Dawn came grey and mean
The mists clung to the earth like a burial shroud as Garran Vale stood by his horse, cinching the straps of his swordbelt. The men of the Black Harp were already assembled in the muddy clearing beyond Goldmere's northern wall — two hundred grim-faced killers, clad in rusted mail and patched leathers, armed with whatever they could scavenge or steal.
The air stank of old sweat, wet earth, and cold iron.
Jorik came up beside him, chewing a strip of salted meat. "Word is, Althred's men hold tight inside that timber hall. Won't ride out. Cowards."
"Not cowards," Garran muttered, adjusting his cloak. "Smart. A strong door's worth a hundred men if you've no siege engines."
Jorik spat a bone into the grass. "Then we burn it."
"That's the plan." Garran's gaze lingered on the horizon, where a line of trees marked the rebel's holdfast. The place was little more than a wooden palisade and a timber longhall — a marcher lord's keep in these parts. But walls were walls, and desperate men behind them were dangerous.
A rider approached from Goldmere. A herald in green and black livery.
He reined in before Garran. "Lord Ranmere bids you take the hall by dusk. No delays."
Garran gave him a flat look. "Tell your lord blood doesn't flow by the hour."
The herald paled, turned his mount, and galloped back without a word.
Jorik grinned. "Ranmere's shitting himself. Afraid Halden's men'll sweep down while his back's turned."
Garran nodded. It was likely. The Marches were a nest of vipers. And snakes struck fastest when blood was already spilled.
He mounted his horse. "Form ranks," he called.
The Black Harp moved.
Lines of spearmen, a ragged line of crossbowmen, a dozen riders on rough nags. They had no siege towers, no catapults. But they had fire, and they had steel.
By midmorning, they reached the rebel hold.
The palisade rose from the mist, a ring of sharpened logs driven into earth. A crude banner fluttered above — a black stag on a grey field. Ser Coren Althred's sigil.
"Holdfast's smaller than I thought," Jorik noted. "Could piss over those walls."
"Maybe," Garran said. "But it'll be pissing through arrows."
Even as he spoke, a horn blew from within the walls. Heads appeared along the ramparts — levy archers, a few armored knights, their faces drawn and grim. Garran counted maybe forty men atop the wall. Which meant the rest waited inside.
A man in dented mail rode out through the gates, flanked by two riders. Ser Coren Althred, by the look — grey-bearded, one-eyed, a battered warhammer at his side.
He reined in a dozen yards from Garran's line.
"Mercenary," Coren called. "Turn back. This land was mine before Ranmere's grandsire pissed his first breath."
Garran nudged his horse forward. "I don't care whose land it was. It's paid for now. And you're part of the price."
Coren spat. "Blood sellswords like you are why this realm rots."
"Better a paid sword than a dead fool."
The old knight's face tightened. "If you have a soul left, you'll ride away. I'll pay your men twice what Ranmere offers. And you'll sleep with clean hands."
Jorik chuckled behind Garran. "I'm partial to bloody hands, myself."
Garran considered it. A good offer. If it was true. But no — Ranmere would see his head on a spike if he turned.
He shook his head. "Too late for bargains, old man."
Coren sighed, as if expecting nothing else. He raised his hammer in salute, then wheeled his horse and rode back to the gates.
The horns blew again.
"Archers forward!" Garran bellowed.
His crossbowmen scuttled up, loosing a ragged volley. Bolts thudded into the palisade. A few men atop the wall fell. A half-hearted return volley spattered down — one shaft thudding harmlessly into the mud beside Garran's boot.
"Torches," he growled. The sappers moved up with bundles of pitch-soaked faggots.
"Burn them out," Garran snarled. "Then kill what runs."
His men surged forward, shields raised. Flames caught along the palisade's base. Smoke coiled into the sky.
Inside, he heard the desperate shouts of defenders. Doors slamming. Children crying.
War was a pitiless thing.
"Jorik," Garran said, without looking back. "When the gates fall, take ten men and find Althred. I want him alive if possible. Dead if not."
"Aye," Jorik grinned. "Been too long since we kicked in a lord's door."
The gates began to smolder.
Spears jutted through the gaps. Garran's men pressed in, shields battering against the timber.
The gate cracked.
Once.
Twice.
On the third blow, it splintered.
The Black Harp poured through, a tide of blood and steel.
Garran was among them, sword in hand, cutting down a levy man with a hook-spear, kicking another into the mud. The smoke stung his eyes, the cries of men and women alike rising like a prayer to cruel gods.
He saw Ser Coren Althred in the chaos, surrounded by his remaining knights, warhammer red with blood.
Garran cut his way forward.
"Althred!" he roared.
The old knight turned — weary, bleeding from a cut above his eye. "I told you, sellsword. No good end comes from blood for coin."
"Never been interested in good ends," Garran said — and lunged.
Their blades met. Hammer to sword. The clang of iron against iron.
Althred fought like a man with nothing left to lose. Garran met him stroke for stroke, slipping inside the swing of the hammer, driving his blade deep into the old man's ribs.
Althred staggered.
Garran caught him as he fell.
"Mercy," the knight rasped.
"Not today," Garran murmured — and drove the blade home.
Althred shuddered and was still.
The hall was taken. Smoke curling from its windows. Garran's men already dragging bodies from the rubble. A few women, sobbing, huddled by the wall. The stink of burnt wood and blood thick in the air.
Jorik came limping from the hall's doorway, grinning.
"Hall's ours, captain. Took his steward, and a chest of coin."
"Good," Garran said. He looked down at the bloodied corpse at his feet.
One lord down.
Many more to go.