chapter 6

Rylen forced himself to rise. He groaned as he felt his back protest the effort. Grey clouds suffocated the midday sky. He rubbed his shoulder as he looked about him. Most of his men were slumped by the wall. Their legs stretched out as they drank in silence or dozed where they sat. Some busied themselves with bandaging cuts inflicted during the morning melee. The fallen had already been removed. Those that could be saved were being attended to by the surgeon.

The fighting had been hard as it was bloody. A parade of arrows and bolts had first been exchanged. The defenders had the benefit of the greater cover and higher ground. But the attackers had the numbers. They would form behind a shield wall and advance. Their skirmishers and bowmen peppered the defenders, giving his own marksmen little time to pick their targets.

Rylen and his section had let loose, their arrows sang and their bolts flew. When the enemy got close enough he ordered his men to throw jars of oil which ignited on impact. The screams of those burning let them know they had hit their mark.

Then the ladders would appear and the carnage began in earnest. For every ladder that Rylen dislodged another two seemed to take their place. Hooks too would be swung up looking for a purchase. He remembered his arms tiring by the time he scored his first kill of the morning.

A face had appeared before him, red from the exertion of the climb, mirroring the bloodlust in his eyes. Rylen thrust his blade through the man’s face, killing him instantly. Twisting his sword free, he kicked the ladder free from its holding, sending it sprawling backwards. Then more ladders appeared, and with them more faces.

On like this it had gone. Some managed to scramble onto the battlements but they were quickly dispatched. Their bodies either fell where they stood or tumbled back over the wall. Rylen had cleaved this way and that, all the time rallying his men.

His sword arm burned and his throat dried, yet still they came. He soon regretted choosing the main gate as his section but his men looked to him to lead by example. Just as he had felt his arm go numb a horn sounded out. The faces disappeared soon after. They had retreated, for the time being.

The morning had not been won yet, Rylen knew. He had risked a and saw the enemy reforming. They were bloodied and bruised but were still fired up for a fight.

“See to the injured and re-string your bows. They’ll be coming back for more shortly” He had called out to those near him.

Thirty men he had under his direct charge at the gate. Thirty remained by the end of the first engagement. A couple had been cut and more than one had taken glancing blows. But they could all still fight. Not all on the walls had been so fortunate. A few had hobbled to the tavern, aided by others. An arrow jutted out of from one. Another had blood streaming from a head wound. The surgeon would have his work cut out for him by day's end.

It went on like this for the rest of the morning. Three times the enemy had assaulted the northern wall. Three times the twin suns had beaten them back. When the horn blared for a third time Rylen had slumped to the ground. He barely had the strength to wipe the blood from his hands. His sword he let clatter beside him.

That had been just a few moments ago. Scrambling to his feet he could see that the enemy had retired back to camp. The field was littered with the dead and dying. But they were beyond Rylen’s concern. The northerners had attempted a short cut to victory and paid the price.

The sellsword captain expected a temporary truce to be offered. The people here still clung to the old ways of honouring the dead. For Rylen’s part he could do with the reprieve. The twin suns had succeeded in bloodying their nose and dampening their enthusiasm, nothing more. Their banner lords would now be deliberating over a new strategy. Rylen would have to do likewise.

“So far so good.” Marquello’s voice cut through the chatter on the wall.

Rylen turned and took the waterskin offered to him. His friend’s leather chest guard sported patches of fresh blood, a splattering of it was matted into his beard. The raven claws around his eyes seemed to have stretched somewhat.

“I cannot wait to get this thing off. It chafes the n*****s worse than a cuttlefish.” Marquello pulled at the leather protecting his chest.

“Remind me never to go sailing with you.” Rylen retorted before taking a swig of water.

“You’re cut.” His friend pointed out in concern.

Rylen followed his companion’s gaze. There was fresh blood dripping down his wrist guard. Using his free hand he inspected his sleeve and found it had been sliced open. He probed it further and winced as pain flared up his arm. He did not remember being struck. Then again, in the heat of battle blows would often go unnoticed.

“Should I call for the surgeon?” Marquello asked while Rylen attempted to staunch the blood with some cloth.

“No, he’s busy enough. Besides it’s nothing.” Rylen answered curtly.

To win a battle you had to know your enemy. Roose Bolton was as auspicious as he was ruthless. And that meant Rylen had to be the same if they were to survive this.

“How many did we lose?” Rylen enquired as he doused his wound with the water skin he held.

He watched as the water ran down his arm, leaving a small red puddle on the ground. 

“Fourteen.” Marquello replied solemnly.

“Six still live but won’t be fighting again anytime soon. I lost a man in my section. Callum was his name.” Marquello concluded with a shake of his head.

The name caused Rylen to look up.

“He was one of the newer recruits if memory serves me right.” Rylen guessed as he placed a face to the name.

“Aye, he fell in with Ashur’s lot. I still remember him going pale as a goat when that scoundrel mislead him into taking Sirasha’s ale.” Marquello chuckled.

Rylen shook in head. He had placed Callum in a more experienced section. The newer ones had a bad habit of trying to make a name for themselves when none was needed. Marquello would have taught him to keep his head down and his bow string taut. It seems that death had claimed him all the same Rylen realised sadly. He would have to remember to attend his cremation and say some words. But that time was not now.

 “They’ll continue to sap us. They know they have the numbers on their side.” Marquello observed.

“Yes, but do they have the time?” Rylen spoke his thoughts as he once more looked out to the enemy camp.

 “They have all the time in the world, surely?” Marquello countered.

Rylen paused and rubbed his chin with his clean hand and felt the stubble chafe his palm. The army beyond looked like it was put together swiftly. Roose Bolton was probably trying to gain favour with the young wolf king. If he was looking to place a crown upon his head then Roose would be a strong candidate for his hand.

The latter was no doubt trying to present the crownlands as a gift to cement the position.

“Robb Stark will not want his army split for too long. Besides, his banner men will be looking to return back to their homesteads and farms soon enough.” Rylen explained.

He remembered hearing stories of Eddard Stark refusing the iron throne in favour of his friend and ally, Robert Baratheon. The north was all that mattered to him, the north and his honour. From all reports the eldest son appeared to be like his late father. Rylen had no reason to believe he would choose differently.

“If the reports about the combined forces of Highgarden and Stormend are to be believed, then the Lannisters are finished. The Starks can return north, content that the justice will be served.” Rylen continued.

He watched as his friend chewed over what was being said. Marquello was used to the free cities where rich men fought to get richer. Wars were over as quickly as they began. Coin was collected and grudges forgotten. Occasionally whole cities would get involved but there no dynasties to speak of.

And no iron throne binding them all.

“Duskendale holds no value to him, nor do we. He will yank Roose Bolton’s leash soon enough. The lady Rykker will be gift enough. The town holds little else of import.” Rylen concluded.

Marquello remained unconvinced.

 “That is a lot to take on faith brother.”

Rylen knew why his friend was sceptical. He had likely thought an amicable and profitable surrender was still on the table. And that Rylen was simply bettering their negotiating position by holding out. After all it was how things were typically done across the narrow sea. 

Rylen did not have the time to explain politics and warfare in the seven kingdoms. He was not sure it would have helped regardless.

“It is probably best you head back and check on the others. I need a full report from the east and west walls.” Rylen ordered instead.

His second gave him a cynical look before departing, not before giving his final thought on the matter.

“I’ll not lie to you. I still think you should have taken his offer. I am not alone in thinking this way. There is also talk of you having your own designs in these lands.” He warned in a low voice.

Rylen watched him march back to his post, too stunned to give a response. Had he opened the gates all his men would be dead, he was sure of it. Roose Bolton would relish sending a message to any other sellsword company tempted into accepting Lannister gold. Had it been Robb Stark himself, or any other senior delegate, then the offer may have had merit.

He thought of his father then. He was a man of his word to be sure.

 “Aye, even to the detriment of his son.” He muttered bitterly to himself.

A minor noble in a small part of the world nobody much cared for. He served Stannis Baratheon with dedication, imitating the man to a fault. To which he had many. Had he been the one to lead the negotiation there would have been no offer of coin. Rylen was sure of it, regardless of who was on the other side. With these sombre thoughts plaguing him he set about giving his own orders.

He rotated his men as best he could. He retired most from the northern wall. The west and east had seen less action and the south less still. As such they were relatively fresh and could better take the brunt in the afternoon. He sent a messenger to petition Duncan for a dozen of his more capable fighters. In the meanwhile he oversaw the rearmaments.

It did not take long for the old bull to respond.

“My men fight for me. Nobody else.” His messenger repeated the handful of words.

“Tell that old b*****d that he can join them here if he wishes. But if we are to survive the day he needs to follow orders. Otherwise I’ll have him thrown from this wall and conscript his men myself!” Rylen yelled at the boy in front of him.

Just as he turned to set off Rylen called him back.

“Here Malcolm, Just the first part will do.” He mumbled sourly after regaining his composure.

It was important that he remained tempered, on the outside at least. His messenger was another of his younger recruits. At fourteen Rylen had deemed him too young to be on the frontlines. He had taken him on as a courier with a mind to developing him over the next year or two. He had approached Rylen at Duskendale’s port, desperate to learn a trade that did not involve nets.

“Try baking. It’s good work for soft hands like yours.” Marquello had chided him dismissively before going back to his ale.

At first glance there was little remarkable about him. He certainly did not have any experience with blade or bow, despite his boasts. His hair was clean enough, if not a tad overgrown as it hung over his brow and ears. He was taller than most his age but not overly so. His face was a little gaunt, and he had light whispers growing from his chin. It was his eyes that stood out to Rylen. They remained resolute even as those around had laughed at his request.

He still could not say why he hired the youth. Perhaps he liked his gumption, or his effort to escape a fate he did not wish. Either way Rylen watched him leave with a pang of regret. Soon enough he would have to shove a blade in the boy’s hand. They’ll have to harden soon enough.

“I should have put him a boat with the others.” He chided himself.

“Aye, and I along with him.” He thought darkly as he finished tying his bandage.

The cloth quickly soaked through with blood which worried him slightly. He removed it to see the torn skin overhanging. He winced again as he applied pressure. He was about to go find some rum and stitches when a voice called out. This one belonged to the town’s maester.

“Apologies for the interruption lord captain but may I intrude upon you for a word?” He spoke in his typical convoluted fashion.

Ulric was he name. It was difficult to place his age, though hours spent studying at the citadel did his physique no favours. His hair was balding at the crown and he had the beginning of a second chin forming. Rylen guessed him to be around thirty.  He often had his hands in his pockets, which were deep and constantly full. Right now he looked dishevelled. Speckles of blood could be seen across his robe. The beige linen did little to conceal the crimson stains. His chin was uncharacteristically shadowed with stubble.

“Yes, Maester Ulric, how can I help you?” Rylen replied. Remembering the man was a stickler for formality.

“It is your instruction that I use my expertise to help your surgeon treat the wounded...”

“Is the task too much for you?” Rylen cut in.

“Currently no. But I fear as the conflict continues it may become too much for the two of us. Men will die if not attended to quickly.” Ulric finished his point at last.

“I see. What do you suggest? I do not have the men to spare.” Rylen spoke plainly, wishing for solitude and a bottle of port.

“Some of the women may be persuaded. Those that are not adverse to blood. There are too few presently.” The maester counselled, gravitas imbued into every word.

“Yes, yes feel free to ask them.” Rylen replied quickly as he turned his attention back to his own wound.

Ulric fiddled with something in his pockets before pressing once more.

“I have. My powers of persuasion were not adequate to the task it seems.” He concluded with a modicum of embarrassment.

Rylen knew the maester wanted the sellsword captain to address the town’s women instead but he had other pressing concerns.

“You don’t happen to have any thread and needles in those pockets of yours?” Rylen asked instead.

“Alas no. But feel free to accompany me back to the tavern. My duties call me back.” Ulric offered.

The last thing Rylen wanted to do was face the surgeon with the droll maester as an escort.

“Thank you, no. I cannot leave the walls just yet.” Rylen replied as dismissively as he could get away with without sounding ungrateful.

Uric paused to look around, first at the battlements and then at the enemy camp beyond.

“It appears to me that they have begun their midday meal. I’m sure their commanding officers are in quite the quandary, thanks in no small part to your valiant efforts.” He observed.

“Would your time not be best spent recovering before hostilities begin anew? I fear by the day’s end our hands will not be quite so free.”

Rylen knew that the maester was right. His injury if left untreated would hamper him in the battle to come. Worse still, there was always the chance of infection. Over the years he had seen festering wounds kill as many men as the blade that inflicted it. But it was more than just the reproach of the surgeon that caused him to hesitate.

His injured men no doubt harboured their own resentment against him. Even before learning of their suspicions about his intent. Still he reasoned, better they resent him then die far from home.

Rylen conceded and prompted the maester to take the lead. As he descended the stairs another face came to him then. It was a lot more welcoming and fair.

“Will Cliara be there?” He asked casually.

‘Hmm.’ The maester replied absently.

Rylen knew there was no use rushing the man, both in diction and pace.

“Yes, one would imagine so. She has been tending to those not requiring more drastic procedures.” He answered in his usual extensive manner as they made their way through the courtyard.

Sadly, she probably hated him just as much as the men she was tending to. Despite this he found himself picturing her long gentle fingers as they traced down his arm. If ever he needed the delicate touch of a woman, it was now. After she was done with his arm, she could even help elsewhere. After all Talon could not begrudge him the services of a healer. Against his better judgement he suddenly found himself asking another question.

 “You don’t happen to have any lotion for back pain do you?”

Ulric cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the sudden turn in conversation. This was lost on the sellsword captain as he indulged himself with intimate thoughts. One that would turn his pious companion’s ears red if he gave voice to them.

It appeared to Rylen however that the maester’s step seemed to quicken somewhat.