chapter 4

The first bugle caused the seagulls to take flight. They scattered into the air cawing in alarm. Rylen continued to scan the enemy as they made preparations. The main gate would be the target of their main assault. The slope was at its most gentle and once taken there would be no time to stop the portcullis from being opened. The sacking of Duskendale would ensue and the last foothold in the Crownlands would be lost.

It was the second bugle that caught Rylen’s attention.

It came from the south. The blaring noise had everyone on edge. Most of his men were professional enough to stay alert at their posts. Marquello made sure the rest did likewise.

“Keep your eyes forward, or its one of my bolts you’ll see flying your way!” His second roared out.

Rylen marched from the main gate to the rear wall. He went swiftly but not so fast as to seem panicked. He patted his men on the back reassuringly as he went. He felt their resolve stiffen with the flat of his palm. He just wished he felt likewise.

The southern wall overlooked the town’s port below. It was mostly deserted now. The traders vacated when the siege began. The local fishermen too for the most part. Though a few could be seen casting their nets by the shore in the distance. The others would be back once the dust settled and the gates to the town reopened. Regardless of who opened them. Commerce and conflict were as night and day. One always seemed to follow the other.

Rylen arrived to hear the sound of a winch being turned and iron scraping against stone. For a second he feared that the main gate had been opened in his absence, but it came from the dun fort. He arrived atop the back gate to see its gate wide open. Either side, white sheets bellowed in the wind as they hung from the parapets.

“Never thought I would live to see the mighty dun lift her skirt so cheaply.” He heard Duncan complain to his men.

Of the four walls the southern had the steepest incline. As such it was the easiest to defend. Because of this he had stationed the bulk of Duncan’s men here. Rylen and the others would do the lion’s share of the fighting.

The dun fort was built equidistance between the town and the port. Its large grey watch tower oversaw both simultaneously. Riders could be dispatched to either site quickly enough if needed. Its thick walls and battlements could withstand almost anything that crashed against them. It was also a place of refuge it the worst was ever to happen. Unfortunately the worst was upon them. And the town’s bastion was now out of reach.

Several hundred soldiers waited outside the raised gate. Banners sporting the flayed wolf dotted among them. A score of riders made up their vanguard. Rylen spotted Gryff, similarly mounted. His arrogant posture he could spot a mile away.

To Gryff’s right was a much older man. His hair was greyer, thinner version of his younger counterpart. He appeared uncomfortable in armour that looked to be ill fitted, especially around his wide girth. Rylen guessed him to be the older Whitehill. At the head of all of these was none other than Roose Bolton himself.

Even from this distance Rylen recognised the man. He too sat atop a handsome mount. Around his shoulders was a dark grey pelt, his back remained stiff and upright in the morning breeze. His hands were gloved in leather and held onto the reins, ready to spur on. He was an impressive figure despite not being especially tall. His hair was short cropped and looked to contain none of the grey hairs that had begun to plague Rylen.

What struck the sellsword captain more was how the man never drifted his gaze from the dun. The fact that he was in attendance at all was testament to the stature of the prize. Those inside would be a mere appetiser.

Not long after the portcullis was raised a third horn sounded out. Like the one before it came from within the gateway. Rylen and the others watched as the inhabitants strode out solemnly. At their head was the potato knight. His cheeks as red as the day he rode into Duskendale. Not for the first time Rylen wished he had sent the fat oaf packing that fateful morning. Not only was the dun lost to them, but the sight of its timid surrender was sure to sap the morale of the remaining defenders.

In lines of two his retinue followed suit. They threw their weapons to the ground outside the entrance. After they cleared the gate Roose motioned to his men to take them into custody. This they did with a cold efficiency, mirroring their liege lord. The prisoners were marched off back to the enemy camp. Their only hope was left in the negotiations of men in loftier stations. Rylen doubted they would ever see home again.

Most of Bolton’s forces remained, along with the elder Whitehill. Those two would likely take up residence, no doubt sick of canvassing for a roof and a wooden cot for a bed. Lionel remained also. It appeared that the flayed man expected more of an offering from the dun. Lionel’s nervousness seemed to grow the more he spoke.

Gryff spurred his horse forward and came between the two. The flank of his mount almost knocked the plump knight to the floor. He spoke something to the man he served before riding with a dozen soldiers into the dun.

Within moments women’s screams could be heard.

“That b*****d dares to put his hands upon the lady and her maidens. Open the gates now and I’ll have his head on a spike!” Duncan called out in a fit of rage.

Some of his men cheered their support and openly encouraged the idea. They all knew how to break up drunken brawls and deliver a beating. But this was a different beast altogether. None of them had taken a man’s life before, not in battle anyway. Duncan seemed determined to find some glory before retirement. Rylen had no choice but to use what tools he had at his disposal.

“Hear hear Duncan!” He called out himself. Some of the guards turned his way, still sceptical of him.

Undeterred, Rylen continued.

“See your enemy. See how they spit upon your town and heritage. They would drag the fair lady Rykker from her ancestral home as if she were a common beggar. Watch and see them for the villains they are!” Rylen exclaimed as he swept the landscape with his arm.

What he did not tell them is that he would have done the same thing had he been besieging the town. Then again some things were best left unsaid.

Regardless it appeared to strike a chord. Instead of sapping their will to fight, the guards began to fire themselves up. Duncan seemed pleased as he grasped his men by the shoulders.

 They soon began to jeer upon seeing their lady Rykker, looking less than fair, dragged from the fort. Her handmaidens continued to scream and kick and drag their legs. A cuff to the head put an end to their defiance and shocked them to quiet sobbing. The servants were lead out at spear point. They walked in sombre silence, mimicking the lady they served and the children she held onto. The last to be evicted was none other than Lionel’s young squire, Simon.

The red haired adolescent was also dragged out. Held by soldiers either side of him. His cheek looked to be swollen and his eyes blackened from blows he took back in the keep. At least one of them had decided to fight Rylen surmised. Simon gave no resistance as he was thrown down next to Lionel. Submission had been beaten into him. For his part the fat knight simply shook his head and wiped his brow. His role in the war was over.

The handmaidens and servants were escorted back to camp. The lady too. She at least was allowed to hold onto her children. This she did with a tight grip and as regally as she could muster. A boy and a girl and neither older than a handful of years. Lady Rykker remained resolute for their sake, as any good mother would. Rylen admired that about her.

“Now’s there’s a woman, if ever there was one. I’ll pray to the mother for you and your children. The seven favour the righteous and graceful alike. And we have both of those, even if we don’t have the numbers.” Duncan spoke out.

Those around him murmured their approval.

It was Rylen’s experience that the divine tended to favour the larger, better equipped army. Again he decided this was not a thought worth sharing.

Instead he watched as the remaining battalion marched into the dun, completing the transfer of ownership. Roose cantered leisurely into his new accommodation. Just before he reached the gate he turned towards the town’s battlement. His gaze suggested that he expected Duskendale to fly the flayed banner by the day’s end.

Duncan and a few of the others spat over the walls as their chief enemy disappeared from view. Tension began to set back in as the realisation that they were next began to dawn on them.

“Do not fret yourselves. Know that the brunt of the attack will come from the north. My men will bloody their nose.” Rylen spoke out dismissively, conscious that the main gate beckoned.

“Some of them may wander here. Just make sure you do the same.” He challenged them.

He would not likely return until dusk. Those near him turned to hear him out, their faces noticeably whiter than they were the day before. He had a few of his own men posted here but not many. He simply could not spare them. Rylen doubted the southern wall would see much action. Not today anyway. Tomorrow would be a different story he knew. For those that lived to see it.

With that sombre thought he offered his last words of encouragement and advice to those around him. He nodded to Duncan, ceding the wall to his stewardship before heading back to his post. He made short work of the journey as he marched purposely. Nobody on the walls stopped him as he went. They knew not to.

As he climbed the granite stairwell he spotted Cliara below. She had volunteered to help shepherd and treat any of the wounded. Making her one of the few inhabitants allowed in the streets. Upon her shoulder was a bag containing strips of torn linen which she clutched tightly. She looked up at him. He knew her well enough to see the worry in her eyes. He forced a reassuring smile before finishing the climb and joining his section.

In that moment he wondered if it was for him. He doubted it. She avoided him ever since his decision to turn coat. Now that he was intending to defend the town she would only grow to hate him more. Those forced to see and smell death tended to resent those who caused it. Realising how she felt saddened him. He sighed before forcing it from his mind. There was too much at stake.

From somewhere unseen a bugle sounded for the fourth time. He looked out across the field and watched as hundreds of men formed up in front of the camp. Banners of all colours and shapes sprang up among them. Scores more hurried in from every tent.

He gave up counting them as their formation expanded. In rows they aligned themselves to their officers’ commands. Most held sword and shield, but some could be seen with axes. There were a fair number of wooden ladders and grappling hooks too. No doubt fashioned the night before.

Still more streamed in. These were less armoured and held bows instead of blades. They made their way nimbly to the fore. Rylen thought it would never end, fearing that reinforcements had joined them. Thankfully the stream diminished into a trickle before stopping altogether. For a moment stillness descended upon the field and the town alike. Only the seagulls seemed unperturbed. His tongue felt impossibly dry and a desperate need to urinate despite having done so several times already.

Then the last bugle sounded.