The Siege. Book One

By Klemensas Kacinskas

The dark clouds of impending danger are looming over the prosperous medieval city of Fairhelm.

Two weary travellers, a group of fortune seekers, the defiant captain of the gate garrison, a thief and many others will soon find themselves in the fight for their lives.

Meanwhile, the hordes of bloodthirsty orcs and goblins, driven out of the ancestral lands by an ancient evil, are preparing to attack the city.

The countdown to Fairhelm's siege has begun, and few will survive the upcoming night.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Klemensas Kacinskas
• Release date: Apr 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005653439

Book preview

The Siege Book One

Klemensas Kačinskas

Published by Klemensas Kačinskas at Smashwords

Copyright 2022 Klemensas Kačinskas

Chapter 1

Southwest of Brook Swamp

Tatton Heade paused, then carefully stepped over a few dried branches scattered in front of him. He had spent most of his adult life as an army scout, turning it into a habit, even when such caution wasn't necessary. To his knowledge, there weren't any creatures nearby, and certainly no enemies. Even more so, the surrounding woods always teemed with an abundance of life both small and large, creating a never-ending cacophony of sounds.

As long as one blended with the landscape, which Tatton did well, there was no need to avoid every nook and cranny. But as far as habits went, they died hard.

Tatton kept prowling ahead, taking every precaution.

Many years of service had taught him to distinguish noises between man and animal from afar, and Tatton was sure there were no men anywhere near. Just nature and tranquillity, which, with all fairness, he enjoyed a lot more than the company of fellow human beings.

Occasionally, he would stop and enjoy the scene, savouring the moment and clearing his mind. But he was under orders, and the sense of duty, drilled deep into the very fabric of his soul, would encourage Tatton to carry on.

He bypassed a heap of withered leaves, stopping to take a sip of water from the flask.

Mosquitoes didn't bother him one bit, but this heat was a nasty torturer. Even in his thin cotton tunic and trousers, Tatton sweated like a pig, feeling sorry for the poor lads trudging on foot in their heavy armour half a mile back.

His unit had been on patrol since dawn to investigate reports of bandit activity around surrounding villages. Still, after a lengthy day of marching, they still hadn't encountered a soul.

Bandits, my arse. Haven’t seen any of those in a while.

Tatton wasn't surprised by this one bit.

The wilderness, bordering the swamp, was well away from any trade routes and very few ventured here, making these parts unattractive for any self-respecting roadside robber. And the handful of tiny villages scattered in the area were too dirt poor to even bother with.

It was getting late and darker by the hour.

Tatton leaned against the old poplar's trunk, rubbing his sore feet.

Well into his forties, he was too old to spend entire days wandering the woods. But the nearest village was a few miles away, where at least some a warm grub and soft straw for the night awaited him and his weary brothers in arms.

As Tatton moved forth, however, something else had been bothering him for a while now. The forest was too quiet, especially for midsummer.

Throughout the day, he hadn't spotted anything bigger than a rabbit. Even the small critters he encountered were too few and far in between, which was odd.

If his memory served him right, these parts of the wilderness used to be plentiful with deer and boars, a perfect home for them, attracting predators such as wolves and bears alike.

Common folk rarely wandered this far from Fairhelm and its neighbouring settlements, and only the most determined hunters would roam these woods in search of prey. But they wouldn't even make a dent in animal numbers.  

Tatton had come across some larger tracks earlier, but those had been at least several days old. And not a single carcass or grazed leftovers. Very odd indeed.

Wondering what might have caused it, Tatton climbed over the large maple tree's bulging root when something caught his attention on the ground.

What's this then? He kneeled to inspect. It was a trail, but not left by an animal. This one resembled a human footprint yet looked somewhat different.

The imprint was much larger than an average man's foot.

The creature walked barefoot and was heavy, judging by the depth of the print on the soil. Tatton picked up the pinch of dirt, smelling it. It reeked of stale water and shit. The being must have come from the adjacent swamp—and not too long ago.

Then he noticed several more tracks, some more prominent, some tiny, almost like a child's. And they all headed in the same direction–towards the approaching patrol.

These creatures somehow slipped past him unnoticed.

A daunting thought crossed Tatton's mind as he rose to the crunch of the dry branch right behind, spinning around. Shite.

***

I'm telling ya, hips on that lassie are godsent. Wybert Hille's dreamy face lit up with a smile as he took off his heavy helmet.

The sweat poured down his forehead, attracting countless blood-sucking bugs from the swamp across the ridge. I hate this damned heat.

Alvena's? What are you babbling about? Harper Wootone, walking ahead of Wybert, gave him a stare. You can't wrap your hands around that woman. Where's the fun in that? Nah, I prefer skinny ones.

Like the rest of the group, he suffered from the relentless mosquito onslaught, slapping himself on the neck and squashing three of the blighters.

That's because you don't understand the true beauty of a proper lady, Dog, Wybert said, putting the helmet back on. At least it covered most of his head from the pesky insects. I think I'll marry her upon my return.

Good for you, Wybert, Blake Lintone's voice echoed from behind. Plant your seed while young, laddie and don't listen to naysayers like Dog.

I told you not to call me that, Blake! Harper's tone immediately turned angry. His voice had never been pleasant, but Harper simply wouldn't shut up talking and arguing with just about everyone. Yet Blake had his own special way of angering his fellow brother in arms.    

Yep, you did, Blake said, chuckling. Many times. But it is what it is.

Blake…

"And come to think of it, since you've touched on the subject, I'm not at all surprised that you were given the nickname Dog. But, of course, we're all familiar with your love for cartilage."

Blake, I'm warning you mate… Harper's face was turning dark red, but Blake had no intention of stopping, to the general amusement of everyone else.

I wonder, though, and don't mind me asking, but are you becoming concupiscent each time you visit the graveyard? His question made the other men erupt in laughter.

Shut your hovel, Blake! Harper stopped, turning around. At least I can still get hard!

Keep your voices down, men! Osgar Renart's commanding tone broke through the giggling, loud enough to silence everyone.

He threw a glimpse at the column of eight soldiers, frowning.

Covered in dust, sweat and bugs, they were a far cry from the shiny unit which had marched out of Fairhelm at dusk.

This was his first mission as patrol leader, and young Sir Renart was yet to establish himself as a commander. Fair to say, he struggled.

This came as no surprise, though, considering his background.

Osgar's father was none other but famous Sir Emerick Renart himself.

As the Captain of Fairhelm's Eastern Gate Garrison, Sir Renart had a reputation of being a firm but honest man. He came from the noble line of succession, which certainly didn't help Osgar with his new appointment.

Some common soldiers under Osgar's command were much older than him, regarding young Sir Renart as another mollycoddled one, hopping through the ranks merely because of his heritage.

Harper! Osgar pointed at the man, waving him to approach.

That's my name, Harper acknowledged with little enthusiasm.

As a veteran fighter, he thought little of the youngster in charge. But Sir Renart's only son was his sergeant-at-arms, and Harper had to obey.

Good pooch, Blake whispered while Harper stepped out of the column, sending a wave of silent giggles through the ranks.

Harper paused, torn between the desire to reply, or better yet, smashing Blake's teeth in and following the order. The latter seemed a more sensible choice, and he shuffled to Osgar, standing several feet ahead of the patrol.

He could always teach that loudmouth Blake a lesson later.

How can I be of help, sir? Harper asked, stepping before his officer.

You took your time, Harper. Osgar looked the man straight in the eyes.

Sir?

Next time, be quick about it.

Of course, sir! Harper acknowledged, struggling to hide his scorn.

I'll need you to move forth and see if you can catch up with Tatton. Osgar's voice was firm. It's getting late and he should have been back by now.

Why me, sir? Harper frowned. His already sore legs screamed for reprieve and rest.

Why don't you send someone like Wybert? He's much younger and bursting with energy. All day, he’s been yapping about his broad.

Osgar sighed before answering. One of the very few things he couldn't and wouldn't stand was a soldier talking back, questioning his decisions. Allowing such behaviour was a sign of weakness and should be punishable, but he remembered his father's teachings that true respect was always earned through hardships and compassion rather than a whip.

Because you are more experienced and will find him faster? Osgar said, making sure everyone heard him. And because I gave you an order, Harper. Or do you have a problem with that?

Nay, sir. Judging by the commander's tone, Harper knew not to push his luck any further. Ah, that useless prick. Must have fallen asleep somewhere…

He didn't finish the sentence before an arrow plunged through his neck, spraying Osgar with bright red spatter.

For a brief moment, neither of them realised what had happened.

But then Harper coughed, choking on his blood.

Ambush! Osgar rallied first, grabbed Harper's shoulder, pushing him to the road's edge as more projectiles zapped mere inches away.

Only by sheer luck, none hit their mark, but as soon as Osgar raised his shield, the bolts started pinging off its plated surface.

Shields up! Osgar yelled, moving in front of the wounded soldier to cover him as well.

The shooters, hiding in lush vegetation, kept peppering them from the left bank. Meanwhile, Harper tumbled against the steep slope, gasping for air with a red liquid spritzing out of his torn neck. He was in bad shape.

Osgar glimpsed at his men farther back.

Two already lay dead, slain by the murderous shower, while the rest were hiding behind their shields under the relentless pelting.

Form the line! the young commander ordered just as the missile barrage suddenly ceased.

There was a moment of absolute silence, then suddenly replaced by the choir of inhuman howls and screeches along the forest line.

Seconds later, several larger-than-average man shapes emerged from thick bushes, charging the column.

Osgar noticed three ambushers converging on him and unsheathed his long sword.

Prepare to defend yourselves!

***

In the twilight, the attackers resembled overgrown humans, but as soon as the fastest of them closed the distance, all likeness ended. These weren't some bandits stalking hapless prey but savage beasts few lived to tell about after encountering them.

The nearest tall, skinny creature galloping forward wore nothing but tattered leather breeches. Its skin was dark grey. The bare upper body was covered in mud and countless scars.

The being's mouth was open, revealing rows of jagged teeth, and pitch-black eyes burned with hatred.

For the love of God! Them bloody orcs! Blake recognised the enemy, raising his spear just as the skinny fiend mindlessly charged him, waving a crude cleaver.

The beast didn't bother evading, throwing itself against the spear.

It wailed in pain while the sharp tip pierced its insides, but kept pushing ahead, trying to reach its holder.

Blake was a sturdy man, yet even he had to take a step back under pressure.

Die, you filth! Blake leaned forward, forcing the shaft deeper into the orc's stomach.

The attacker finally ran out of steam, dropping to its knees and spitting black-as-tar blood.

But before Blake could finish it, an arrow plunged deep into his right shoulder.

Fucking bastards! He swayed from the burning twinge and fell while beasts and soldiers clashed in the deadly standoff all around.

To Blake's right, a dark-skinned orc in torn rags and cracked bronze helmet swiped a chipped bludgeon against a soldier already engaged with another foe.

The heavy club smacked through the man's kettle helm with a loud thud, crushing the soldier's skull in an instant. Bits of bone and gore streamed down the poor soul's face while he dropped dead without a single sound.

Encouraged by its success, the creature victoriously roared, locking its hollow gaze on Wybert, who parried some beast's clumsy attempt to disembowel him.

The dark-skinned orc raised the club for a decisive blow but not before Blake, fighting the numbing pain, unsheathed his chest-strapped dagger, driving it deep between the beast's ribs.

He stabbed repeatedly until the orc fell, shrivelling in mortal convulsions.

Take this, you wretched spawn! Fuelled by rage and anger, Blake kept gutting the enemy, until someone's hand grasped him by the brigandine's collar and yanked backwards just as a rusty spear sank into the ground where Blake's head had been just a moment ago.

Where the hell did they come from? Wybert's voice echoed above Blake while he drove his sword into the spear owner's chest, sending him wailing to the dusty road.

There's too many! a soldier yelled to Wybert's left, blocking the sword's attack with his shield. He then slashed his blade into the orc's torso, gutting the beast.

Moaning, it dropped, rolling in agony.

The screaming soldier leapt closer for a kill.

He failed.

An arrow pierced his chest, protected by nothing but a gambeson, and the man joined the growing ranks of the dead.

Shields up! Wybert grabbed the shield, covering Blake from another shower of arrows.

A quick peek around revealed only four of them were left standing. Osgar and Harper were blocked off by a small group of attackers farther ahead.

There was no time to help them as the next wave of bloodthirsty monsters emerged and charged the remaining survivors.

***

Osgar sidestepped to avoid the roaring orc ramming him into the shrub and plunged his blade deep into the beast's chest.

The attacker croaked, spitting blood and slamming against the tree trunk before falling over. Osgar almost lost the grip on his sword but drew it out before the next creature hit him with

a rusty cutlass. He blocked the inept manoeuvre with a shield, cutting the orc's throat with a single motion.

A third beast, discouraged by its peer's failure to bring one man down, hesitated to approach, granting Osgar a chance to check on Harper.

Fucking cunts... Harper gurgled haplessly, trying to stop the bleeding, but the bony tip drilled too deep and stuck in his throat.

The man was dying, and there was nothing Osgar could do for him but say a short prayer if only he had a chance. But he didn’t get one. Two more beasts pushed in, the hesitant orc finally plucking up the courage to make its move. Roaring, it leapt forward with a sharpened pole raised above its head–a costly mistake.

Osgar waited until the brute built up enough momentum, dodged and drove his sword through the assailant's heart. Heaving, he then turned towards a fresh pair of attackers, who were keen to finish what others had failed to do.

He had lowered his shield for a moment.

Yet, it was enough for the arrow to sink into his left shoulder an inch above the breastplate, forcing Osgar to stagger.

In the heat of the battle, he had forgotten about the archers pelting them from a safe distance.

Out of balance and focus, young Sir Renart's eyes suddenly widened, watching a burly orc swing a giant two-handed hammer against him. Lord, have mercy...

It was too late to jump away. The hammer struck against the shield, sending Osgar rolling across the road. By sheer luck, he landed back on his feet, heaving from exhaustion.

The shield was shattered.

Osgar dropped it to the ground and glanced at his left hand. Crushed.

Severely wounded, he was about to confront his most dangerous opponent yet, for the hammer-wielding monster was closing in.    

***

To hell with this! To Wybert's right, the soldier gave in to a panic. The poor sod spun and made just two steps