บท 40: Chapter XI: The Siege of Regalia [1]

FLANKED ON HIS sides by knights on bright purple cape and surcoat engraved with two swords crossed against each other, a stocky figure of a man stood atop a small hill, face distorted with a grimace and cheeks reddened with raging fury, whilst his eyes traced the tinge of red and orange flickering and his ears rang with the multitude of faint screams and cries from the gigantic walls hundreds of yards away in the distance. The man was known as the Marquis of Ruggleford, a noble often the subject of scorn and contempt even among his own soldiers and subjects, yet an object of fear nonetheless. On the base of the hill, a swarm of huts made from wood and straw and some dull colored tents were erected, encompassed by a palisade and wooden towers in all four sides, guarded by around a thousand grim-faced sentries, while their brethren fought tooth and nail to assault the seemingly impregnable city before them.

"My lord, that was the fourth ram they burned," regretfully remarked by one of the men escorting him as he look towards the assault in the city wall far off in the distance. By his sophisticated armor and the vivid colors of silk around his entire body, one can easily discern his rank as the general of a high-ranking noble. "At this rate, we would ran out of fresh materials to build other siege equipment. Our engineers are already pooling our meager resources to build the catapult you requested."

"Do you think I am stupid to not know that?!" the Marquis bawled in an unsuppressed anger. "Why cannot they breach that damn portcullis and wall, huh? We outnumber the defenders almost five to one, and yet we are suffering casualties left and right. Worthless piss-poor peasants! Useless slaves! And your own flimsy troops, General, their attack is an abysmal disappointment!"

"What do you expect with levies and ill-equipped troops?" another man mockingly said in an accented Veramunian tone. He was garbed in a thick gambeson and an iron cuirass with coif around his neck, bearing no apparent crests or any forms of noble heraldry whatsoever, as evidence of the nature of his profession that placed gold over honor, and greed over glory. There was, however, a strange pair of silver chains suspended upon his chest crossed against one another that served as a distinct feature that separated his and his men's appearance apart from the Rugglefordians. "They are practically just fodders. And then the men-at-arms, they are all gloomy and demoralized. It's as if they've eaten dung for breakfast."

"Shut it!" the Marquis quipped. "Your mercenaries fare no better. The northern wall is still intact and yet to receive even a scratch from your incompetent sellswords. I have heard how ruthless the Band of the Silver Chains were from the stories up north of the Empire, but it seems those tales were greatly exaggerated. What an utter waste of gold. You are all trash!"

"My lord, worry not," the general tried to reassure his liege the Marquis. "The supplies inside the city will dwindle and run low soon. And not too long after that, we can expect a surrender from them. I can already smell our victory, my lord. All the while the Duke is still unknowingly quarreling with filthy barbarians. The city will be yours in a matter of days."

"I hope you are right, General Castor, I surely hope…" Marquis Quillton muttered slowly in a threatening tone. "… lest you soon find your head impaled on a spike. And you, Captain Lucan, I want my gold's worth paid with your swords and spears doing its damn job! Or else I–"

The Marquis halted his menacing message as a sudden quake sent shivers down his spines, powerful enough to make some of his knights tumble on the spot. Puzzled by the occurrence, he was about to ask when a shout cleared up his questions.

"The Regalians are sallying forth!" a soldier yelled on top of his lungs, interrupting his speech and causing the Marquis along with his companions to tense up.

Suddenly, the Marquis felt a slight tremor on the earth, accompanied by sound of horse hooves in the distance, complimented by the shouts of orders from the officers of the Rugglefordian army, and shrieks of pain from sentries caught unaware of their impending doom. Soon, the camp erupted in an utter upheaval, chaos rampant among the men trying to make out of the situation, only to witness disorder.

"Men, t-to arms!" the general tried to yell, but his weak throat betrayed him. He instinctively glared upon the eastern gate of the city, only to find it still secured and locked, his soldiers dying at its fore and more men falling at its top as the defenders dislodged the siege ladders they were desperately trying to plant. "Where are they attacking?"

"The camp, my lord!" said the trembling voice of one of the knights. "The camp is in danger!"

"Curses and damnations," The Marquis uttered in spite. "Recall the cavalry from the field and get them to respond. Make it quick or I will personally cut off your heads."

"Yes, my lord!" yelled the knights in unison, saluting and bowing. Soon, all the men escorting him, the mercenary captain included, save for the general, hurriedly left in fear of their lives.

"Those Regalians…" the Marquis said, gritting his teeth. "Damn them! And where the hell is that old general when I most need him? Balmeister, damn you, too!"