As the hours dragged on, the ambush showed no sign of ending. The defenders did not rush recklessly into combat but chose instead to grind the Oizen soldiers down piece by piece, loosing arrows and hurling stones in an endless cycle of torment. Why spill their own blood when steel and stone could do the killing for them?
The shield wall began to fracture as the time passed. Every fallen man left a gap, and every gap became an opening for the enemy's missiles to strike the ranks behind and cause even more casualties.
Among the weary stood Shamla, his body trembling with exhaustion. His arms burned with the weight of the shield he had held aloft for hours, his shoulders raw and aching from the strain. Thirst clawed at his throat until swallowing felt like choking, yet there was no water, no rest, no reprieve.
Wherever his eyes turned was death, and whatever his ears caught was just the moaning of the wounded or the rattling cry of the soon-to-be dead.
He did not want to be there anymore....gods how he longed for home.
"This is it," he thought, his eyes lifting toward the night sky.
His only hope had been that by holding their position long enough, his uncle would realize something had gone wrong and order the main host to storm the walls.
But as the minutes stretched into what seemed hours and no commotion stirred from the enemy lines, Shamla felt his heart sink like a stone. Their plight had been missed or ignored, and the truth became undeniable. From the moment they entered the city their fate had been sealed. No help would come.
The barrage continued in relentless rhythm, broken only by cruel taunts that echoed from the walls.
"The main army will not come! You are alone! Drop your weapons! Lay down your arms, for there is no hope for you to live otherwise!"
Every time the defenders shouted, a dreadful silence followed, as though the night itself paused to await the answer. And when none came, the arrows flew again.
Shamla clenched his jaw, rage flaring within him as he felt the throb of the arrow buried in his shoulder. The pain burned like fire, but he welcomed it, using it to focus his anger, to keep himself from collapsing under despair.
Is there any silver lining?He wondered before realising the answer was a resounding no.
"That traitor," he thought bitterly. "We were sent here to die. The insider played us, and we walked into the snare like fools."
His thoughts turned to Fahil, and his lips twisted with hate. "If I ever get my hands on him…"
Above, the stars glittered cold and uncaring, their light falling upon the trapped soldiers who waited for the end. Shamla wondered if surrender was the only choice left.
The thought lingered, heavy and poisonous. Surrender would mean admitting defeat, casting aside honor, and offering themselves like meat to the very hounds that had torn them apart. Perhaps he, as commander, might have chosen death instead of meeting his uncle in chain, but his men? They would be discarded and butchered.
And Shamla was not ready to feed his enemies his pride along with the blood of his men....
--------------
It was still dark outside, but Alpheo had ordered torches lit so the ruin of his enemies could be seen clearly; after all, he would never dare not honor the sight fully after all the trouble he had gone to in order to make it real.
From the back of his horse, Alpheo surveyed the devastation , a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. His eyes gleamed in the torchlight, drinking in the sight of a proud army brought low by its own arrogance.
He felt like an artist hearing the praise about his work on display...
Beside him, Egil scratched the scruff on his chin, a crooked grin playing across his face. "Never seen you look so smug,"
Alpheo chuckled, his expression never wavering. "I am happy, what crime is there in that? Nothing pleases me more than watching men who once looked down upon me sink to my level. And soon, someone of royal blood will kneel as well.What's there not to be happy about?
Is that not so, Fahil?"
The traitor's head jerked up at the sound of his name. His face was pale, his eyes restless, caught between dread and resignation.
"If the tables were turned," Alpheo continued, his tone almost casual, "my head would be spiked on your prince's walls to rot. I am merciful enough to allow him an honorable surrender. Tell me, am I wrong?"
"N-no," Fahil stammered, voice cracking. "You are right. Just. Kind.Truly a beacon of good" His trembling hand gestured forward, pleading. "I have kept my part of the bargain. Will you keep yours?"
Doubt is hollowing him out from the inside, Alpheo thought, as he took the cup handed to him by young Ratto, whose eyes had been glued to the field since the fighting began.
"Like what you see, boy?" Alpheo asked, ignoring the rat.
The question snapped the boy from his trance. He only nodded, wordless. Alpheo laughed under his breath and turned back to Fahil.
"Listen," he said flatly finally turning to the man. "Our paths diverge here. I'll find other employment, and you'll go back to licking your prince's hand. Whether you are a rotten apple that will betray the next master for a few false promises makes no difference to me."
Sweat glistened on Fahil's brow.
"As far as I care, you are not my man, and so your fate is of no concern to me. You have nothing to fear, I'll keep my word. And besides…" Alpheo smirked as he nudged the man's shoulder with his boot. "The enemy commander is on his way to surrender. Let us not sour the moment with doubt and betrayal, take the sight and relax yourself, the night has barely started...."
The words had barely settled when the defeated soldiers stirred. A figure emerged from their ranks, and the crowd parted in silence to let him through. Step by step, he advanced.
An arrow jutted from his shoulder, the wound staining the metal with dark blood. He carried his sheathed sword across his palms, held out in the universal sign of surrender.
The torchlight caught his face as he drew closer. Though the lines of exhaustion marked him and the weight of defeat must have surely pressed heavily upon his shoulders, there was no slouch in his posture, no faltering in his gaze.
When the armored figure was only a few paces away, he dropped to both knees. With care, he placed his sword on the ground before him. His voice carried across the silent field, firm yet heavy with defeat.
"My name is Shamla of House Oizen, nephew to Prince Shamleik Oizen. I surrender unconditionally into your hands, on the condition you swear to keep my men alive for ransom and that you treat me in a manner my rank demands."
Alpheo studied him from the saddle for a long moment before dismounting. He stepped forward, boots crunching against the dirt, and bent to lift the sword from the ground. By taking it, he accepted the surrender.
"I have no reason to deny you," Alpheo said evenly. "Your men will be disarmed, fed, watered, and given care by my physicians. As for you—" he gestured to the arrow jutting from Shamla's shoulder— "I suspect you will be paying them a visit yourself."
A grunt of reluctant acknowledgment escaped the kneeling man.
Alpheo gave a curt nod, then pulled his horse closer and offered the reins. In a rare gesture of respect, he allowed Shamla to mount. But before the commander departed with his escort, he turned, his eyes narrowing on Alpheo.
"One thing I ask," he said quietly. "The insider. May I know his name, if he yet lives?"
"Of course," Alpheo replied without hesitation, pointing toward a figure lingering nearby. "There he stands."
Fahil froze under the weight of the commander's gaze. Shamla's face hardened, and before Fahil could react, a glob of spit struck his cheek. The traitor flinched, wiped it away in silence, and lowered his eyes.
''I hate traitors,'' he muttered before allowing himself to be led away by Alpheo's guards toward the tents, his dignity intact even in defeat.
Of course, failing in taking heed of the fact that he apparently hated traitors only when they came from his side, as it seemed he had no qualms about making use of them when it was convenient for his uncle.
"This night was meant to be his glory," Alpheo thought as he watched him go. "Too bad it became mine."
It didn't take long, for the physicians to tend to Shamla's wound, and in the meantime Alpheo turned his attention to the surrendered sword. The sheath gleamed richly in the torchlight, adorned with silver lining that gave it the air of a royal heirloom.
"That piece could fetch a small fortune," Clio remarked with a low whistle.
"Perhaps," Alpheo muttered. Then, without warning, he extended the weapon toward Asag. "It's yours."
Asag's eyes widened, his hands trembling as he took the sword. "I—I can't," he stammered, clutching the weapon as though it might vanish.
"You can, and you will," Alpheo said firmly. "You were the one who uncovered the plot. Without you, all of us would have been dead by now. If anyone deserves this blade, it is you. Learn to use it well; I'll be needing you on the front lines before long."
"He's right," Jarza chimed in with a sly grin. "Though if you truly don't want it, I'll be happy to relieve you of the burden; it seems like it is worth the coin it was made of." He reached for the hilt, only to have Asag instinctively pull it close to his chest.
"Thank you," Asag whispered, the words almost choked. He gave the sword a tentative swing through the air, its edge hissing with each stroke.
Alpheo smirked, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good. Keep it close." Then, turning, he began issuing orders for the surrendered soldiers to be disarmed, strictly, but without harm.
There was no need to sour this beautiful moment with more meaningless death.