A man stood atop a watchtower built into the wall, gazing down at the floods of roaring Drifteland soldiers pounding against the stone like crashing waves.
He wore scale armor sewn atop thick leather, his face mostly hidden beneath a scale-plated helmet. The tough scales glinted a brilliant brown in the sunlight, casting a transcendent glow around him. As he shifted, the movement revealed a longsword on his back, partially concealed by a flowing red cape—the color of fresh blood.
The man looked left and right—the entire wall was under attack. There wasn’t a single spot where ladders weren’t being placed, bloodthirsty soldiers climbing before they had even secured them against the stone.
His gaze shifted to the defenders atop the wall, watching their frantic and desperate movements as they used thick wooden poles to pry the heavy ladders away. Whenever a ladder toppled, the soldiers clinging to it plunged downward, their screams swallowed by the chaos below.
"It can't go on like this," the man muttered, eyes narrowing beneath his helmet. "The men are burning out—mentally and physically. Sooner or later, they'll be too slow pushing a ladder down, and those filthy Driftelandians will flood the wall."
His head snapped around. "Barden?"
Behind him stood a well-muscled man, hands clasped behind his back.
Unlike most defenders on the wall, the man was well protected—his leather armor scaled and polished to a fine shine. Yet, compared to Barden, it was lacking. The scales were nearly a quarter of the size and a lighter shade of brown. A sword rested in its sheath at his side, its well-maintained hilt hinting at the blade’s condition.
He bowed his head slightly, his helmet—a simple leather cap reinforced with small, overlapping scales—rustling as he adjusted and straightened. "Yes, Squire Dante. I am here."
Squire Dante turned away from his enemies and walked to the other end of the wall, facing the town within. His gaze immediately fell on several large fires blazing below, each with a cauldron set atop it, surrounded by groups of women. "They need a deterrent—something to give them pause."
Barden remained silent, allowing the Squire to mull over his plans.
"It's been long enough," Dante said suddenly, turning to Barden. "Fetch someone light on their feet. I need him to send for someone."
Barden scratched his chin thoughtfully. "There's a boy below. He’s come of age, but his frame is small and slight—unsuitable for battle. I put him to work hauling supplies up the tower."
Dante waved a hand dismissively. "I don't need the details. Just call him up."
Barden nodded, then strode to the staircase on the right, leading into the tower below. He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "Boy, get up here!"
All was silent before pounding footsteps against wood echoed up the steps. A head poked over the edge of the entrance, face obscured by a curtain of unkempt hair. "You called?"
Before he could protest, Barden seized and hauled him fully onto the roof, setting him down in front of Dante.
"Here he is, Squire," Barden said. He shoved the boy’s head down into a bow, then barked, "Do you have no respect for your betters? Bow your head before you lose it."
Dante raised a hand, signaling the boy's release. "Leave him be." He gazed at the boy, his mouth turning down in displeasure at his disorganized appearance. "What is your name?"
The boy raised his head, dark green eyes glinting through his hair. "Yasuke."
"Yasuke," Dante echoed, rolling the name off his tongue. "I heard you are a good runner?"
The boy nodded sharply. "Yes, master, none are faster than I."
"Good. You’re needed to find a mercenary named Müller," Dante said, his gaze shifting to the defenders on the wall. "He’s somewhere along this stretch. Once you find him, lead him back here immediately."
"Yes, Squire," Yasuke replied, bowing before turning and rushing down the stairs.
Dante sighed, his shoulders slackening as his thoughts drifted to Knight Fitzgerald’s words.
"A mercenary named Müller will be placed under your command," Fitzgerald had said as he mounted his steed. He looked down at the bowed Dante. "Use him as you see fit—just be selective, don’t use him unnecessarily."
That Dante hadn’t voiced any concerns didn’t mean he had none. Still, the knights trusted the mercenary, leaving no room for dissent.
Barden cleared his throat, snapping Dante out of his thoughts.
"Squire, you should head down now. The enemy archers haven't noticed you yet, but that won’t last long."
Dante nodded and turned, his cape fluttering in the breeze as he walked down the steps, Barden trailing behind.
Yasuke barreled down the wooden steps into the room below, his breath coming in sharp gasps.
The chamber was built of stone and lined with rows of supplies—bundles of arrows, sacks of grain, and scattered weaponry. A large table stood at its center, covered with carved wooden pieces, various maps, and wrinkled parchments.
Three openings led out of the room: two at opposite ends, opening onto the ramparts where defenders fought desperately for their lives, and a third leading down a flight of steps, descending deeper into the tower.
Where is he? Yasuke thought, pausing briefly at the bottom of the steps. Which way should I go? Left or right?
He hesitated, then turned and rushed through the left-facing door.
"TO THE RIGHT!"
"FETCH A POLE! THEY’VE ALMOST REACHED THE TOP!"
"AAAGH!"
"SLING YOUR ARM OVER MY SHOULDER—LET’S GET YOU TO THE BARBER-SURGEON!"
The rampart was a chaos of movement—bodies pressed together, heads ducked low to avoid stray arrows, and the cries of the wounded, each in varying stages of agony.
Yasuke had faced this sight repeatedly, yet it never failed to shake him to his core. For a moment, he stood frozen—until a passing soldier crashed into him, nearly bowling him over.
That spurred him into motion. He braced his feet against the stone ground and pushed off, sprinting and weaving through the mangle of bodies on the lookout for Müller.
"HEADS DOWN! ANOTHER WAVE IS COMING!"
A loud cry pierced the chaos, the warning sending a chill down the defenders' spines.
The effect was immediate. Panic set in as some men scrambled to the side, pressing against the wall, while those near the stairs fled downward, nearly shoving each other off and tumbling to the ground.
Amid the madness—the boy was caught between retreating bodies and those who held their ground—a rough shove from behind sent him stumbling forward, his feet skidding across the worn stone of the ramparts. Another body slammed into him from the side, knocking the wind from him. He barely managed to brace himself before his knee slammed into the ground, a sharp jolt shooting up his leg.
Breathing heavily, he planted his palms on the cold, dust-coated surface, trying to push himself up. But just as he straightened, a shadow swept over him.
He lifted his gaze, his breath hitching as he saw them—hundreds, perhaps thousands of arrows blotting out the sky, their jagged tips glinting for a heartbeat before they plunged downward.
His chest seized.
Stolen story; please report.
Run.
The thought screamed through his mind, but his body was frozen, his legs locked as he watched the deadly rain descend.
Run!
His breath burst out in a strangled gasp as his limbs finally obeyed. Scrambling to his feet, he tore down the length of the ramparts, not thinking, not looking—just running.
The hiss of arrows filled the air. He could hear them thudding into wood, into stone—into flesh. Cries of pain and terror rang out, but they were distant, drowned by the pounding of his heartbeat.
Somehow, impossibly, none struck him.
He didn’t see where he was going—only the blur of bodies pressing in, figures darting past like shadows.
Yasuke sprinted down the wall, his breath ragged and his arms swinging wildly, arrows everywhere around him.
Yet a sense of impending doom gripped his heart, tightening with each passing moment. It loomed over him like a beast’s gaping maw, ready to snap shut and drag him into the abyss of death.
At the peak of danger, just as his mind screamed its final warning, a hand closed around his wrist, yanking him aside with force.
He stumbled forward, his face colliding with the chest of his savior. Against his cheek, he felt the rough, scaly armor and the heat radiating from beneath.
His breath came in heavy gasps as he struggled to steady himself.
CRACK
He flinched at the sound. Looking up, he saw an arrow embedded in the shield, its shaft still quivering. It had drilled halfway through before stopping.
Yasuke swallowed hard, watching as the man tossed the shield aside.
Then, the hands gripping him shook him roughly. A voice shouted, "What were you doing? Don't you know how dangerous that was?"
Yasuke's breath caught in his throat. That voice—it was unmistakable.
He lifted his gaze and met the man's eyes, awe flickering across his face. It's him. Müller. I found him.
The moment he first met Müller remained vivid in Yasuke’s mind. He had been one of the survivors of the Second Battalion, just another among the many standing listlessly at the base of the slope leading up to the plateau. Then Müller arrived.
Yasuke had gazed up in awe as the mercenary rode past on his steed, his expression confident, his eyes sharp as he issued commands and traded barbs with ease. His heart had skipped a beat when Müller’s cutting gaze briefly landed on him—only to shift away just as quickly. And then he was gone, a lone figure riding forward, the enemy before him.
For as long as he lived, Yasuke would never forget those deep blue eyes—the same sharp gaze now staring down at him.
He might have lingered longer, but the moans and wails around him pulled him back to the present. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the collapsed figures of those less fortunate, their blood seeping into the stone, swirling together into a deep crimson stain.
Yasuke's eyes hardened as he refocused on Müller. "You are Müller, right? Squire Dante sent me. I have a message for you."
Müller’s gaze narrowed. "Where is he?"
Yasuke straightened slightly and pointed toward a fortified building along the wall. "At the tower, master."
Müller gave a sharp nod, his focus shifting to the tower. "Let's go."
They started forward, weaving around bodies, sidestepping pools of blood, and hopping over scattered arrows.
Yasuke's gaze darted from one scene to another, watching as the injured and dead were dragged away and arrows wrenched from flesh and shields, then pried from the ground. The speed with which they cleared the area and reformed their ranks told him everything he needed to know—this wasn’t an isolated incident. It had happened before and would likely happen again.
A deafening roar echoed across the battlefield.
Yasuke glanced left. The defenders scrambled into position, hauling poles as their commanders barked orders and repositioned men.
He veered toward the edge and looked down. His breath caught. The ladders against the wall had doubled, and most enemy soldiers were already halfway up.
The Driftelandians had seized the opportunity created by the arrow barrage, using the defenders' momentary distraction to advance unchecked.
Yasuke swallowed and turned away, hurrying after Müller as he neared the tower.
He caught up just as Müller stepped inside, leaving the sounds of battle behind.
Müller scanned the room, his gaze skimming over the stored supplies before settling on the table at the center, where Squire Dante stood beside his guard.
Dante looked up as Müller entered, beckoning him with a finger. "Müller, I presume?"
Müller strode forward, meeting the Squire’s gaze. "I am. You called?"
Dante gave him a once-over before sighing and gesturing to his guard. "I don’t have the patience to explain. Just follow Barden—he’ll fill you in."
A rough hand clapped onto Müller’s shoulder. Barden had moved beside him, giving a brief tap before striding away.
He headed for the steps leading down the tower and started his descent.
Müller followed without a word, the wooden planks groaning under his boots.
"We're hauling a cauldron up to the ramparts—not through this tower, but the stairs along the wall," Barden said, jogging down the steps. "It’s hot—and heavy enough that four grown men would struggle to lift it."
"What's in it?" Müller inquired.
Barden paused. "Simply put… a deterrent." His tone was dry. "Just don’t spill it—it’s meant for the Driftelandians. I’d be concerned, but we’ve been told you’re cut from a different cloth."
He reached the ground and stopped before a heavy wooden door, then turned to shoot Müller a look. "I hope you don’t prove us wrong."
With that, he pushed the door open and strode out.
Müller stepped through, squinting as sunlight hit his face.
At the base of the wall, chaos churned. Tents and makeshift shelters crowded the space, their tattered cloth flapping in the dry wind. Fires burned low in pits, their embers barely enough to warm the battered men huddled around them. The air reeked of smoke and rot, of unwashed bodies and the fetor of piss pooling in the dirt.
Barden locked eyes with Müller before veering right, sprinting toward a group of women huddled around a steaming pot suspended over a roaring fire, feeding it with scraps of wood, broken furniture—anything that would burn.
As they crossed the field, eyes tracked their every move.
The women noticed them and stepped back, halting their work.
Müller sniffed the air as they neared, a familiar scent wafting toward him. He glanced back at the tower with a raised eyebrow. Wicked, he thought, turning forward. ‘Deterrent’ was far too mild a word.
Müller and Barden reached the pot, gripping its cloth-wrapped handles. Their muscles bunched as they hoisted the heavy vessel from the fire.
"Make way!" Barden barked.
The women scattered, hastily clearing a path.
Müller followed Barden’s lead, gripping the cauldron firmly as he strode toward the stairs leading back up the wall.
"Wait!" A voice rang out behind them—sharp, urgent.
A single woman rushed forward, seizing Barden by the tunic, holding him back.
One look at her confirmed she was aged, long past her prime, yet her grip was strong—desperate.
She turned pleading eyes to him, then fell to her knees. "My son… he was recruited at the start of the cycle, sent to the borders to push back those cursed Driftelandians. I haven’t heard from him since."
Her words tumbled over one another, breathless, frantic.
"Please, I’m begging you—he’s my only child, all I have. Tell me he’s alive."
Barden scoffed and violently shook her off, leaving her to collapse on the dusty ground.
"Get off me, you old wench! What does your son have to do with me?"
Müller glanced around. Though no one stepped forward, he could feel the gazes of the soldiers and workers around, silently watching, not daring to get involved.
The woman got on her feet and bowed her head, hands clasped ahead of her. "Please," she begged. "My son."
Barden stared down at her, his expression cold. "We retreated with all who survived. If he's not here, you know what that means."
Without another word, he nodded at Müller and strode forward, ignoring the woman's wails as he made for the stairs leading to the ramparts.
The path cleared at once. Even the most battle-weary soldiers dared not stand in their way.
The stairs were steep and uneven, their stone gouged deep from years of wear. Dust and dried blood slicked the steps, turning each hurried movement treacherous. They passed men slumped against the walls, heads bowed in exhaustion—some with hastily wrapped wounds, their linen strips darkening with fresh blood.
The sounds of battle swelled with each step, reaching a deafening peak as they crested the top.
The defenders had managed to keep the enemy from scaling the wall, but cracks were beginning to show. Hesitations, sluggish movements, and lapses in judgment littered the ramparts.
Barden’s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene before pressing forward. He didn’t call for the soldiers to move—either they cleared the way themselves, or the cauldron’s heat would force them aside soon enough.
As Barden and Müller advanced, the commanders signaled for soldiers to clear a path, forming gaps in the line. Shield bearers fell in beside them, their shields clattering together as they warded off the occasional stray arrow.
One of the commanders pushed through the shield wall and bowed. "Master Barden," he greeted respectfully.
Barden barely spared him a glance. "Where’s the nearest ladder?"
"Not far," the man replied. "Straight ahead, a few steps to the right."
Barden gave no response but shifted course toward the location, leaving the commander behind.
They soon reached the designated spot and dropped the cauldron, its bottom leaving a mark in the stone.
Even as they fought, soldiers stole curious glances at them, murmurs rippling through the ranks.
"What is that?"
"I know that smell... That's weapon oil, isn't it?"
"Heated weapon oil? What are they planning?"
"Wait, they don't plan to...?"
Slowly, realization settled over the soldiers. Some broke into grins, their hate overcoming them, while others wore conflicted expressions.
Müller met Barden’s gaze. As one, they lifted the cauldron and hauled it to the edge of the wall.
Seeing them approach, the nearby soldiers quickly stepped aside, giving them a clear path.
Müller peered over the wall’s edge, immediately locking onto an enemy soldier just below—staring up at him, unease plain in his eyes.
Müller’s expression remained unreadable as he met the man’s gaze, even as he and Barden tipped the cauldron forward. A heartbeat later, the boiling oil spilled over, cascading down like a searing wave.
The soldier could barely react before the boiling oil engulfed him. A scream tore from his throat as the scalding liquid engulfed him, his skin blistering in an instant.
He staggered backward, clawing at himself in agony before crumpling and vanishing into the chaos beneath.
Below him, soldiers on the ladder scrambled away—some slipping and tumbling into the depths, while those caught in the splash shrieked in agony. The acrid scent of burning flesh and oil filled the air as panic spread among the Driftelandians.
Silence briefly hung over the wall—then a cheer erupted, and the men surged forward, striking at the hesitant enemy with renewed fury.
Müller stepped back, allowing the ranks to collapse before glancing at Barden.
Barden met his gaze and nodded slightly.
Müller returned the gesture before turning toward the stairs. Exhaustion pressed down on him, his mind and body consumed by the need for sleep.
A soft chuckle drifted through the air, lost amid the excitement. Squire Dante watched it all atop the tower roof, a slow smile widening his face.
His cape billowed in the breeze as he stepped to the edge and gazed down. He inhaled deeply, savoring the jarring scent of burning flesh before exhaling, as if purging impurities from his chest.
"Now," he muttered, turning away. "With that done, what other ways can they be stalled?"
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