel that line with brute force my lord. When they opened their wall, the seven-foot-long spears of the first line and the ten-foot-long spears of the second line would pounce on us, piercing everything, and at the same time, at least twenty crossbowmen would shoot darts a moment before the spears hit.
As soon as the formation closed, the archers would leap into the air repeatedly like fish out of water, aiming mainly at our archers and ax throwers.
All of this was repeated 3 or 4 times every minute without fail, my lord...we...here...
We had no time to react, I had lost the first two hundred men in less than three minutes..." The captain paused, expecting serious, if not fatal, bodily repercussions from the enraged man in front of him.
"What about that demon? You mentioned a demon earlier...
Not only did you lose four hundred men, but you returned to camp instilling fear in the rest of the army..." Said Denys with a murderous look on his face.
"MY LORD! I SWEAR! I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO SAW IT!!!
HE...CAME OUT OF NOWHERE MY LORD! HE MOVED INHUMANLY, TAKING LIVES..." The captain was interrupted abruptly.
"That's enough...you are no longer useful to me, Captain." Denys gripped the throat of the man smaller than him in a steel vise...
Denys was tall and muscular, some thought he was Victarion Greyjoy's bastard brother. He was the only one who could match his strength, and his skill with a sword and an ax in his fist were no less. Throughout the Iron Islands, it was thought that only Dagmer Cleft-Jaw and, indeed, Victarion Greyjoy, could beat him. Two years earlier, Balon Greyjoy's son Rodrick, who was looking for easy glory, challenged Denys to a 'friendly' fight...
Rodrick paid the iron price that day at Old Wyk, along with three teeth and multiple fractures.
Denys managed to lift with his right arm the tiny and dry captain, who although thin still wore his armor and chain mail.
The fingers of the mighty Admiral, clad in steel gloves, pierced the poor man's throat, choking him in his blood...
The other six witnessing captains did not utter a word, staring petrified at the scene. No one dared to intervene.
When Denys had finished, he turned to the others and said:
"Captain Deregh died with valor from a wound sustained in battle.
Does anyone in this tent think the circumstances of his death are false?" The other six men trembled upon hearing those words.
"NO, AMMIRAGE!", "No, my lord.", "Captain Deregh died with valor serving the King, my lord."...the other three nodded silently.
"Good.
Now let us calmly discuss how we will avenge our comrade Deregh..."
End POV.
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POV: Division Commander;
Allied Camp, Bear Island.
Approximately six hours after a young captain had his throat slit...
Gellert repositioned himself in the center of the front row.
Fourteen men on his right and another fifteen on his left. Today it would be Lieutenant Brywen who would protect the weakest of the formation.
General Duncan, would support the front line as a backup healer until he had exhausted his 'skill'.
As predicted by the General, it was a quiet night.
The ironmen harassed them with flaming arrows all night, but no casualties or fires were set.
Gellert and his men were able to rest quietly in the sheltered area.
The enemy army had only wasted tens of thousands of arrows. Many of them were assimilated to be sent back to the sender in the future.
The preparations were complete and he and his men, who had chosen him by-election as their commander, were back from four hours of rest. They needed nothing more. The first sixty men of the formation had been well soaked in water and mud. Their uniforms had gone from white to earthy brown with still a few traces of blood from yesterday's clash. The unit had been increased by sixty men for today's clash. Increasing by ten crossbowmen, 10 archers, 30 support, and 10 reserve shields.
The commander was pleased with yesterday's work and proud of his men. Each of them had performed their task perfectly and at the right time working as one man.
During the theory lessons, General Duncan always repeated the importance of teamwork.
The Lord General used to give them numerical examples.
[ 100 ranks [7] soldiers, well trained in teamwork and well equipped, would prevail against 100 disorganized and ill-equipped rank [9] men. So always take care of your equipment and your comrades...but remember that the latter cannot be easily replaced].
'Will I be able to take care of my companions this time as well? ' Gellert thought as he stared at the more than one thousand five hundred veteran men of the Iron Islands less than a few paces from the range of their bows.
The Commander knew that the confrontation of the night before was nothing compared to the challenge that would soon be before him.
The five hundred men of yesterday were nothing more than marauders better at stealing and setting fire to villages of farmers and fishermen than fighting.
But today...
It would be the turn of 1,500 true iron men.
Today even the Mormont units would have to fight if they wanted to secure victory...
He did not doubt that they would prevail in the end...but he didn't want to lose any of his comrades.
Gellert was beginning to feel the true weight of his assignment.
His choices and orders could have cost the lives of his sworn comrades and brothers...
A feeling of panic and unease was beginning to pervade inside him.
' I must breathe...breathe Gellert. Five hundred comrades and thousands of innocents are counting on you!!! ' Gellert thought as he began to practice one of the special breathing techniques.
A technique that helped clear and relax the mind...
"Phew...phew..." After a few seconds, the weight began to lighten and the chaotic thoughts diminished...
Another memory took precedence over the other negative ones...
[Remember Gellert.
There will be a time when you feel the weight of that responsibility you think is yours...
Know that that weight is not yours alone.
I would not have hesitated for a moment to choose you as my commander.
Do you know why I let the other Guardians choose him?
Because the responsibility lies with everyone.
If you fail or make a mistake in your task, we will be the ones who have failed and not just you...
We will rejoice or suffer together and we will all bear that responsibility].
Gellert, thinking back on those words, looked one last time at the gazes of his companions beside him...
All of them looked both scared and determined at the same time...
"GUARDIANS!" Everyone paid attention to their commander.
Gellert continued.
"I KNOW YOU ARE AFRAID...
I'M AS SCARED AS THE REST OF YOU...
YOU ARE RIGHT TO BE SCARED.
AND I WANT YOU TO BE!!!" Some of the Guardians looked at each other with confusion on their faces.
"YOU TOO LIKE ME,
DO YOU FEEL THAT ICY SENSATION THAT SEEMS TO PERVADE IN YOUR BONES?
THE BREATH THAT BREAKS IN HALF?
INVOLUNTARY SPASMS ON YOUR MUSCLES?
GLOOMY THOUGHTS LADEN WITH ALL MANNER OF DOUBT?" Gellert.
"Yes...", "Yes, Sir...", "I can feel them, Sir"...a few stood strong and admitted it in a low voice a few, most others nodded silently but only one voice stood out more than all, and it seemed to be the voice of an eleven-year-old in the second row.
"YES, SIR!!!" Thundered an eleven-year-old.
Gellert smiled upon hearing that voice and continued undaunted on his way.
"I DIDN'T HEAR THAT!" Gellert.
"YES, SIR!" Most answered with a few exceptions, there were still a few who pretended or wouldn't admit to having it.
"REPEAT.
ARE YOU AFRAID?!" Shouted Gellert as loudly as he could.
"YES, SIR!!!" This time they all replied.
"...WELL.
KNOW, THAT THOUSANDS OF WOMEN, CHILDREN, AND INNOCENT PEOPLE INSIDE THOSE CAVES HAVE IT TOO.
ONLY THEY DIDN'T CHOOSE TO BE HERE.
WE DID!
WHETHER OUT OF STUPIDITY OR COURAGE, WE CHOSE IT.
AND WE DID IT TO GIVE THOSE PEOPLE A CHOICE! THE SAME CHOICE WE WERE GIVEN!!
I, GELLERT, DIVISION COMMANDER OF THE WINTER GUARDIANS, AM AFRAID!
BUT NOT OF DYING!
I AM AFRAID OF LOSING EVEN ONE OF YOU!!!
AND LET THIS FEARFUL LEADER GIVE YOU SOME ADVICE...
DON'T BLOCK OR HIDE THAT FEAR! EMBRACE IT AND MAKE IT YOUR OWN! LET IT BE OUR STRENGTH!
USE IT TO MOVE AS QUICKLY AS YOU CAN!
USE IT TO BETTER FOCUS ON YOUR ENEMY!
TO REACT BETTER!
TO PROTECT YOUR LIFE!
TO PROTECT THE LIFE OF THE COMRADE ON YOUR RIGHT!
...BUT MOST OF ALL...
LET'S TEACH THOSE ' FEARLESS' MEN IN FRONT OF US, WHAT REAL FEAR IS!!!
LET OUR TERROR EXPLODE AND BURST FORTH UNTIL IT REACHES THOSE SQUIDS WHO ONLY PRETEND NOT TO HAVE ANY!
AND LET'S MAKE SURE THAT THIS TERROR NEVER LEAVES THEM!
WE WILL TORMENT THEM EVEN IN THEIR DREAMS, AND NEVER!!! NEVER AGAIN WILL THE IRONMEN 'FORGET', WHO, OR WHAT THE WARRIORS OF THE NORTH ARE!
THE ENEMIES OF THE NORTH 'WILL NOT FORGET' THIS DAY!!!!
AWOO!!!" Gellert finished his speech by raising his spear to the sky.
"AWOO!!! AWOO!!! AWOO!!!" 310 spears, shields crossbows, and bows were raised rhythmically in response along with the battle roar.
The iron men responded to the cry by beginning their charge 400 feet away.
Gellert did not react to the attack and continued to stare at his comrades.
"USE AND CONVEY THAT FEAR TO THE ENEMY AND I PROMISE, NONE OF YOU WILL DIE TODAY!!!" The look on many men's faces became more determined than ever.
William supported his Commander by ordering:
"GUARDIANS! BATTLE FORMATION!!!" Everyone lined up tightly clutching their weapons and positioning themselves in the designated spot.
Gellert also took his place without much of a hurry. He knew when the enemy would come.
The danger was getting closer and closer, but none of those 309 men moved a finger.
No one would until Gellert ordered them to.
Just before the enemy reached 50 feet away, Gellert thundered the order they had all been waiting for.
"SHIELD WALL!!!"
End POV.
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POV: An Ironman;
Allied Camp, Bear Island.
About three minutes into the second battle of the expedition began...
'Those aren't boys...
Deregh was right...
Those are Demons!' thought Captain Wix of the second battalion of five hundred men...
He had seen with his own eyes Captain Bardagh, now the former commander of what's left of the first battalion, perish under the spear of the enemy commander.
The tip of that fucking spear had pierced Bardagh's steel-reinforced helmet from side to side... and Bardagh was a true warrior tempered by a hundred raids...
The Iron Fleet had just lost at least another 150 men.
Wix knew, that without a guide and because they were in the middle of enemy territory, those 350 remaining men of the first battalion were already dead...
Worst of all, the enemy had yet to suffer a single loss.
There was no opening...at least not on the first line of defense.
Wix had even tried to concentrate the fire of his unit of archers against those of the North.
BUT, as soon as he had given the order, those damn mushrooms wouldn't come up anymore...
It was as if the captain of that unit knew they were going to target them.
Then all of a sudden, when the members of his shooting unit had their arms sore from the prolonged tension pull of the bow, forty archers suddenly popped up aiming at them...
Wix had lost at least twenty-five, good archers, in that one attack...
In this terrain they were at a disadvantage, even the most experienced warriors found it difficult to move among all these bodies and none of those demons would let that opportunity slip away.
They easily unbalanced the front line with a simple push. The man who fell to the ground was a dead man...
"Captain! What are your orders?" Despite the shouting and confusion, Wix still managed to catch those words from his deputy at his side.
"We must take advantage of this moment when the first battalion is getting their attention.
CLEAR THE WAY! MOVE THOSE BODIES!
WE NEED TO CLEAR THE WAY FOR THE RAMS!" Ordered Wix to about fifty of his men, who obeyed the orders.
About sixty men were waiting with three huge oak logs. Twenty men were needed to create enough momentum to impact the ram toward the target.
About five minutes of dying screams later...
Less than a hundred men remained from the first battalion and the enemy defensive line continued undaunted to hold firmly.
Wix had seen four or five men be wounded, at least one of them badly, an iron man, sacrificing himself in the act, had managed to plant an ax on the chest of a Northman, who fell backward only to be dragged by a couple of his comrades and promptly replaced by another.
While the result, in the eyes of many others in Westeros, might seem painful, it was not to Wix or any of those iron men who had seen with their own eyes what those Demons were capable of doing.
A 'free' passage had been created. Wix didn't think twice about ordering:
"NOW!!! FIRST ARIES! CHARGE!!!!"
"UUUAAARGHH!!!" Roared in unison 20 iron men charging forward.
When the battering ram was about to reach its target, three shield units from the front line, unbeknownst to Wix or other iron men, simply ducked letting the whole battering ram with the twenty iron men in freely, soon after the wall closed in.
"SEEN MEN!!! WE DID IT!!! THE LINE GAVE WAY!!! " Wix.
"UUAAARGHH!!!" Thundered a hundred or so ironmen raising the morale slightly.
"COME ON LET'S SUPPORT THOSE TWENTY WARRIORS AND TEAR THEM APART FROM THE INSIDE.
SECOND RAM! CHARGE!!! YOU FOLLOW ME WE WILL CREATE A BREACH IN THE ENEMY RANKS!!!" About fifty men lined up along with their captain behind the ram already in motion.
70 feet...50...30...10...
The ram reached the same target and passed like a thread through a needle hole...
'No sound of an impact?!" thought Captain Wix instinctively as he crossed the line with a couple of his men.
Then a push and a shouting sound behind him awakened him from his daze...
What awaited the 22 brave ironborn and Wix, was not a breach...but a trap.
Forty northern men, armed with swords and daggers were simultaneously slaughtering his men.
Wix turned away for a moment, hoping at least to have the support of his militia following him. The breach had been closed and his fifty men cut off.
"FUCK YOU!!! DAMN BASTARDS!!! I'M TAKING AT LEAST TEN OF YOU WITH ME!!! WHAT IS DEAD, MAY-" Wix's roar cracked in his throat, not because he wasn't determined to die fighting, but because of the opponent he was facing, one who had to be truly dead!
The Northern soldier, who until a few minutes ago had half an ax inside his chest, was standing in front of him.
Wix did not doubt that it was him...also because on his armor, there was precisely the mark of an ax cut and bloodstains from the copious wound...
'NO IMPOSSIBLE! HE CAN'T BE ALIVE! NO MAN COULD SURVIVE WITH AN INJURY LIKE THIS!' roared Wix's thoughts, panicking.
"What is dead, stays dead." Said a childish voice behind Wix, who was landed by a slash that mowed down his ankle tendons.
"Who...urgh...WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!!! YOU'RE FUCKING MONSTERS!" Spat Wix trying not to let go of his grip on the ax and dagger.
"We are..." The boy was interrupted by a call.
"GENERAL!!! ERICK!
Erick has been wounded in the throat!" The boy snapped toward the voice of the call.
Wix was unable to watch the scene, but what he saw before him was very clear.
Twenty heads of his former men have piled up a few steps away from him, and the Northmen were severing more heads from the corpses of his men...
Wix had a quick sense of why...
The enemy wanted to throw those heads at his garrison, thus breaking his morale...
That was the end that awaited him, and it was the 'undead' soldier who was put in charge of the task...
Seconds later, everything went dark for Wix.
End POV.
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POV: Captain Stevan 'Salt Blade';
Allied Camp, Bear Island.
About ten minutes after 43 heads were dropped on the second battalion...
Less than 900 men remained of the original 1,500...
The terrain was impassable.
Hundreds of bodies hampered any possible formation.
Stevan, a 40-year-old captain with extensive experience behind him, had a decision to make.
'Both Baragh and Wix have fallen, I remain in command.' Thought the captain trying to figure out if it was better to call a retreat or not.
The result of those six hundred sacrifices offered to this curse Island were barely thirty wounded enemies.
In an hour filled with fighting, this was the result that the iron men had managed to achieve.
They still had one more card to play.
Fire.
They had to set the damn bastards on fire.
If they retreated now, morale would plummet the entire army and Stevan would still die at the hands of that bloodthirsty madman Denys Drumm.
"FORM A LINE OF SHIELDS 70 FEET FROM THE ENEMY!" Stevan commanded his troops.
The men prepared to form three compact lines of 100 men each. Someone died in the process due to the crossbowmen and archers.
"PREPARE...BUT WHAT!" Stevan was shocked by what he saw...
That was a boulder from a catapult flying into the sky from the enemy camp.
'NO! That's not possible! They couldn't have carried a catapult into those wooded, rocky paths!....
They couldn't have even built it! They should have been here no more than two days!!!' Thought Stevan with celerity as he witnessed the scene of a two-foot circumference bullet shattering about two hundred feet from their position.
The enemy had missed their target.
About a minute later, another bullet landed in another direction dozens of feet from the other...
None of those bullets were hitting his army.
'At least they have crappy aim!....
But how did they do it?
It would take at least 4 or 5 days to build one from scratch!' Stevan continued to think obsessively. Then he remembered the plan making a huge effort to get back focused on his goal.
"PREPARE TO LAUNCH THE OIL, DEFEND THE SHOOTERS! LET'S BURN THE BASTARDS!" Stevan.
"CAPTAIN, LOOK!!!" Said the second-in-command pointing into the sky.
It wasn't a bullet or a boulder...but more objects...or rather shimmers.
*Tingh!, Tingh!, Tingh!* Various tinkles followed rhythmically hitting the ground or the metal of the shields.
"LOOK! THIS IS SILVER!!!" Shouted a man
"THIS IS GOLD!!!" Said another.
Stevan, instinctively taken by curiosity as well, looked at the ground and saw coins.
Silver stags, silver moons, and even golden dragons...
His instincts screamed at him to pick them all up...and that's when it hit me.
He saw his men get caught up in the same euphoria, breaking the defensive formation...
It was the men from the North who threw the coins.
Stevan could tell where those cold silver and gold snowflakes were coming from.
"NOO! YOU IDIOTS IT'S A TRAP! GET BACK IN FORMATION!!!" It was all for naught.
Those words did not reach the ears of raiders stricken with gold madness.
Not only had they broken the formation, but men were even attacking each other for a few gold coins.
Some idiots even tried their luck in the trap-filled camp. The Northmen were throwing buckets of gold into that death zone...and the fish took the bait.
In the meantime, the catapult bullets kept hitting their empty rearguard, until....
The bullets were replaced by a rain of fire.
Stevan's experience and instincts told him that at least 300 archers were needed to create a phenomenon of that magnitude.
"SHIELDS! SHIELDS UP!!!" Only a hundred men responded to the command.
The arrows weren't aimed at them, though...
"SWAAAMPPP!!!" A wall of fire at least 5 feet high, split the battlefield in half.
'NO!... Those weren't boulders...THEY WERE OIL-FILLED WALLS!
THEY WANT TO CLOSE US INTO TRAP!' Every neuron in the commander-in-chief's head repeatedly shrieked those words.
Only now did Captain Stevan and several dozen men notice that the enemy formation had advanced a few steps and was more numerous...
In front of them, there were at least 600 northern men...
Tallhart and Mormont men....
A five-foot-tall figure wielding a blade in each hand stepped forward in the center of the group.
He stood still watching the spectacle for a few seconds, then raised an arm and lowered it downward roaring:
"WARRIORS OF THE NORTH!....
CHARGEEEE!!!!"