Kapitel 114: The Battle of Lys Part two.
The smoldering crackles and pops of burning wood were only broken by the occasional shouts of men or sharp cracks of rifle fire as the Marines of Dragon stone made their way through the wreckage of the Lyseni waterfront. What had once been large wood and clay warehouses now lay in broken and smoldering mounds of rubble, whatever their content had been, it had not escaped the fire unharmed.
The marine coughed at the stupid smoke that kept trying to fill his lungs.
Sargent Durn had been on one of the first boats ashore, following closely behind the gleaming form of Lord Stannis Baratheon, who made his way through the wreckage of the city with a grim and purposeful march. Their orders were fairly simple, establish a beachhead, and prepare to land more men and cannons, so as to drive the enemy further into the city and eventually take it.
Thus far it had been easy. What scattered defenders had remained were either shot where they stood or forced to flee by the oncoming troops, their bullets easily punching through the lamellar armor that the Volantene footman wore.
It was too easy, in Durn's opinion at least. Wasn't much glory in it as far as he could tell, but then he supposed he wasn't a knight, so the glory would be going to his unit instead of him, nothing like the stories.
Ah, but Lord Stannis, he was like the stories, in his pretty armor with his gleaming sword, man could have been the mirror shield come again for all he looked the part. The man led them into the city with little fanfare, but once inside he proved how competent he was, with the two or three-hundred landing Marines easily establishing a perimeter in the ruined and distinctly unpleasant structures.
He coughed again. The sooner they could push on into the city, the better.
Durn glanced back towards the water, where light cannons were already being dragged through the gaps in the wall by mules, the artillery corps doing their part for the moment. Along with them came the soldiers from the rest of the fleet, men at arms and knights and the like from the Vassals of Dragonstone.
He smiled at the sight. It was about time that they actually started doing their jobs, and that was only the first wave of them.
With that support, Lord Stannis might let them out of this goddamned smoke.
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Aegyr scratched at his chin as messengers continued to deliver reports. It seemed that the Westerosi King's younger brother, Stannis Baratheon, was leading the men who were currently pushing into the city proper. A problem to be sure, as by all accounts the man was a renowned soldier and some claimed he was marching in armor made of Valerian Steel, an item of colossal expense. One which Aegyr might yet claim for himself, given some luck.
Unfortunately, he simply didn't have the men to spare to deal with him. Half of his forces were occupied on Turtle Island driving off the Braavosi attackers who were currently attempting to land on the island.
Even that, he might concede, could prove futile, the Braavosi had committed perhaps a quarter of their men to the action.
His eyes moved towards his own fleet, only now beginning to finish up the remaining sell-sails, and not without themselves having taken considerable losses.
There were simply too many foes, and not enough forces at his disposal, even now it seemed that the whole city would be rising against him at any moment.
He sighed, the wind was not as he had hoped, but then, when was it ever?
"Send the signal Aemon. It's our last gamble."
"Yes, sir."
He felt the gears and mechanisms of the tower begin to shift once again as the mirrors rotated, redirecting the light of the sun towards the waterfront district outside the city, and the bay as a whole. The trap would have to be sprung, even if the conditions were not as favorable as he had hoped. The Tide was going out at least, so there was something to be said for it.
He sat up from his chair, nodding towards his retinue, then turning back towards Aemon, who was presently returning from the mirrors. "Wait a few minutes, and then order the fleet to swing around the island, cut off the Sealord's landing parties."
He reached for the sword at the side of his chair, an old relic of his family, purchased when Valyria still stood tall, he clasped the scabbard to his belt in earnest, the unnatural lightness of the blade allowing it to comfortably rest on his thigh. "I cannot afford to ain't for the enemy to storm this tower itself. I go now and marshal our men in the Temple-Square. We must drive the attackers from the city before they outnumber us."
His retinue stepped into tight formation behind him as he began the long descent from the stairs.
King's brother or not, the barbarians would have to be driven out before the Braavosi could move to support them.
Victory already seemed a fading hope, but let none say that he was a coward.
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The small boathouse was a minimalistic thing, tucked away in the smugglers-port outside of the city of Lys proper. Oh, its real name was just the lower waterfront, but everyone knew what usually went on there.
It provided a fairly good view of the Westerosi royal navy, which had, thankfully for the soldiers huddled there, ignored the largely abandoned section of town to focus on the walls.
It might just prove their undoing.
Oran for his part was crouched into the base of the wooden structure, glancing periodically up towards the lighthouse where Admiral Aegyr was commanding. That was where the signal would come from, presuming that it ever came.
"You think it's going to be soon?" Solius asked, and Oran had to roll his eyes, for the nervous young man had asked the same thing what felt like every minute.
Oran wasn't going to dignify it with a response anymore, only turning to glare out at the enormous vessels that filled the harbor. He rolled his shoulders carefully.
Then, he saw a glint in the corner of his eye, the lighthouse mirrors begging to turn his way.
"There," he said rolling up from his prone position. "That's it. Pass me the flint boy."
"Here." Solius quickly handed him the item, and he began to quickly strike it against the steel, showering the boat that was there only weapon's deck with sparks.
It took eight tries before the oil-soaked rags that covered it's surface ignited, begging to smoke and quickly spread, and with a mighty heave he shoved it out into the retreating water of the tide, to be carried by wind and wave into the Westerosi fleet. Hundreds of his compatriots would be doing the same with the other fishing boats of Lys, all along the bay and beyond. Most likely wouldn't reach their targets, but a fire amongst ships was deadly even if only one caught, to begin with, and there were enough of the same things that few were sure to reach their targets.
"What do we do now?" Solius asked, and Oran felt the urge to roll his eyes.
"Run for the hills of course. We don't want to be here when they land men after us."
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The fighting on Turtle Island was harsh. It was brutally harsh in fact. Enormous bales of hay were lit ablaze and rolled downhill towards the landing sellswords, arrows and crossbow bolts left wounded and injured men all across the slopes of the islands as the mercenary army of Braavosi attempted to seize control of the enormous villa complex at the center of the Isle.
Blood soaked the ground of orchards and vineyards where Volantene Spearman fought in tight-packed schiltrons, trying to push back the Braavosi advance, their leaders roaring orders over the din of battle.
It was into this hell that the Iron-Foot company marched, undaunted by the missiles that clattered against their broad heater-shields. They were armored better than most of the attacking forces, all in chainmail from old Andalos, and they moved with purposeful aggression in a manner long ago perfected in the petty wars of Essos.
They were like a great grey wolf, chewing up the helpless and immobile turtles of the Volantene defense until they finally reached the high plastered walls of the villa. The Volantenes hiding behind crude ramparts at its top, and raining down boiling water and chunks of masonry on their heads.
It killed a few of his men, he would not deny, but nowhere near enough to save them, and those that escaped it unharmed climbed the walls with an efficiency brought on by anger, getting in amongst the defenders and driving them to their graves. Kevin for his part was right there with them, cheering like a madman with the rest.
They were a tight-knit bunch after all. Mostly from the same few towns south of Braavos.
Fortunately, deprived of their walls and advantages, the Volantenes fled the Villa, retreating towards the coast. A good deal for him, since his orders were only to occupy it, and didn't take long at all for Big Jon to find the rich slaving fuck's Wine cellar, it's owner hiding in the city like a coward no doubt.
As he poured himself a goblet (and a fine goblet it was, mostly silver, he would be seeing it at the next opportunity) of the Lyseni brew, he turned his eyes back towards the Sealord's fleet and winced.
That…
That was more fire than he had anticipated. It must have spread while he was climbing the hill.
Indeed, it was not only the Sealord's, but the Westerosi ships as well, not the whole fleet, not on either account, but at least a few dozen ships on either account. The smoke rising in the distance even as the remaining Volantene fleet moved to engage.
It seemed that the battle had not yet been won, even if his island had.
Well, it had been as far as he was concerned. Kevin decided, reclining in his chair and watching the battle begin to unfold.
After all, his men didn't get paid extra for heroism.
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Aegyr cursed as yet another assault failed, the thundering blasts of the enemy weapons and sharp cracks of their crossbows giving off the telltale news that the assault had been discovered, and most likely foiled.
He had been at it for over an hour now, and his forces were depleting more quickly than he had hoped, all for little success, only a short breakthrough when he had filled the streets with men.
He stretched his back out, standing up from his seat, and cracking his neck, he turned to his bodyguard, and whatever other men remained in fighting shape.
"Men, I will lead the next charge personally." His eyes traced over the crowd. "I expect every one of you to follow me into battle. This will be our final push, lest they come and slaughter us here in our camp. We will drive them from the city, or we will die. I do not ask that you come happily, but I ask that you come nonetheless." He raised his shining blade into the air. "Now, who's with me?"
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"Fire" the shout went up, a loud cry. And it was followed by an enormous blast of small metal balls apparently called grapeshot, that tore through the lines of the oncoming Volantenes like so much chaff, sending limbs flying and punching straight through the armor that they wore as it spiraled down the road in a grotesque demonstration of firepower.
It was ironic, that his son's men shouted the same word to shoot their missiles as his men surely were in a panic at the rear end of the royal fleet. He grimaced from his position on one of the few standing sections of the eastern wall. It was late afternoon now, and the fires of several of his ships flickered red in the distance from the attacks of the Volantene Fire-Rafts.
They had thankfully only managed to catch a few of his vessels, not drifting into the core of his fleet, but that was still hundreds of good men lost, and perhaps a dozen vessels all to a despicable and poorly executed attack.
He grit his teeth, grinding them for just a moment before he was able to calm his nerves. At the very least none of the powder-bearing vessels had gone up, he could only imagine how much worse that might be. For his own part, the offensive in the city had stalled, mostly due to a renewed Volantene counterattack, that only now seemed to be winding down. His son's Marines had proven stellar soldiers in its repulsion, their rifles allowing them armor-piercing and deadly volleys, whole the cannons tore chunks in the ranks of any attempted assault with the numbers to weather their hailstorm of fire.
It had proven far more effective than he had anticipated. So much so that he himself hadn't needed to enter the combat outside of one small breach in their lines, and even that had not been strictly necessary, only a fulfillment of his duty to fight alongside his men.
'I wonder if Arthur knows their worth?' He mused idly as the gunfire began to die down.
"My Lord."
Stannis turned at the sound of Davos' voice, nodding towards the man to continue.
"The men have reported that the enemy general is dead. Cut down by grapeshot in one of the last barrages. They've recovered his sword sir, Valyrian steel."
Davos lifted the blade in a half torn scabbard, it held the clear rippling marks of the ancient metal. Where the shot had torn its scabbard in half, the blade didn't even show a dent.
The armor that Stannis wore suddenly felt a great deal safer than it had the moment before, perhaps when he returned to Dragonstone it would be appropriate to see just how much punishment the material could take.
He turned his mind back to the sword in front of him. He already had perhaps the greatest cache of the material in the known world, what was one more sword on top of the pile?
"You may keep it Ser Davos. You have served me dutifully for more than a decade now, and I have no need for more of them."
His second made a sort of choking sound, his eyes wide as he turned to look towards the blade with new eyes. Stannis could appreciate why. There was a time when he himself would have felt the same receiving a blade of the legendary material, but those days now sat far in the past.
"Th- thank you, My Lord. I will not forget this."
"Nor would I expect you to," Stannis said plainly. "However there is more to be done, did the men recover the Admiral's body?"
"Yes Lord, though it is quite mangled, the head is intact."
"Good, have some men prop it up on a pike. With any luck, we can force a surrender for the remaining men without any pointless bloodshed."
He turned his gaze towards the lighthouse, which now blazed in its beacon with a white-hot fire rather than the light of the setting sun.
"I'll need a squad of Marines as well, accompanying me to the lighthouse. I suspect the Sealord will thank me for ending the battle at sea before he takes any more losses."
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein