Chapter 317

Days of Siege

 

Sir Harold

One day before the duck attack.

The Lord’s plan, once fully revealed by the veteran lieutenant who led the reinforcements, was nothing less than decisive. However, it required patience. Sir Harold immediately ordered preparations to begin. More siege ladders were to be built, as other options, such as battering rams or siege towers, would be rendered impractical by the steep terrain. Secondly, the plan required the best of their men to be sufficiently rested.

This was where the reinforcements played their role. The new recruits were more than sufficient to hold the encirclement, allowing the veterans to rest from endless night patrols and from the constant work of maintaining the ditches and palisade walls.

With the Lord’s plan covering only its main components, there was, as usual, room for improvement. One such addition was a proposal devised by the lieutenant to attach duck riders to the patrols. It was known that ducks, even common giant ones, were perceptive in the dark and, much like dogs, would raise noise to alert against thieves, escaping prisoners, and intruders. Even greater results were expected from the smarter and stronger race ducks turned war ducks.

As Sir Harold reviewed the entirety of the plan with his staff, he began to suspect that the Lord still wished to force the Monastery to the negotiation table. He was giving them the last chance to reconsider, because what would follow otherwise would be brutal.

“A multi-attack,” Sir Harold muttered under his breath as he studied the wooden pieces on the map.

“It’s a proven concept,” the officer in red brigandine commented, while the vice nodded in agreement.

Sir Harold did not argue. More than anyone present, he knew that the Lord Shogun was not the type to do things halfway. When the assault came, it would be thorough and merciless.

On the other hand, reports gathered by the agents under his command, combined with information from spies among the merchant families, supply routes, and captured individuals, revealed that the situation inside the Monastery was unusual. While the believers, numbering in the hundreds, were receiving very little food, the Monastery itself possessed massive stores. Those supplies, however, were reserved for the inner sanctum, where the Saint and the Saint Candidates lived. Aside from them, only the guards were receiving bread and soup. No one else was.

Based on calculations by the Lord’s scribes, it was estimated that, if the believers were expelled, the Monastery could last until the next winter on its reserves alone. Yet this was not done, and that decision baffled everyone.

It appeared that Saint Nay was playing a different game, one with an unknown goal.

Furthermore, testimony from those who were captured and agreed to speak revealed that not even the common Candidates were receiving enough food. This suggested there was hope that some might attempt to flee, bargain for their freedom, or even switch sides if the pressure was maintained.

But, like everything else, achieving a favorable result would take time and a careful process.

For now, despite his hope for an immediate assault order being dashed, Sir Harold was pleased that the reinforcements had brought many positive effects to the camp.

Beyond sheer numbers, the reinforcements included many veterans and experienced officers, both of whom were sorely needed. As it had grown in size, the young Shogunate army had suffered from a persistent shortage of officers. This placed enormous strain on the command staff tasked with keeping the garrison running smoothly.

While some veterans were promoted into officer roles, many remained frontline combatants and had no desire to join the command staff responsible for managing the army. Meanwhile, as the Lord himself had said, an army runs on its belly. Before the reinforcements arrived, Sir Harold’s small staff had been stretched thin, forced to oversee both the camp itself and the vast barricades encircling the hill.

Naturally, with a long-term encampment like this and during a siege, there were plenty of matters to handle on a day-to-day basis. There were walls, ditches, and wooden towers to maintain or expand. Beyond that came the issue of wells, from maintaining the old to digging new ones to ensure a steady supply of clean water. That, in turn, meant everything from keeping spare buckets and ropes to building tight wooden housings to prevent the wells from freezing. More importantly, they also needed to ensure that latrines were placed as far from the wells as possible and that all members of the camp followed the rule.

And speaking of buckets and ropes, the command staff was mainly burdened with securing food supplies. Fresh vegetables, flour, cheese, and ale were sourced from nearby villages and towns. Ordering, payment, delivery, and proper storage required considerable effort. Not to mention that, with thousands of men, there was a constant need for other supplies as well, from replacing worn footwear and footwraps to providing warm clothing, medicine, and even needles, so they could mend everything from torn garments to tattered banners.

Beyond securing supplies, a capable camp staff also understood that there was always a hidden war against disease. From the Lord’s trained medical personnel, the mobile medics, the command staff had learned in detail that carelessness in hygiene would claim more lives through illness than through fighting. The longer the army remained in place, the greater that risk became.

The Lord’s medical approach was in line with the Imperial manuals and had so far proven prophetic.

Just the previous week, a separate camp suffered a bedbug and lice infestation that forced them to boil all clothing, even the canvas tents. The process shrank the tents considerably and left the men miserable. As a result, new tents had to be ordered, and work on new cabins was scheduled.

Now, with new officers joining, along with Sir Stan and his retinue, the burden on Sir Harold’s staff was considerably eased.

They had divided their areas of responsibility. Sir Harold guarded one side of the hill, while Sir Stan took the other.

This arrangement even allowed Sir Harold and his men to rotate shifts and venture into a neighboring town for some much-needed rest and leisure.

Privately, the Lord must have noticed Sir Harold's impatience to assault the Monastery. Thus, the Lord had permitted Clementine to join him in the camp, despite her former ties to the Monastery. With his wife’s arrival, not even Sir Harold could find room to complain.

“How’s your sister?” he struck up a conversation as they took lunch in the inn where they would spend the night in the nearby town. The command staff had urged them to take some rest before matters escalated again. Informally, it was understood that if the top commander did not take time away from duty, the lower ranks would never dare to do so.

Wiping her mouth with a napkin, a thin smile on her lips, Clementine answered, “They’re fine. Little sister is caring for the elder sister. And my gratitude for hiring a cook for them.”

The fanatical elder sister was still under house arrest, now staying in a villa just outside Ornietia, paid for with Harold’s own money.

Hearing her answer, Sir Harold offered no comment and quietly sipped his spiced ale, the best he had tasted in weeks.

Clementine continued, “Little sister last wrote that elder sister is still stubborn, but she no longer argues as much after learning of the Saint rebellion’s defeat. I think the One Day Rebellion planted doubt in her heart about the Living Saint's divinity.”

Again, Sir Harold did not answer. He simply nodded.

Only after finishing his drink did he say, “Better order sweets to your heart’s content. Tomorrow, we’ll return to the camp.”

Clementine ordered a choux pastry made from butter, water, flour, and eggs. Lady Valerie, who traveled with her, had once said it reminded her of a dessert she used to eat, an éclair. Despite a twinge of guilt for the sisters still in the Monastery, who must be suffering from hunger, Clementine felt a deeper appreciation for the chance to enjoy the pastry. She was married now, and her loyalties had shifted.

With their lunch concluded, the two, along with their escort, made several purchases for supplies, intending to prepare a modest feast for the command staff and the troops within the camp.

Having been promoted to Banneret and appointed Camp Commander in an ongoing siege, Sir Harold had been paid handsomely, and he was not stingy with his money.

After spending the night at the inn and enjoying a quiet morning, the two and their escort finally set out past midday. Given his responsibilities, Sir Harold could not afford to remain away from the camp for too long.

...

 

Camp, Foothill below the Monastery

The reinforcements had breathed new life into the once dull camp routine. The half kin, Big Ben, was a welcome addition, creating new antics by the hour. He gambled, performed acrobatics, grilled wandering goats he caught himself, and shared plenty of stupid stories that made even the stoic knights laugh. If Francisca was charming, Big Ben was the army’s joker.

However, when it came to antics, even Big Ben had a rival.

Much like watching Big Ben, everyone was thrilled by the war ducks, even if only to observe them wandering about or eating from afar. Their involvement in the few battles they had participated in had already become legendary.

Big, beautiful, and menacing, the ducks were always a center of attention. Moreover, their antics were always fresh.

The latest tale involved a duck wielding a sword.

“I must be seeing things. Is that duck wielding a sword?” asked the gate master, currently on leave.

“That’s the Jester,” the duck rider explained.

Another chimed in, “It snatched a sword from a sleeping man and still won’t give it back, even for a bucket of frogs.”

“I can’t believe it,” the gate master muttered in awe, watching the duck swing the sword around as if practicing.

“Well, we sort of let him have it,” the rider explained with a wide grin. “There’s no harm. He only parades around with the sword and entertains the other ducks. Entertained ducks entertain the men, so it’s a win for everyone.”

“But why is there another one with a glaive?” the gate master pointed out.

“Oh, that one. That’s the leader,” the rider said. “He can do whatever he wants. Nobody dares to argue with him. He saw the Jester and probably got an idea, so he took a man’s glaive and used it like a command staff.”

The crowd either laughed, shook their heads, or grinned nervously.

“So are there any other armed ducks?” the gate master asked again, wiping his forehead with a clean cloth.

The rider laughed. “No, only those two. The rest don’t seem interested in arming themselves. But beware of the leader. He’s been seen whacking a tree, and his swing has grown accurate. And their caretaker, a bunch of pranksters, somehow managed to convince him to let them upgrade the handle with thick ropes so the duck can grip it better with his bill.”

The onlookers shared more nervous grins, exchanging glances with one another. The ducks had just become even more threatening, both to the enemy and to themselves.

But the beasts were more than mere silly distractions. Even during a siege, they had a role to play. Their participation in night patrols worked wonders for the men’s morale. Their presence lifted much of the burden from the tedious and monotonous task of patrolling the barricades around the hill.

Originally, each section of the encirclement was guarded by a group roughly a dozen men strong, positioned within shouting distance of the next. This meant many groups were required to secure the hill, and most of them slept rough along the foothills. After the ducks joined the patrols, areas that had once required three or four groups could be covered by a single enlarged group supported by four ducks and their riders.

That meant far fewer men needed to sleep rough at night just to man the barricades.

The effect they brought had been significant. More men were able to rest, and well-rested men were essential for maintaining morale, especially during a prolonged siege.

But soon, devastating news would reach them.

Sir Harold, having returned to the camp only a few hours before supper, scratched his head after receiving the report about the duck eating incident.

“Saint Candidates?” he asked, uncertainty coloring his tone.

“Yes, Sir. Two. The third one, a young boy, escaped.”

Sir Harold withheld comment and simply asked his staff, “And where are they now?”

“We’ve pulled them out,” the vice answered.

Sir Harold nodded his approval. “Take me to them.” He then turned and headed out.

Within minutes, they were walking toward the duck pen at the far corner of the camp, near the palisade wall.

When he saw them, his curiosity was piqued. “Why are some of them wearing helmets?”

“The riders said they put them on so it’s easier for everyone to know which ones are the human eaters.”

“Wait, the helmet fits?” one of the older staff could not resist asking.

“They modified some broken horse helmets, cut away the lower part, and widened the top to make it into a large kettle helm,” the vice answered.

Sir Harold snorted, amused. “It’s amazing what the men can do when they put their minds to it.”

He stepped up to the wooden fence, and the riders and the caretaker on duty quickly approached. “Sir,” no fewer than four men greeted at once.

“Are these the ones that ate the Saint Candidates?” Sir Harold asked, his tone casual.

The men turned to one of the riders, who nodded, “These two with the helmets,” he confirmed.

“What evidence do you have aside from the mumblings of a young boy?” Sir Harold observed the two ducks as they behaved perfectly normal, neither drooling nor fixing their human caretakers with any predatory gaze.

“We found bones, so this was not their first time. Likely two men attempted to smuggle through two days ago, but the ducks caught them, and now no one is alive to tell the tale. However, I do recall that two days ago, two ducks refused to eat their meals. This morning, these two refused to eat as well.”

Sir Harold let out a long exhale, then said to his staff, “Break the news that the ducks ate smugglers last night, but say nothing about Saint Candidates. Say it happened in the dark and that no one knew because the ducks caught the intruders on their own.”

The vice then spoke. “I suggest that we also say that all men were accounted for. Nobody is missing. We should also present the clothing of the eaten men as evidence.”

“Do we have those?”

“Yes. The men secured several large scraps of clothing, enough to be identified as Monastery men’s clothing.”

“Then do so.” Sir Harold turned to his other staff. “Now, how is the questioning of the young boy going?”

“We asked for Lady Valerie’s assistance, but she wished to consult Lady Clementine first,” answered one of the officers, a member of the Orange Skald.

Sir Harold nodded. “Of course. I shall inform her myself.”

“Sir,” one of the riders called out, hesitation clear in his voice, “are we to be punished?”

Sir Harold met his gaze and asked, “Did you, at any point, join the ducks and eat a Saint Candidate’s flesh?”

“Of course not, Sir.”

“Then how could I blame you?” Sir Harold replied firmly. “These ducks are clever. This time, the fault is not yours. But if something like this happens again, responsibility will fall on you.”

The riders bowed their heads, their shoulders easing as the threat of punishment lifted from them. “Gratitude, Sir.”

“Carry on,” Sir Harold said, turning away as he left the duck pen with his staff.

The matter was considered settled. Soon, news of the night attack had spread through the camp, and many laughed at how brutally the ducks had dealt with the smugglers. A few were concerned, but not about the ducks that had eaten the men. Instead, they worried that the smugglers had managed to slip through in the first place. Without the ducks, there might have been attempts that even the guards could not have caught.

Despite the wide range of reactions, most views were favorable toward the ducks. No one openly expressed fear of them, trusting that the animals were smart enough to know who to attack. That blind, almost naive trust carried its own risks, but the command staff accepted it, knowing that the alternative would only cause delay to their preparation.

 

***

 

Monastery Complex

Four days had passed since the inner sanctum sent three Saint Candidates to break the blockade. Inside the walls, against everyone’s expectations, the situation had grown dire in just a few nights. Even at the high ranking Candidates’ breakfast table, the meal had become paltry. There was only watered oats. No fat, no cheese in the gruel. Not even carrots, onions, or turnips, not even dried berries to accompany the meal. The oats were not even properly cooked, as firewood was being conserved for winter.

The conditions among the recruits and the wider congregation were certainly poorer. They ate barley or rye gruel, or bread made from ground tree bark.

The cause was simple. The merchants had truly stopped coming. Nothing passed through the blockade. Not even firewood was allowed in.

Yet that much had been expected. What they had not expected was the Saint Candidates’ failure. Four nights had passed, and still nothing appeared. No satchel of flour, no cheese, no wrapped package of salted meat thrown over the barricades for the watchers to collect.

Whispers spread among the silver-hemmed. They did not believe the Saint Candidates were simply failing. Not even the Black Lord possessed enough mages to guard the entire hill. And they knew there were several steep approaches his men did not bother to cover, paths considered impassable to ordinary men.

Thus, the Saint Candidates’ failure to return was both concerning and deeply suspicious. Uniquely, they refused to believe the Saint Candidates had been captured. That left only one other possibility, the unthinkable. Such whispers spread quietly among the upper echelon.

An aging, white-browed man, the vice to the Caretaker, found himself cornered by his peers in a secluded corner. “Brothers, let us be patient for one more night. They have to return, unless you truly believe they could be captured like some common men.”

The silver-haired man did not budge. “But there is another possibility. One other than capture.”

“You suggest they surrendered themselves?” the white-browed man asked bluntly.

There was no immediate reply until a calmer voice answered, “Our brother merely voiced what you are also thinking.”

Quickly, the silver-haired man added, “I would say the suspicion is justified.”

The vice exhaled slowly.

“What we ask of you is to speak to the Caretaker,” the silver-haired man pressed.

“About what? This nonsense?” he replied, his expression half a scowl.

“No. About what we pleaded for the other nights.”

The white-browed man’s face turned stern, as if offended. Still, he nodded once. “If the situation demands it, then the Caretaker and I shall consider it."

The two bowed their heads, and the vice walked away.

The proposal was nothing less than the removal of the believers, who numbered at least a thousand. Since the Saint refused to do so, they planned to deceive them into marching toward the garrison, hoping to force the camp to lift the siege. The camp was unlikely to yield to such demands. Thus, the people would be armed, driven into fury, and incited to fight.

Many would certainly die. It would be a massacre. Yet any outcome would still serve the Monastery. They could easily deny responsibility, claiming that the people were not under their command and had simply attacked out of desperation, driven by hunger caused by the siege.

Despite the certainty of bloodshed, the silver-hemmed accepted this as a solution. To them, the Monastery was everything. The believers were not. At present, with the Lord’s army playing the long game to starve them out, the believers had little value beyond being hungry mouths to feed. They had failed to fulfill their usefulness and were to be removed from the picture. It was not as if they would ever run out of the sick, the poor, and the needy.

For the scribes, clerks, and clerics that made up the Candidates, the siege would be a harsh and grinding path, but the end was all but certain. The hill, the vast walled complex built to withstand attack, and the well-trained, fanatical guards gave them confidence.

And if the Lord demanded satisfaction, they could always point to the Living Saint and her close cronies. Despite her magic, she had failed to live up to their expectations.

 

***