[Mid June]
Armet once again stood on top of the hoardings of the wall, one of his eyes looking through a telescope, the wood of the battlements itself turned black from the constant exposure to residue of gunpowder. A week had passed since the start of the stand-off, and the Kaedwenis were not doing well in this siege that they started themselves. Their makeshift palisades lay scattered south of the Pontar, turned to countless splinters that converted the land into a minefield for infantry soldiers and cavalry alike. Broken half-finished siege engines also were abandoned near the walls of Vergen, blasted to pieces by the cannons of the walls. Most of the encampments are now north of the Pontar, and they seldom cross the river anymore.
Meanwhile, Vergen itself was doing well. The supply lines weren't cut at all. The Kaedwenis weren't able to blockade the road that led southward, hence, like Armet had predicted, this isn't a siege at all, more like a stand-off between the Kaedweni army and the Vergen militia. The only thing that is a bit of a problem was the production of the powder that needed to be moved here again, so the smell of the chemicals practically irradiated a part of the neighbourhood. There were some infiltrators as well from the Kaedwenis, using the southern gate that is still open for merchants and suppliers to enter. But they quickly got identified and hanged on the square.
Oddly enough, the only skirmish that the two armies have clashed on is underground. The miners managed to detect some sappers trying to dig to the tunnel, only for the miners to dig straight at them and send some veterans of the Brenna to slaughter them with their axes and shields, before closing the hole with a couple of barrels of Mahakaman Mix.
Which brings Armet to this day, where he, alongside the commanders of the militia, including Saskia, gathered up on the walls, watching as a rider approached the walls. The man looked tired, and deathly pale, like he hadn't had any sleep in days.
One of the militia soldiers had an idea of his own and shot the dirt around the rider with his own thunderer, breaking orders, scaring the horse that the rider was on. The rider was almost thrown off it, but quickly recovered and stayed put.
"Hold!" Armet shouted, frowned at the soldier who did that. "Why the fuck did you did that, soldier?! Did you not hear the orders to hold?!"
"I–" the man didn't have anything to say. While yes, Vergen was doing well, the fact is, the soldiers were still fidgety, trigger happy. The sight of five thousand men across the river that is just waiting to rush at the gates obviously grated them slowly but surely. Still, none complain. And just watched.
"Go down the walls, soldier. Clearly you're tired." Saskia commanded. "Send someone new to take his place!"
The officers on the wall instantly executed Saskia's command, and the soldier was removed from his post at once. Finally, the rider arrived at speaking distance, clearly nervous.
"I-I come bearing news! Henselt, King of Kaedwen, Lord of Ard Carraigh, Archduke of Ban Ard, Sovereign of Vespaden, The Last of the Unicorns, The Vanquisher of Nilfgaard, and the rightful ruler of Lormark, wishes to have a parley with whoever is in charge of this city! The king, in his benevolence, wishes for this conflict to end peacefully, and for no blood to be shed in this fertile land!"
Saskia leaned over the hoardings to show herself to the rider. "I am Saskia, and we refuse! If Henselt comes here to take our valley, he should at least have the courtesy to climb these walls himself and fight for it! Give my message to him, rider! You heard me loud and clear! Leave no words untold!"
The soldiers started to aim their thunderers at the rider, which made him flinch. "V-Very well, I shall speak of your message to the k-king, Saskia."
The rider quickly turned around and galloped through the dirt road towards his own encampment once more, leaving the walls once again in silence.
"You'd reckon that'd be enough?" Asked Yarpen, gruffing. "Henselt is no coward, but…"
"It's enough." Saskia muttered. She turned to the soldiers. "Men! Prepare for a frontal assault! Fortify the streets and the buildings! Evacuate the women and children to the castle!"
—
Armet now stood at the southern gate with Cecil, talking to the traders that were dropping the last batch of saltpeter before they closed the city entirely for the assault. He watched as men now flooded out of the city, mostly outsiders and traders, to escape the upcoming assault. But Armet saw a single dwarf enter, him and his lone axe. Armet raised his brow, and stopped the dwarf as Cecil continued to talk to the traders.
"Stop right there, traveler." Armet said. "The city's closed, as we're expecting an assault. You do know that, right? You entering the city means you're to fight for us."
The dwarf looked up to Armet and hummed, scratching his head. "Aye, that was what I was intending t' do. But, to be honest, I came from the north side of the Pontar. From Henselt's camp."
Armet raised his brow. "I thought Henselt doesn't welcome dwarves there."
"That you are right." the dwarf scoffed. "Name's Zoltan Chivey. I heard a friend of mine is on the other side so I decided to cross."
"Zoltan…" Armet muttered. "What's your friend's name?"
"Yarpen Zigrin," Zoltan said.
"Ah, of course it's gotta be that old dwarf…" Armet said. "Well, you're welcome to enter. If you're looking for Yarpen, he's somewhere around the streets helping the people blockade it."
"Aye, thank you for that, lad."
—
The next few days were a blur for Armet. He had prepared himself for this day in the past few months, yet still the nerve he can't quite get rid off. Technically, this would be his first all out battle. A militia force not even numbered around a thousand, against five thousand hardy and trained men of Kaedwen. If he only looked at the numbers, he would think it is hopeless.
Armet rushed to the war council with Yarpen, their faces dark with grave news from the wall. Armet pushed the door open, and everyone turned to him, already wearing their battle armour. The table of the council has been turned to show the scenario of the battlefield, complete with figurines symbolising soldiers. Obviously, Kaedwen's army has more figurines than the militia of Vergen.
"Henselt has moved his soldiers." Armet brought out the news. "Expect an assault in the next few hours. The scouts suggested he'll assault in waves, they said that the first wave is around fifteen hundred men."
"So the time has come." Stennis simply said.
"The sky has gone cloudy." Armet continued. "We're expecting rain. The militiamen can't fire under the wet conditions. We need to hold on to the walls as long as possible, where the thunderers can shoot as long as they can."
Armet turned to the figurines, and pointed at specific choke points in the city. "But, if that is impossible, the men on the walls will retreat and split up to squads of militiamen here, here, and here, to hold and use volley fire the Kaedweni invaders in the streets. The prince's armed men will guard them."
Stennis clenched his first. "I too bring grave news."
Armet frowned. "What is it?"
"The nobles on my side that I called. They have betrayed me." he said darkly. "Three hundred armed men and forty knights are now gone to Henselt."
"Bloody traitors." Yarpen spat.
"What is our final headcount then?" Saskia asked calmly.
"Two hundred dwarves. Five hundred militia thunderers, fifty three knights, and two hundred armed men."
"One to five. It is not that bad." Saskia leaned to the table confidently. "Armet, continue."
"Well, the militiamen will stand with fewer armed men then." Armet said wryly. "I'll take command on one of the squads of the three checkpoints, Yarpen and his fellow veteran, Sheldon Skaggs, will command the other two. As for the dwarves… fifty of them will guard the tunnels and mines from sappers, and the rest will join in the walls. If the streets are overrun, then all will retreat to the castle, though I doubt that would happen. With the way Henselt is sending his army to us, I would think the first wave would not even reach the top of the wall at all. It will be in the second wave that he's just going to send the whole of his force, and that's where we will struggle a little."
It was then that the door of the room opened once more, and someone walked in. It was an elf, guarded with a few more elves, armed to the teeth with a bow, arrows, and all types of small arms. Everyone in the council frowned at the sight, some even held their weapon tightly. They were Scoia'tael. Some called them freedom fighters. Some called them bandits. Most just call them war criminals.
"Gentlemen, I give you Iorveth." Saskia said.
"Why are you here, murderer?" spoke one of the nobles with hatred in his voice.
"I come to bring a hundred of the north's best archers for the dragonslayer." the elf simply said.
"You? With us?" the noble scoffed. "Saskia, surely you understand—"
"I understand clearly." Saskia said. "Iorveth came to me to support us in our cause. I trust him, and I know that he'll stay true to it, just like each of you."
"He had burned countless villages in my land." one of the nobles said.
"He has killed my men and their families. His head is posted at every bounty wall north of the Yaruga. Treachery runs through his very veins." another noble said. "And you trust him?"
"Gentlemen, for the first time, his cause makes sense." Saskia argued. "The Scoia'tael have fought for their freedom, for the freedom of the valley of flowers. They've been betrayed and used by Nilfgaard. Now… Now they have a new goal. Our own goal. The freedom of the Pontar Valley. This could be the chance where this land will turn into a paradise of cooperation between the races, where no men nor dwarves would have to be afraid of elven arrows if they venture to this valley. You know who we are up against. The Kaedweni army is well equipped and well trained. They are brave. The thunderers and the cannons might break their morale, but their numbers are many. We need every hand we can get. From men, dwarves, or elves alike. Isn't this the point of our rebellion? A free state where everyone is welcomed? Regardless of our woes of the past? I want Iorveth to have a place here as any of you do, because like it or not, he has been in this freedom fighting business for years more than us."
Yarpen grumbled. "I take no pleasure in fraternizing with elves like him. But a shit-stained pike is still a pike. I'd say aye."
"Bloody hell… Father's rolling in his grave…" a noble muttered. "But for the cause… Aye."
"Then the matter is settled." Saskia nodded. "Armet? Any thoughts?"
"As long as he's here for the cause, I have no qualms." Armet simply said, staring at the elf. "Regardless, a hundred longbowmen is great news. You can take orders from a dh'oine, elf?"
"As long as it's within limits." said Iorveth thinly.
"That's good enough." Armet hummed. "You Scoia'tael are like your namesake, yes? Like squirrels. I want you at the walls all the same, but if it is overrun, you instruct your elves to jump over the rooftops of the city, kill off any soldiers on the streets from there, and support the militiamen that are fighting them. Can you do that?"
Iorveth merely nodded.
Armet turned to the others again. "As for the last thing… Phillipa. I know you don't like to be commanded, but be a dear and repel any destructive magic that could wipe out the walls in an instant. I know you're only one woman, and I heard there's a lot of your peers across the river, but do your best at it."
Phillipa scoffed. "That is only a given, boy. Leave the matters of magic to me. Detmold and Sile will certainly try to do something."
Armet nodded. "Then I'm done talking as your master engineer. As your fellow peers, however, I wish to say good luck. We're going to need it."
"You heard the man." Saskia said. "I needn't have to remind you again why we are fighting here. Our dream is at stake. And this is only the beginning of our struggle. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe Redania will take offense to our nation's existence, or even Nilfgaard, but we'll fight it off all the same. Because we have something that they don't. Ingenuity of all races, and something to fight for."
—
It was a few hours past noon. Rain pattered steadily against the walls of Vergen, drumming on stone and timber. Water streamed from the hoardings in thin, silvery sheets, splashing onto the mud below. Along the battlements, soldiers waited. Grim, silent, shoulders taut beneath soaked cloaks, as a yellow and black smear of movement took shape in the valley beyond. The Kaedweni army was coming.
The cannoneers worked in low voices, adjusting elevation, ramming shot and powder into cold iron. Men buckled straps, checked priming flasks, and gripped their thunderers tighter. The air reeked of damp stone and raw gunpowder, a sharp, bitter scent that stung the throat.
Armet stood at the forward line, pistol drawn, short sword at his hip. His jaw was tight. He could taste the rain on his lips. Fifteen hundred men were about to try the walls, or leave their bones beneath them.
Then the horns sounded from the enemies. A long, rising note that rolled through the valley and over the walls, echoing like some beast's cry. Others answered it in turn, until the storm carried a chorus of war.
"Present!" Armet shouted. The militiamen lifted their thunderers in shaky unison. Cold sweat streamed down their faces.
"Hold!" he bellowed, as the Kaedwenis came into view, shields up, ladders on shoulders, voices raised in desperate cries to whatever gods might listen. "Hold!"
Five hundred yards. Four hundred. Three. Two. Then, one hundred yards. The line momentarily stopped, but surged forward nonetheless.
Armet raised his pistol, sighted the center mass of dark figures, and gave the order. "Fire!"
The walls erupted. Cannons thundered, spitting flame and smoke; thunderers cracked in rolling waves. The recoil slammed through shoulders and arms, powder smoke and rain mingling into a choking gray veil. Iron and lead tore through flesh and armor alike. Men toppled, exploded, or screamed beneath the smoke.
For a heartbeat, Armet could barely hear himself think. The enemy's front ranks were gone. Blown apart, scattered. Still, through the drifting smoke, more figures pushed forward, shouting, stumbling over the dead.
"Reload! Fire at will!" Armet roared.
He snapped open his pistol, rammed powder and ball with shaking hands, then spun around to check the cannons. The crews were already at work, swearing, sweating, shoving powder bags and balls into blackened muzzles. Thunderers along the wall fired in scattered rhythm, each report cracking through the rain and echoing off the stone like drumfire.
Then came the first ladder.
"Ladder! To the left!" someone shouted. Armed men rushed to it, bracing their boots against the parapet, straining to shove it back. Below, the Kaedwenis shouted curses, their hands clawing for grip on the slick wood. The militiamen leaned over the hoardings and fired downward, smoke blooming in thick white clouds that curled and drifted through the rain.
Arrows and bolts hissed up from below, clattering against wood and stone. The hoardings shielded most of it, but one man still screamed as a bolt buried itself in his thigh.
The cannons spoke again; deep, concussive roars that shook the wall beneath their feet. Their shots tore into the backlines of the attackers, turning ranks of men into scattered, writhing heaps.
Through the drifting haze, Armet caught sight of elves, longbows drawn, loosing arrows with eerie precision. Each shot dropped a man before he could even raise his shield.
More ladders struck the wall. One, two, then a dozen. Some were shoved free, tumbling backward, crushing the men climbing them, but others held fast. Kaedwenis began to crest the parapets, bloodied and desperate.
"Boiling water! Bring it up!" Armet shouted, firing his pistol down into a man's face below.
Moments later, dwarves heaved steaming cauldrons to the edge. The first pot tipped, and a cascade of boiling water poured over the ladder. The screams that followed were lost beneath the storm, but the smell of burned flesh cut through even the stench of powder and rain.
"Death to these sons of bitches!" a dwarf shouted with a bark of laughter. His axe came down with a wet crunch, splitting the skull of a Kaedweni who had managed to reach the parapet. The men nearby roared with him in triumph.
Armet turned toward the dwarf, it was Zoltan Chivay, grinning beneath his drenched beard, blood and rain running down his face in equal measure.
Armet reloaded and fired again. Another man fell screaming into the mud below. From his vantage, he could see it, the flicker of fear spreading through the Kaedweni ranks. Their formation faltered, voices broke. One more push, he thought. Just one more volley and they'll break.
Then came another cauldron. Boiling water cascaded down the stone once more. The screams were enough to shatter the courage of even the boldest. Men turned and ran, stumbling over corpses and dropping ladders.
"Keep firing!" someone shouted, but the tone had changed, less desperation, more exhilaration. The militiamen unleashed their thunderers at will, smoke rolling across the battlements as cheers erupted along the wall.
Ladders were kicked free, tumbling backward. The enemy scattered, vanishing into the gray veil of rain and gunpowder smoke.
Victory. If only for the moment.
The men shouted and laughed, slapping one another on the back, but Armet didn't join them. He stood at the parapet, pistol lowered, staring into the mist where the Kaedweni host still lingered beyond sight. The battlefield lay quiet now, save for the rain and the distant moans of the dying.
He knew this was far from over.
"Carry the injured off the walls!" he commanded.
The laughter faded as men moved quickly to obey. Two dwarves carried a bleeding soldier between them, his leg blackened from a crossbow bolt. Another militiaman dragged a friend by the collar, leaving a streak of blood that the rain struggled to wash away.
Armet watched them go for a moment, then turned as heavy footsteps approached behind him.
"Didn't think those thunderers would hold up that well," came a gravelly voice. Cecil Burdon, the old dwarf, strode up beside him, his armor dented and wet, a broad axe slung across his shoulder. "But damned if they didn't make a fine noise."
Armet gave a short nod, still watching the distant plain. "Half of them barely hit anything. The ones that did though… made it count."
Cecil grunted, squinting into the mist. "That wasn't the main force. You can bet your arse on it. The rest'll be here soon enough."
Before Armet could reply, footsteps clattered on the stone behind them. Saskia strode up the battlements, her cloak drenched, golden hair plastered to her neck, her armor spattered with mud and blood. Stennis followed close behind, his silk cloak soaked through, his expression sour beneath the rain.
"You've done well," Saskia said, her voice steady despite the storm. She looked over the wall, eyes narrowing at the dark movement reforming in the valley. "But like the scouts say, this was just their vanguard."
"Thirty-five hundred still down there," Cecil muttered. "All that's left of Kaedwen's pride."
Stennis frowned. "Likely more. The traitors of mine are joining them on marching forward like cattle."
"Then we'll cull them again," Saskia said sharply. She turned to Armet. "Ready your cannons and your men. We'll not let them set a single ladder against these walls again."
Armet inhaled through his nose and nodded. "Everyone to your stations! Cannoneers, load and ready! Fire the moment you've got accurate range! I want the bastards crawling before they even see our walls!"
The men scrambled to their positions. Powder sacks were passed around, shot loaded, fuses lit. The air thrummed with renewed tension.
Down below, the drums of Kaedwen grew louder, echoing through the valley like a heartbeat of war.
Saskia stood beside Armet, eyes fixed on the horizon, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
Armet rested his hand on the cold stone of the parapet. "Round two," he muttered. "Let's see how long we can hold."
The cannons kept firing, smoke covering the sight of the militiamen and the enemies alike. From the shots, he could hear wailing of pain from the enemies, but the drums of war echoed nonetheless.
Six hundred yards. Five. four.
"Present!" Armet commanded again.
"Hold your ground, people of Vergen!" Saskia's voice rose above the cannon fire and the unrelenting rain. She stood upon the battlements, her sword raised high.
"You've seen them bleed!" she shouted. "You've seen them break before your courage! They come again with more men, more banners, more empty pride, but they will find the same fate waiting for them at these walls!"
The soldiers turned toward her voice, faces streaked with sweat and soot, their hearts pounding. Even the rain seemed to pause between her words.
"They think us few! They think us afraid!" Saskia continued. "But it is not numbers that win wars, it is fire in the heart! It is the will to stand, to fight, to protect what's ours!"
A rumble of agreement spread through the defenders, first a murmur, then a shout. Militiamen held their thunderers more tightly. Dwarves grinned behind wet beards. Elves drew their bows tighter.
"Look below you!" Saskia cried, stepping to the edge of the wall, sword glinting under the gray light. "The bones of their dead already feed the earth! Today, we'll give the land a feast!"
Her words ignited the men. A cheer rolled down the walls, echoing even over the booming drums of the Kaedweni host.
Armet's pulse quickened; even he felt the fire rise in his chest. "Three hundred yards!" he called, lifting his pistol. The enemy shapes were clearer now, dark figures moving through the smoke, banners snapping under the wind.
Saskia turned to her soldiers one last time, her voice lower now, but no less fierce. "For every one of us who stands, ten Kaedweni shall fall. For every drop of our blood, they'll drown in theirs. Now, show them what it means to defy our will!"
A roar erupted from the walls.
"One hundred yards!" Armet shouted. "Fire!"
The roar of thunderers, the boom of cannons, the scream of iron and flame. Smoke engulfed the wall.
The first volley tore through the Kaedweni ranks like a divine hammer. Whole lines vanished in the crash. Men thrown backward, shields splintered, banners torn apart by lead and iron. The front ranks disintegrated, but the rest came on still, stumbling over the mangled bodies of their comrades, driven by horns, drums, and madness.
"Reload! Fire at will!" Armet shouted. Powder smoke clung to his throat; he could barely breathe through it. All along the wall, thunderers fumbled with powder and ball, hands slick with sweat.
Below, the Kaedwenis were raising ladders again, dozens this time, braced against the blood-slick stone. They shouted in fury and desperation, pressing forward under a storm of thunderer fire and arrows.
"Ladders to the north side!" someone cried. "They're climbing!"
Armet ran along the parapet, ducking as a bolt hissed past his ear. "Push them off! Don't let them touch the wall!"
Dwarves and men shoved against the ladders with pikes and halberds, their boots sliding on wet stone. Every few seconds, another cannon roared, shaking the wall beneath them. The Kaedwenis refused to stop, if one ladder fell, two more took its place.
And then the world split apart.
A blinding light flared through the smoke, followed by a thunderclap so fierce it shook the city to its bones. The gate exploded outward in a blossom of fire, stone and timber hurled through the air like toys. Men were thrown screaming from the battlements as the outer gate crumpled.
"By the gods, a mage!" Cecil roared, pointing toward the valley. Through the drifting smoke, they saw her, a lone figure wreathed in azure light, hand raised high, eyes glowing like molten gold.
Kaedweni soldiers poured through the ruined outer gate, yelling triumphantly as they rushed the breach.
But they didn't know.
"Now!" Armet bellowed.
Boiling oil cascaded from the murder holes at the side, pouring down in glistening sheets. The screams that followed were beyond anything human. Raw, shrill, tearing through the air as men clawed at their melting armor, skin sloughing under the heat.
Thunderers lined the battlements above, reloading fast.
"Fire! What are you waiting for!?" Armet shouted.
The trapped Kaedwenis were cut down where they stood, their cries drowned beneath the crash of thunderers. The ground between the gates became a cauldron of flame and blood. Orange steam raised from the where the oil boils, and the smell of flesh thickened in the air.
The survivors outside faltered, unwilling to advance through the seething pool of oil that now burned at the base of the wall.
Sile raised her staff again, fury twisting her face, but before she could utter a word, the air beside her cracked like glass. A shimmer of violet light burst open, and from it stepped Philippa Eilhart, calm and composed, her eyes blazing.
"That's far enough, dear," she said coldly.
Sile barely turned before Philippa's spell struck, a surge of force that sent them both reeling, vanishing in a flash of light. The battlefield quaked with the echo of their magic, leaving only smoldering ruins at the gate.
"Focus on the walls!" Armet barked. "They're not done yet!"
And indeed, they weren't.
More ladders slammed against the stone. The Kaedwenis roared in fury, scaling them by the dozens now, heedless of the danger. The defenders met them with bayonets and blades, stabbing down into faces and hands, shoving corpses from the parapets.
"Keep them off!" Saskia shouted, cutting down a man who vaulted over the wall. Her blade cleaved through helm and skull alike.
The clang of steel, the thunder of gunfire, the cries of the dying, it all blended into a single, terrible symphony.
Armet thrust his short sword into a man's throat, kicked another down, and shouted over the chaos, "Hold the walls!"
And above it all, the rain kept falling, hissing where it struck the fires, washing blood into the cracks of the stone.
More and more came—climbing, clawing, screaming. Even as countless of their brethren fell screaming from the walls, the Kaedwenis did not stop. Thunderers fired until barrels steamed. Axes, pikes, and halberds rose and fell in a brutal rhythm of death.
But soon, Armet saw what he had dreaded all along: it was too much. The wall groaned under the press of bodies, the defenders pushed to exhaustion.
He turned toward Saskia, who fought beside her men as one of them—her blade red to the hilt, her face streaked with blood and rain.
"Saskia!" he shouted through the din. "We need to—"
"I know!" she barked back, parrying a blow and driving her sword through an enemy's chest. She wrenched it free, turned to her troops, and raised her voice so that it carried over the clash of steel. "Everyone! Fall back to the barricades! Sound the signal!"
A single horn blast cut through the storm—a long, piercing note that rolled across the ramparts like a death call.
The defenders began their retreat, disciplined but desperate. Men and dwarves withdrew in staggered lines, covering each other's movements. The Kaedwenis swarmed over the walls, claiming them at last, though the cost had been oceans of blood.
Cannoneers abandoned their guns, grabbing thunderers and powder horns before fleeing down the stairs.
Just as planned, the defenders split—three chokeholds, three barricades across the city's main streets, each guarding a path to the inner keep. Armet's men took the central route.
They fell back behind a wall of overturned carts, broken furniture, and debris, makeshift defenses soaked dark with rain. A rough canvas canopy stretched above them, sagging under the water's weight, but shielding the precious powder from the downpour.
Armed men and dismounted knights held the flanks, shields up, while the militiamen crouched behind the barricade, thunderers braced and ready.
"Fire by ranks!" Armet commanded, his voice steady, sharp. "On my order!"
The rain came harder now, a cold torrent hammering the roofs and stone. Across the square, shapes emerged again, dark figures pushing through the murk, advancing through the narrow streets with ladders and blades raised.
"Fire!"
The first rank rose, thunderers flashing in unison. Smoke and flame burst from the barricade, cutting down the front line of Kaedwenis.
"Next rank, fire!"
Armet's voice became a rhythm, a pulse.
Fire. Reload. Step back. Fire again.
Every time he shouted the word, men fell. Some spun, some crumpled silently, some were torn apart by the lead storm. But still they came, stepping over their dying comrades, eyes wild, weapons slick with rain.
From the corner of his vision, Armet caught movement above—shadows on the rooftops. Iorveth and his Scoia'tael archers. They loosed in perfect cadence, every arrow finding flesh.
Yet even that wasn't enough. The Kaedwenis were nearly upon them now.
Armet clenched his short sword, his blood roaring in his ears. "Men!" he called. "Look at those terrified bastards! Do you not want to see their faces up close?!"
A ragged cheer rose in answer.
"Fix bayonets!" he barked. "Make sure they don't come off! Come on, move it!"
Men snapped blades onto their muzzles, some tying kitchen knives to the ends of their barrels where bayonets had been lost. Their hands trembled, but their eyes burned with resolve.
"Ready?!" Armet raised his pistol one last time, the hammer cocked. "Arise! Arise, sons of Upper Aedirn! Fire, then charge!"
The volley cracked out like thunder. Then came the roar, men leaping the barricade, bayonets leveled, voices raw with fury.
They hit the Kaedwenis like a hammer striking glass.
Armed men and knights crashed into them, shields and blades smashing through their weakened line. The enemy's will broke in an instant. Panic spread like fire.
Those who fled into alleys and homes met elven arrows from above. Swift, silent deaths in the rain.
It was a slaughter. The defenders cut down every straggler, every wounded man who still drew breath. Blood ran down the gutters with the rain.
And when it was over, the men of Vergen stood beneath the storm, soaked and trembling, their cheers rising into the gray sky.
"It's not over yet!" Armet said. "March, men! Let us help the others! We need to block the escape path of these bastards!"
Armet and his men pushed through the drenched streets of Vergen, boots splashing through blood and rainwater pooling in the cobblestones. The storm still raged above, thunder rolling low over the valley, but now its sound mingled with the dying cries of the Kaedwenis who still lingered within the city.
They moved swiftly, weapons drawn, past toppled carts and the bodies of fallen friends. The smell of smoke and powder hung heavy in the air, sharp and metallic, mixing with the reek of mud and blood.
When they reached the walls, only a thin line of Kaedweni soldiers remained there, stragglers left behind to guard the breach. They barely had time to turn before Armet's men fell upon them. Steel flashed, and in moments it was done. The last defenders tumbled lifelessly to the stones, their blood washing away in the rain.
Now, the Kaedwenis that are still fighting have nowhere to run.
From above, a shadow dropped lightly onto the cobblestones. Iorveth landed with the grace of a hunting cat. His bow was still in hand, its string damp but unbroken.
"You did well, dh'oine," he said. "You chose to charge instead of staying put."
Armet wiped the rain and grime from his face with the back of his hand, his pistol hanging loosely at his side. "It was clear they'd break the moment we hit them. Staying behind the barricade would've just delayed it."
Iorveth nodded once, his sharp eyes scanning the battlefield. "I've already regrouped my archers. They're striking the eastern flank now, one strong blow, where it hurts most."
Armet gave a faint smirk. "Good. The faster we crush them, the fewer graves we'll need to dig."
The elf tilted his head, as if listening to something in the distance, then turned back to Armet. "It's already done. Henselt's been captured, Saskia has him."
For a heartbeat, the rain seemed quieter.
Armet's jaw tightened. "Then it's over. Clean this up and fortify it, after that, we march to the keep."
—
When Armet, Iorveth, and his men arrived at the keep, Armet could see Saskia standing beside Phillipa with someone that he knew from long ago, which only made him raise his brow. Henselt was there as well, tied and half-beaten, along with Detmold, tied with dimeritium cuffs.
Saskia was all quiet when Armet arrived, leading him to turn to Phillipa. "What happened?"
"Your old dwarf." Phillipa simply said.
Hearing that, Armet instantly knew. "Fuck."
"We could see him later, Armet." Saskia said. "Here we have Henselt, the cause of it all."
Armet turned to him. The broad-shouldered king is kneeling on the ground, injured, his crown removed from his bald head.
"The battle is over, King." said Saskia, trying to be calm.
"You won." said Henselt tiredly. "And the victor states their terms."
"You will relinquish your claim on this land, and sign an act of unconditional surrender in which you'll promise your troops, and your descendants' troops, will never cross the Pontar again to conquer these lands." Saskia continued. "You will pay war reparations, and you will recognize the free state of Upper Aedirn as a sovereign state of the northern realms."
"What about me and my men?" he questioned. "What awaits us?"
"Freedom." Saskia said. "Be grateful king that we give you that for mere coins. Look at how many of my trusted men are fighting for that, paying with their lives."
"How much do you want?" said Henselt bitterly.
"We'll discuss that later in Loc Muinne, before esteemed witnesses," said Phillipa suddenly.
"What?" Armet said. "No. We shall discuss it here. I don't want to play your games now, Phillipa."
"I am not playing any games, boy." Phillipa said. "News has spread of other kingdoms wanting to gather to decide the fate of Temeria after Foltest was assassinated. And that gathering is at Loc Muinne. Every king will be there, including a Nilfgaardian delegation. It would be in our interest to join in. We should use this opportunity to stake a claim in this valley and become ourselves a sovereign state. We could kill two birds with one stone there."
Armet frowned, then smiled slightly. "What do you think, Saskia?"
"The idea is sound, but Nilfgaardians being there don't bring me much confidence that it will end well. We know what they are planning." Saskia crossed her arms.
"Saskia, this is a big opportunity. I agree, the Nilfgaardian delegation being there isn't reassuring, but from it, we could secure alliances that would help us defend against their plans." Phillipa said. "We can achieve a lot more than if we are to just stay here and prepare."
Saskia frowned, then clenched her fist, sighing. "Armet, remember my words to you?"
Armet raised his brow. "What of it?"
"I will come to this summit." Saskia said. "It is risky, yes, but Phillipa's logic is hard to argue. I could secure a lot of things if I could get the opportunity."
Armet was quiet, but smiled, almost satisfied. "Very well, I'll stay here and go to a state of long preparation."
Saskia turned to Henselt, who was watching all this time. "You are to go with us, king. As for your mage, they're to go with us as well."
"Where is Sile?" Armet asked.
"Escaped." Said Phillipa. "Detmold here was incapacitated by Geralt here."
Armet turned to the guest that he has yet to address. "Geralt of Rivia. Long time no see."
The witcher, the white wolf turned to Armet. "You know me?"
"His head is a bit off right now. He doesn't remember you, Armet." Phillipa said. "You can catch up later, for now, witcher, help me bring Detmold to my room, so that I can transport him to Loc Muinne."
The witcher frowned, "Fine."
—
Armet stood in the makeshift medic camp just outside the keep. Among the rows of wounded and dead, his eyes fell upon Skalen, kneeling beside a still figure draped in a tattered cloak.
It was Cecil. The old alderman lay motionless, a crossbow bolt buried just beneath the edge of his breastplate, the one place it could slip through.
Skalen's shoulders shook as he let out a bitter, broken laugh. "Hells, Armet… of all the ways for the old bastard to go… a single bolt. Slipped right where the armor ends. Figures, doesn't it?" His voice cracked, trembling somewhere between disbelief and grief.
Armet said nothing at first. He only stepped closer and placed a hand on Skalen's shoulder, staring at the pale, gentle face of the dwarf who had once taken care of him in his childhood.
"I've lost my parents," Skalen muttered after a moment. "And now him too. Gods… they've got a cruel sense of humor."
"You're not hurt?" Armet asked quietly.
Skalen wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and forced a small, broken smile. "No. Not a scratch on me. Figures again, doesn't it? He takes the bolt, and I'm left here to deal with his things. Even dead, he's still finding ways to keep me busy."
Armet managed the faintest smile at that, but it didn't reach his eyes. The rain pattered softly against the canvas roof, and for a long while, neither of them spoke, the only sound was the storm, and the quiet dignity of loss.
"I'll bury him in the crypts." Skalen muttered. "Sorry, Armet, but I can't bring you—"
"It's fine." Armet said. "I'll be fine."