Horizon of War Series-Chapter 249: Horns in the Dark

Horns in the Dark

Canardia Outskirts

A large-built man, the leader of the local brigands, entered the woodsman’s cabin where a lone minstrel played his gittern. The brigand glanced left and right before ordering his men to wait outside. He strode forward and sat across from the musician. In a deep voice, he asked, “What do you want, and how do you know the words?”

Smiling without pausing his playing, the minstrel replied, “I know many interesting people. One of them recommended I come to you.”

The burly man with thick arms and broad shoulders snorted in disapproval. “You have my attention. Speak up before I draw my blade and make you regret wasting my time.”

Abruptly, the minstrel stopped playing and spoke in a formal tone, "I come under the auspices of House Lansius, through the office of Sir Omin."

The brigand’s eyes widened, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensed as he asked, “How do I know you’re the real deal and not someone making a fool of me?”

“My word should be evidence enough,” the minstrel said calmly.

The man exhaled heavily. “Even if I trust you, what do you want from me?”

“Simple. I want your men to leave the arena.”

Shaking his head, the man crossed his arms, revealing scars from countless fights. “I can’t,” he said firmly. “Someone wants them there.”

“The people who hired your muscle will be rounded up tomorrow,” the minstrel explained evenly. “It’s best to pocket half the payment and leave in peace.”

Unshaken by the minstrel’s words, the man countered, “And what if I wanted to let Midlandia be Midlandia again?”

The minstrel chuckled. "So that’s the cause they’ve sold you? To settle for any leader, as long as he's a Midlandian?"

He let out a short snort. "It's as good as any."

“Tell you what,” the minstrel proposed. “Withdraw from the arena for now. If in two days nothing happens, you can return. Say you were seeking food, and your wealthy employer would raise no suspicion.”

The leader stroked his chin, contemplating.

In a sweet, persuasive voice, the minstrel added, “You risk nothing, and you avoid the Lord of Midlandia’s wrath.”

The man finally nodded and said, "I'll think about it."

"That's all I ask," the minstrel said, placing five silver coins on the table.

Furrowing his brow, the man asked, "What are five silver coins supposed to do?"

"Inspect them under the lantern light. You'll see they're different."

At his words, the leader picked up a coin and examined it. He immediately noticed the unusual design: ridged edges, a rounder and fuller shape, and new wording. "In memory of the passing of the Third Imperium," he read aloud.

"You know what that means," the minstrel teased.

"The House controls the silvers," the man mumbled, not quite believing it himself.

The minstrel’s lips curved into a practiced neutral smile. "You’d do well to support the House of Blue and Bronze. Not even this riot, or the loss of several cities, will change the course of things. So lend us your cooperation, or someone else will, and you’ll regret missing this opportunity for the rest of your life."

Turning his head slightly to think, the burly man hesitated before protesting, "But the lord has shown great dislike toward men like me. He’s more likely to cut off my hands than clasp them."

"Because you've been preying on commoners. You don't have to." The minstrel's tone turned even more persuasive. "Become his enforcer, and you’ll be part of the new order."

He narrowed his eyes. "Enforcer?"

"You'll be sponsored. And the job? Keeping the market clear of pickpockets, punishing charlatans, removing violent drunkards, and dealing with men who steal another man's wife or daughter. There are places where you could serve as the bailiff’s man in the shadows. And your service will be appreciated."

The leader began to nod without realizing. Unlike many of his comrades, he could see the long-term benefit.

"Appreciated, you say..."

"Indeed," the minstrel replied with unquestionable confidence.

There were flickers of doubt, and the man's shoulders remained tense. "I'll trust it after I meet this Sir of yours. He should’ve reached out to me sooner."

"Then, are you willing to withdraw your men?" the minstrel asked.

"Temporarily," he replied in a low voice. "And we never had this discussion."

"I'm just a traveling minstrel, selling songs for drinks and coins." He picked up his gittern and began to play a tune as the burly man stood and made his way to the door.

Strumming his gittern to hide his sigh of relief, he thought of his comrades elsewhere and prayed to the Ancients that they too would find success, as he had.

Earlier, in desperation, Sir Omin had tasked every available agent with shadowing and initiating contact with any hired muscle or brigand involved in the riot. The agents had been placed in the arena as the House’s eyes and ears, so some groundwork had already been laid. Still, it was a gamble, and they were risking their cover.

Yet when the Lord’s instruction finally arrived, carried by the famed half-breed, the Orange Skalds made their move without hesitation. He had pulled it off. The more hired swords they managed to stir, the more chaos they would cause.

Just before the man opened the door, the minstrel said, "You might not be interested, but I have another proposal."

The man turned, his gaze calculating. "I'm listening."

***

Canardia Outskirts

The sun had already set, and torches and lanterns were lit. The scene inside and outside the arena was chaotic. An old squire rushed toward a particular house, accompanied by a large group of men. They carried a litter bearing a groaning man, his eyes bandaged from an alchemist’s weapon.

Their movement drew the attention of a group of armed men guarding the farmland where the house stood.

"Who's there?" they challenged.

"Make way for Sir Bielstein," the old squire snapped, and the armed men quickly stepped aside.

As the squire and his men hurried to the house, a few of the guards stayed behind.

"Brother, what’s the commotion?" one asked as they settled back around the wooden fence near their bonfire.

"Who’s hurt?" another added.

"One of the knights, and many more," the newcomer said, pausing to chug from his waterskin.

"That’s not good," one of them muttered, concern creeping into his voice.

"Things will get lively," the man replied, careful not to reveal the one-hour threat, as he had been instructed.

"The Saint will show the way," one of the armed men remarked, a sentiment echoed by many others.

Only then did the newcomer realize there were hundreds of the monastery’s followers gathered there, sitting or sleeping in the open with nothing but coarse cloaks and gambesons serving as mattress and blanket.

He squinted and looked around, spotting dozens of similar bonfires scattered across the farmland. This was, without a doubt, the stronghold of the Saint’s followers.

Not far from there, the old squire reached the house. This time, the guards outside knocked and waited until they were granted entry.

"What happened?" Sir Hohendorf asked, standing by the door as the group brought a man inside on a litter.

The old squire simply replied, "It's Sir Bielstein."

Sir Hohendorf's eyes lit up as he stepped closer and recognized the man’s uniform and face, even with a cloth covering his eyes. It was his second-in-command. "Bielstein, it can't be."

But the man didn’t answer, only mumbling in a garbled tongue, his face drenched in sweat, his nostrils and mouth leaking thick fluids.

The old man drank from a flagon handed to him by his aide and said, "They told me it was a white miasma, likely one of the alchemist’s weapons directed at him."

Hohendorf stared at the old man. "Then they know?"

"How should I know? Nobody—" He stopped, recalling his priorities. "Look, there are more important matters."

"Go on," said a woman's voice as she entered. Draped in purple and lit by lanterns, her skin seemed to radiate.

"Your Reverence," the men greeted her with lowered heads.

She walked with grace toward Sir Hohendorf. She stopped beside him and addressed the old squire with calm authority. "Speak your piece."

"The Lord's half-beast gave a warning," the old squire began his report. "Leave the arena and head west or east, or be annihilated within the hour."

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"One hour warning?" Sir Hohendorf blurted out, taken aback.

"It must be a ruse. He has no army to challenge us, not today, not tomorrow," the Saint Candidate said calmly. She then gestured for the others to leave.

They did so, leaving the two knights, the squire, and the Saint Candidate inside.

The squire spoke first, turning to the commander. "What do you plan to do?"

Sir Hohendorf looked to the Saint Candidate. "I think it's a lie."

"What else could it be?" she agreed. "We just received the scheduled report. The men saw no large movements toward us on the road."

"Could they be missing something?" the old squire asked.

"Do you question my agents' credibility?" the woman replied with a smile, prompting the old squire to lower his gaze.

"My apologies," he said hastily.

"None needed. But in case you're still unsure, I doubt anyone would miss an armed group marching toward them, especially if their lives were on the line."

The old squire nodded, thoughtfully.

"If it's a lie, then we'll fight lies with honesty," Sir Hohendorf smirked, finding it poetic.

"What do you want us to do? I'll relay it to the groups under us," the old squire offered.

"And I'll command the followers to do the same," said the Saint Candidate.

"Tell them the truth. The Lord has only a few hundred, which is why he hides behind his camp walls. His main army is five days away. But in three days, we’ll retake everything and send these Lowlandians marching toward the Eastern Kingdoms, to be sold as slaves for the disruption and dishonor they brought upon us."

***

Camp West of Canardia

Dame Daniella had crafted a makeshift map on the long table at Lansius' request. The process reminded the former Nicopolan Mercenary of one of her brothers, who had enjoyed similar things, building miniatures from paper and glue. It was a nobleman's pastime, as paper, even the coarse and thick kind, was not cheap. Beside her, one of her staff relayed the latest information from the scouts outside, allowing her to place small pebbles on the map to represent groups of rioters.

A commotion was heard outside before Sterling entered and announced, "You stand in the presence of the Lord of Midlandia!"

Dame Daniella, along with the captains and lieutenants in the room, stood straight. Each held their helmet in one hand as they gathered around the long table.

Soon after, Lord Lansius entered, accompanied by Francisca, who had just returned from her mission, and an inconspicuous man in dirty traveling cloaks. Only the close retinue recognized him for what he likely was: a high-ranking Orange Skald.

The Lord took command, standing beside the makeshift map as he addressed his officers. "Gentlemen, for this battle, the main column will not be divided. We’ll move as one. Otherwise, we won’t have the strength to strike them hard. There will be several other groups supporting this, but they’ll operate independently, and you need not concern yourselves with them."

His officers nodded in acknowledgment. Their faces were tense, but showed no fear.

Some glanced at the man in cloaks, who returned a silent, acknowledging nod.

Lord Lansius continued, pointing to the miniature arena Dame Daniella had constructed, richly illuminated by lanterns on the walls and a gemstone of light hanging above. "The men inside are foolhardy, likely monastery followers. There are thousands of them. But we don’t need to deal with them."

Several officers showed signs of wanting to ask, but waited patiently.

He gestured toward the area outside the arena and explained, "The men out there are the real danger. They’re clever enough to position themselves so they can escape if we launch a full assault, leaving their allies to die. These will be the nobles' retainers, merchants' hired swords, and the Saint’s hardened followers, so expect them to be better trained than the ones inside."

"However," he added, "they will not expect a major assault, and most will likely break under pressure. The question is how much pressure is needed."

The Lord gave it some thought before continuing, "Francisca has confirmed they have yet to build barricades and remain uncertain whether the attack will come from one of the roads leading into the city. They suspect a relief force may arrive from neighboring towns. So even with the large difference in numbers, our assault might disorient them and allow us to make our move, especially under the cover of darkness. Our real concern is our troops' stamina and endurance."

His officers responded at once. "The Korelians are ready!"

"White Lake riders at your side."

"We of Korimor will not falter."

"The Nicopolans will show our loyalty once more!"

"Order us as you see fit, My Khan," said the proud nomadic warriors, confidently.

"My Lord, we await your command," the camp commander said with utmost confidence.

Lord Lansius looked at his officers, pleased, as he continued, "Keep in mind, I suspect there are additional forces in hiding. That's what I would do if I were leading a rebellion. I would place them somewhere I could stockpile supplies in large quantities without drawing attention, such as in the surrounding farmland. They will guard those areas carefully, because if they don't, the rioters might cause trouble for them as well."

He drew a breath and added, "What concerns me is the possibility that these forces might join the fight and overwhelm us. But I doubt they would make their move in the dark and risk everything. More likely, they’ll stay put and act in the morning."

"And what will happen to them in the morning?" the camp commander asked.

"They’ll find half of their allies gone, the other half trapped in the arena. We can threaten to burn it if they don’t back down. So, my bet is they’ll flee, having lost the numbers needed to riot," the Lord answered. "If not, then I'll lead fresh troops from the castle along with the militia to even the odds."

His officers seemed to find the odds acceptable and raised no objection.

Watching them, the Lord declared, "Then hear my order."

His men straightened up.

"As a precaution against these hidden forces, Francisca will scout ahead along with the SAR units we have on horseback. They should be able to identify and warn us if those forces move against us."

"Acknowledged," Francisca said firmly.

"As for the crowd in the arena, we'll rely on our men who have already infiltrated the area through a hidden construction access to lock the gates. That should buy us enough time to strike the group outside, sow confusion, and make our move to establish effective control. If we prove too tough and costly to break, they’ll likely abandon the fight. However, this will only happen if we can separate the group inside the arena from those outside. If not, they’ll enjoy such numerical superiority that we won’t be able to match them. Separation, then, will be key to this plan."

"But the gates won't hold for long against that many," the camp commander said.

"I know. That's why it's crucial we make our move quickly. I've consulted with the guildsmen who fled here. According to them, the inner corridors and narrow choke points can be sealed and defended with as few as a hundred crossbowmen and pikemen. Also, the alchemist bottles will be useful in an emergency."

The Lord then allowed his officers to study the map and speak quietly among themselves.

Only after their discussion ended did he say, "It's a pity we can’t bring this crowd to justice. But since we’re going to hit them hard, it will be similar to trial by combat."

His officers nodded and murmured their agreement.

Noticing the Lord had finished, the camp commander asked, "Would that be all, My Lord?"

Lansius replied, "That’ll be all."

The camp commander turned to the officers. "Prepare your troops."

The officers headed outside and began forming their contingents. There were only two hundred of them, but all were veterans and full-time soldiers.

Inside, the Lord was donning the last pieces of his armor with Sterling’s help.

Daniella couldn't contain her concern any longer and addressed him, "My Lord, pardon my doubt, but are you sure the numbers will work? Even after the threats, our scouts reported likely more than four to six thousand inside the arena, and a similar number outside."

"Dame, this is just the broad strategy. The details are what will determine the outcome," Lansius replied calmly as Sterling handed him the best sallet they could find in the camp. It was a long-tailed sallet with a full face visor, accompanied by a neck protective bevor.

Lansius put it on to complete the borrowed plate armor, checked the hinges, then said, "Let's go. We have a battle to join."

Dame Daniella followed them outside, where hundreds stood in formation beneath the glow of torches and lanterns. She slowly realized there was more to the plan than she had understood. Among the assembled were refugees from the city fire, now standing armed and ready, each holding a long torch. They alone accounted for another three to four hundred men, willing to fight for the benevolent lord who had provided food, medicine, and shelter for their families in their time of need.

They were as good as levied troops. There were also numerous other groups, each seemingly assigned a specific task. Some were mounted, others managed horse-drawn carts. In just one hour, the Lord had orchestrated a layered operation with staggering precision, using only the resources available in this camp.

Dame Daniella’s lips quivered slightly in surprise, and a line of sweat formed at her temple as she grasped the depth of the Lord’s preparations. Though she considered herself part of his inner retinue, she had known next to nothing about the assets and coordination he had quietly assembled.

She had faced Lord Lansius before. She had admired his capabilities, but this was the first time she truly saw the full and terrifying potential of his might.

"All this in under an hour," she muttered to herself, still in disbelief, as another hundred torches lit the darkness and the assault force completed its final preparations.

In the glow of torchlight, Daniella saw their faces: Fearless, inspired, proud.

It struck her that the Lord had led them through everything the fall of the Imperium had brought. Their trust in him was nearly absolute.

The way they looked at the Lord was unmistakable. It was the same devotion Sergio’s men had shown on the fields of Korimor.

As if struck by a sudden chill despite her brigandine, Daniella clutched herself, realizing that what she had known of Lord Lansius' capabilities only have been a glimpse. His true might could run far deeper than she had imagined. A man who would crush twenty thousand with only a few hundred. Not for glory, nor for vengeance, but for the simple and terrible purpose of going home to meet his wife and witness the birth of their first child.

"Mercy," her lips parted in a quiet whisper, meant for those outside who were now doomed to face the terrible consequences of their choice.

...

Without warning, the camp gate swung open, startling the multiple groups of rioters stationed nearby. Cries of alarm rang out, mingled with boastful challenges as groups of several hundred scrambled to their feet, seizing spears and the few crossbows they had hidden. Aware of the Lord’s threat of attack, they were prepared. And unlike the rest of the rioters, who had to scavenge for food, they had eaten and were in fighting shape.

"Assume formation!" the rioters' group leaders shouted, one after another.

At this point, they had discarded any pretense of being peaceful rioters and were unafraid to reveal themselves openly as rebels.

Many group leaders were there at the behest of nobles from the twelve old cities of Midlandia. These cities alone housed more than two million souls and possessed significant power and influence. Combined with the monastery, they had no shortage of money or manpower. This rebellion was the culmination of months of effort smuggling weapons and key personnel to newly bought inconspicuous farmlands near Canardia. They also sent vague contracts to local brigands, inviting them to join the weeklong festivities, hiding amid the twenty thousand spectators who had come from dozens of lesser cities, hundreds of towns, and villages all over Midlandia.

Three groups of about four hundred were positioned along the road leading to the camp, forming a blockade. Together, more than a thousand rose, but fire bottles and flaming arrows immediately landed among them. The air quickly thickened with the acrid stench of burning tallow, rock oil, and scorched rags. What followed sent them groaning in pain as sharpened steel bolts rained down with merciless precision.

The Lord's famous crossbowmen had launched their opening salvos.

Groaning and clutching their wounded limbs, tens, then hundreds of rioters fled in terror, knowing the assault had truly begun. The thought that they had bitten off more than they could chew lingered in everyone's mind.

"Get into position!" their group leader shouted in desperation.

But what came next drained blood from their faces.

The ground trembled, the only warning before the Lowlandian heavy cavalry charged straight at their lines with couched lances. The pounding hooves, the warhorses’ labored breathing, and the glint of polished armor drew every eye. Gasps spread through the ranks as beams of lantern light, fixed to their barding, swept over the crowd. For many rioters whose instinct was to stand rather than flee, the bright flash from the oil lamp’s reflector was the last thing they ever saw.

With a murderous crash, the heavy cavalry slammed into the crowd. Amid the swirling dust in the dark, men were impaled, blood gushed, and guts spilled. The first to fall didn’t scream. The rest did. Those not struck head-on were tossed or flung aside, crashing to the ground with bleeding heads or broken bones.

The ranks behind screamed for their comrades to flee as those in front were trampled beneath the destriers’ powerful hooves. The beasts snorted and heaved, their breath ragged with excitement and a hunger for more. Inside the carnage, the riders dropped their splintered lances and drew their swords, swinging in sharp, brutal arcs as they cut down the mob with ruthless efficiency, all in service of their Lord.

As they breached the formation, the leading rider shouted, "The one-hour grace has ended! All who remain outside are traitors. Kill on sight!"

His riders answered with sharp war cries and charged after those fleeing for their lives.

Nervous tension rose among the broader formation of rioters who had yet to engage. Visibility was poor, and the group leaders commanding the second and third 400 strong columns froze. They needed coordination or risk advancing and trampling their own allies. But the sudden charge of heavy cavalry had already shattered the center.

Amid the chaos, a few managed to rally the tens under their command and rushed to support their allies, but another blast of war cries drowned them out as hundreds more marched from the camp, their trumpets and bugles overwhelming all other sound.

Hundreds may have fallen in the opening clash, but the rioters’ main force of three thousand, waiting nearby, had now been roused. Further away, another force of a thousand had also been alerted. The battle for the arena had only just begun.

***

* Starting with this chapter, future chapters will include battle maps, sometimes two per chapter, to show troop movements. I really wish you can join my Patreon to enjoy the full benefits. For this chapter only, I’ve set Chapter 249 on Patreon free (for all members <> free to join) as a sample, so you can see what it looks like (link below).

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