Chapter 59

Chapter 59: Siege of Stilwood Part 1

…

Richard POV

The morning sun stretched its golden fingers across the plains. I sat astride Lancelot at the edge of the forest near Stilwood Keep. 

The fortress loomed in the distance, perched atop a hill, its stone walls stark against the open expanse surrounding it.

Thirteen knights flanked me, their armor glinting in the light, their silence heavy with anticipation.

Together, we waited.

Far ahead, seven riders approached across the plain. 

One carried the banner of my house, the black-and-gold lion rippling faintly in the breeze.

These were the knights I had sent to negotiate a parley with Lord Jamond—a mission I already knew had failed.

Earlier, from my vantage point, I had watched their futile attempt. 

My knights had spoken, their voices rising toward the battlements, only to be met with cold words and contempt. 

Arrows had flown from the keep's walls, forcing them to retreat. 

Jamond's defiance wasn't surprising; cowards often mistake obstinacy for bravery.

As the riders drew closer, their movements steady and unhindered, I noted no trace of blood. 

Their mission had failed, but they had escaped unscathed.

Within minutes, they reached us and dismounted swiftly, saluting with fists pressed to their chests. 

I returned the gesture with a measured lift of my hand.

"I presume there will be no negotiation," I said, my voice calm, laced with steel.

One knight stepped forward, removing his helm to reveal the young face of Ser Alfred Parren.

He shook his head, his disappointment clear.

"My lord," he said, his voice steady but subdued, "Jamond refused. He declared that every man within his walls would die before yielding."

I nodded, my expression unmoved. "As expected. A coward's bravado only hastens his end."

My knights exchanged glances, their faces hardening, anticipation kindling in their eyes. 

For two days, these men—my elite—had been held back, their prowess unneeded in the smaller skirmishes. 

Now, their time has come.

"Prepare yourself, today you'll see action," I said, my tone resolute.

Ser Alfred bowed his head, his youthful eyes blazing with determination. 

Around me, the others straightened in their saddles, the thrill of purpose coursing through them like a silent battle cry.

I turned Lancelot toward the forest trail leading back to camp, my men falling into formation behind me, their horses moving with practiced precision.

The ride was brief. 

We soon emerged into the clearing where our camp stood, hastily constructed the night before.

Cheval de frise bristled along the perimeter, a wall of sharpened stakes to deter any assault.

Infantrymen patrolled the barriers, their eyes sharp, their steps purposeful. 

At the sight of me, the guards saluted and moved quickly to clear the barricade.

Inside the camp, the air buzzed with industry.

Former blacksmiths turned infantrymen hammered at glowing steel, the rhythmic clang echoing in the crisp morning air. 

Former Carpenters worked nearby, shaping wooden ladders, their tools biting into fresh timber.

Soldiers sparred in pairs, their strikes precise and their movements disciplined. 

Others practiced drills or honed their weapons, each man focused, their determination palpable.

As I rode through, the activity paused momentarily. 

The men saluted as one, a display of loyalty that I acknowledged with a brief nod before dismounting and handing Lancelot's reins to a stable hand.

"Gather the four centurions and Ser Reynard. We will be finalizing the siege plans." I instructed Ser Alfred.

Ser Alfred nodded and spurred his horse into motion.

I strode toward the war tent at the camp's center. 

Two knights took position outside the tent while the rest dispersed.

The thick canvas walls of the tent shifted in the breeze, the black-and-gold lion of my house emblazoned proudly above the entrance.

Inside, the air was cool, the faint scent of parchment mingling with the tang of steel. 

A massive oak table dominated the space, a detailed map of Stilwood Keep and the surrounding lands spread across its surface.

Lines and symbols marked the strategies we had laid out, the paths we would take, and the weaknesses we would exploit.

Jamond had made his choice, and it would cost him dearly. The time for words had passed. Now, it was time to act.

…

Third POV

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, its waning light bathed the land in amber hues. 

The first sight of the Nemean infantry emerging from the dense forest sent a ripple of alarm through the Stilwood defenders.

"Enemy approaching!" came the frantic shout from the walls. 

Bells began to toll, their sharp clangs echoing through the keep as conscripts scrambled to the southern wall.

Lord Jamond arrived moments later, his armor hastily donned, his face set in grim determination.

He cast a glance over the wall and saw the Nemean force advancing—four compact columns led by their centurions, their discipline evident in every synchronized step.

"How many?" Jamond demanded of a nearby captain.

"Over three hundred, my lord." the captain replied, his tone tinged with worry.

Jamond's lips pressed into a thin line. "And we have a hundred."

The captain nodded. "Just over, my lord."

"Then we must hold. They must not take this keep."

The Nemean columns moved steadily, the ground trembling faintly beneath their boots. 

From atop the wall, the defenders could see ladders carried at the rear, shielded by the infantry's disciplined formation.

"They're within range," Jamond said sharply. "Archers, nock your arrows!"

The Stilwood archers drew their bows, aiming at the advancing columns.

"Hold… hold…" Jamond commanded, his voice cutting through the tense silence. As the Nemean forces neared, he raised his hand. "Loose!"

A volley of arrows soared through the air, descending upon the Nemean soldiers.

Below, the centurions blew their whistles—two sharp blasts—and the infantry locked shields in a seamless testudo formation. 

The arrows clattered harmlessly against the overlapping shields, a few piercing gaps but causing no significant damage.

"Steady! Keep firing!" Jamond barked, though unease crept into his voice as the enemy maintained their relentless advance.

The Nemean men carrying ladders remained shielded, moving steadily with the formation. 

Despite the continuous hail of arrows, the soldiers did not falter.

On the wall, a young conscript turned to Jamond, his voice trembling. "My lord, they're nearly upon us!"

"Hold your ground!" Jamond snapped, though his eyes betrayed his anxiety.

The testudo formation halted as the infantry reached the base of the wall. 

A moment later, the ladders were raised, their wooden frames clattering against the stone parapets.

"For Neméos!" a cry rose from below as the Nemean soldiers began their ascent.

Jamond gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, his knuckles white as he barked orders to his men. "Ready the oil and stones! Hold the line! Do not let them through!"

The southern wall roared with chaos as defenders scrambled to obey, hauling heavy stones and preparing vats of scalding oil. 

The clash of steel, the hiss of arrows, and the shouts of men filled the air, but the Nemean forces continued their relentless advance.

Meanwhile, on the northern wall, an ominous calm hung in the air, undisturbed by the chaos consuming the southern wall.

Four conscripts were stationed along the wall, their vigilance dulled by the stillness of their surroundings and the distant clamor from the south. 

Scattered across the parapet, they leaned lazily against the stone, their attention wavering.

Then came four sharp whistles, slicing through the quiet like a predator's call.

Three of the watchmen fell instantly, arrows striking their skulls with unerring precision. 

Their bodies crumpled where they stood, lifeless before they hit the ground.

The fourth fell to his knees, clutching at the shaft buried deep in his throat. 

Blood poured between his fingers as he choked, the gurgling sound lost in the encroaching darkness.

From his knees, he watched in horror as a ladder thudded against the stone parapet. 

The faint clink of armor echoed as a figure climbed steadily, his steps methodical and unhurried.

Moments later, the top of a helm came into view—a dark design trimmed in gold, gleaming faintly under the setting sun. 

The Nemean knight stepped fully onto the parapet, his posture regal and menacing. 

In his hand, he held a white bow, its polished surface stark against his dark armor.

The knight surveyed the wall with a predator's patience. His gaze shifted to a corner of the parapet where hurried footsteps echoed. 

Without hesitation, he nocked an arrow and aimed—not at the gasping watchman but toward the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Hey, we need backup! Stop bloody dawdling!" A Stilwood conscript rushed around the corner, his voice urgent. 

He never saw the arrow coming. It struck him clean through the eye, the force snapping his head back. 

He collapsed mid-step, his body sprawling lifelessly on the stone floor.

The gurgling guardsman gave a final, rattling breath, his blood pooling beneath him. 

His wide, unseeing eyes reflected the Nemean knight stepping forward, surveying the wall as if it were already his domain.

More figures ascended the ladder, one by one. Nemean knights in black and gold armor emerged silently, their presence like an invading tide. 

They fanned out, their movements precise.

Richard, standing tall among the nemean knight, with his white weirwood bow, gave orders. 

"Secure the objective," he said, his voice calm and measured. "Kill anyone on sight."

The knights nodded without a word. They moved like shadows, heading left toward the gates. Their mission was simple: open the gates and let the main force inside.

Richard turned right, his footsteps steady as he approached the body of the fallen conscript. He stepped over it without a glance.

…