The Harvest Wars - Book 3 - Siege (Currently On Hold 😕 Sorry)

The ugly side of war

The streets of Covenport

Age of Prime - Spring, year 1889

8th Schmelze, Night

Rain fell, the drops as thick and heavy as lead. It felt good, so very good. Cleansing, slowly breaking loose the crust of gore that clung to Brass like a second skin. He longed to take off his skull-mask, to run his fingers over his face and scalp in order to wipe the dirt and grime away but dared not. The wagon they rode in was but a plain transport cart with no seats and they were all but flying over Covenport's streets with neck-breaking speed. The big man was sure that if he let go, it would but be a matter of mere moments before he was thrown off.

Never a dull day, he thought bitterly, first trying to blank out the pain of the teeth-rattling ride, then embracing it like an old friend. Brass felt every bruise, every cut, and every muscle of his huge body protest, and for what? Their mission had been a disaster. Oh, they had fulfilled their task – they always did – but at what cost?

He looked at Draemaugh, sitting opposite of him. The lightning arcing over the broiling sky painted him in a ghostly pale sheen, highlighting the many tattoos on his bare torso and arms, eyes sunken and sullen as he stared at the cobblestones trailing away behind them. He took no notice of the burned out houses leaning in on them like emaciated giants, apparently not even caring for the spear-blade that still loomed from his thigh. It pained Brass to see the barbarian this way. Regardless of how bad things were, you could always count on Draemaugh making light of the situation, always joking, or spinning tall tales. Now he looked broken, both physically and mentally, brought low by his brother's death.

The cart took a sharp turn, the wheels on Brass side skittering, and then briefly losing contact with the street. He had to hold on with all his strength to not get thrown off.

"Bloody idiot!" he bellowed. "Do you want to—"

He never finished the sentence, his words drowned by the sounds of battle hammering them from all sides. Brass eyes went wide. They had driven onto a small marketplace, now the scene of a fierce battle raging at two of its sides. It was only then that Brass truly realized the magnitude of the assault unleashed upon the forces of the Scarred Empire.

Lit by the flames of hastily erected pyres and even a few burning barricades, dozens of Scarlanders defended the north and south of the market against a horde of undead horrors and Bloodmaw shock troops. The animal roars of the hulking monstrosities providing a stark contrast to the eerie silence of the undead. Relentlessly the horde pushed against the burning barricades, the walking dead hardly caring as the flames clawed at their flesh. Yet even now those fires were dying, quenched by the battering rain, opening more and more holes in the defenses.

Scenes of horror and heroism unfolded all around them. Brass beheld a single pike-man that had gotten separated from his comrades desperately fight against a score of slavering zombies. Throwing an oil-lamp at them, he set them ablaze, but still they came for him, taking him down below their weight. His terror-filled screams, even audible over the pandemonium, rose to a pitch as they sank their rotting teeth into him. A few moments later he saw a small group of ax-men defending a breach in the barricades. They had set the heads of their weapons afire with oil, their blades chopping down zombies, sending burning flesh and oil trailing after them as they hacked and sliced in abandon. He lost sight of them quickly.

Once the wagon was half across the market, officers on horseback began bellowing retreat orders. It was only then that Brass realized these men were not trying to gain ground or slaughter their enemy. Now, they were merely holding their positions because of them, enabling their escape.

Considering the chaos, the officers did a good job organizing the retreat. Scores of soldiers fell in behind the wagon, their wide eyes glittering madly in the shine of flames. Brass judged that half of their original number had perished, easily a hundred men dead or dying. He looked back and gazed at the chained tome Craven had slung over his shoulder.

All this for a book?

As their mad ride continued, more units fell in behind them and all of them had horror and despair written on their faces. Heroes one and all, they had been holding and blocking streets and side streets, keeping the road open and safe. Soon a small army followed in their wake, all the while fighting their inhuman enemy.

As their wagon dashed by, Brass saw many things that he knew he would never forget: a squire, hardly more than a boy, defending a fallen knight with his body from a pack of Thorn-Ghouls; a soldier that was literally ripped to pieces by zombies, his screams tearing through the night as they consumed his entrails while he was still alive; a unit of shield bearers holding an alley that was under heavy assault by a true avalanche of blood-crazed ghouls. The fiends were clashing against the soldiers like the waves of an ocean and he knew there would be no escape for them. Even if they turned and ran, they would be cut down immediately. They sacrificed their lives so that others would survive and he had seen how merciless their enemy would take to their bravery.

Brass bared witness to their sacrifice...

It was not much, but it was all he could do.