Volume One: The Forest Knight Chapter 60: Trapped Like Turtles in a Jar

Derrick came running back, covered in blood. When he saw Cassel, his face was full of anguish. “Boss Cassel, it’s been years since the Black Mountain Company has suffered such a loss. The brothers were slaughtered, it’s too tragic. We can’t just retreat like this!”

Cassel raised his riding crop and struck Derrick on the shoulder, making the already-injured centurion grimace in pain. Cassel stared coldly at him. “Centurion, who told you I was retreating? If we don’t take Westis Town and go back like this, the Captain General will skin both of us alive!”

Despite the sting in his shoulder, Derrick broke into a grin upon hearing Cassel had no intention of retreating. “As long as we’re not retreating. On the way back I was thinking, knowing your style, you’d stick to regulations and withdraw as soon as casualties hit a quarter. Looks like I underestimated you.”

Cassel, his heart a storm of anger and panic, said nothing more to the blunt centurion. He turned and sent a few men to cut down some logs, then ordered others to open the Sarlion wine they had looted from a passing merchant caravan and distribute it among the men.

Once the logs were cut and dragged over, Cassel stood on a large rock by the roadside, raised his cup, and addressed the Black Mountain mercenaries who followed him, his voice ringing with passion:

“Brothers, in the twenty years since I joined the Black Mountain Company, two things have never happened. First, no one has ever dared owe us money and not pay it back. Second, never in our first battle have we lost more than a quarter of our men. Yet this time, both misfortunes have struck us together.”

He paused, looking at the discouraged faces below, and continued, “Look at you all—young men, disheartened by a single setback. How will you accomplish anything great in the future? Are we to hang our heads here and let those Brick swine on the city walls mock us? Are we to leave the bones of our fallen brothers behind, to be tossed into the wilds for the dogs? Or slink back in shame, only to be ridiculed by the other companies?”

As Cassel’s voice rose with each question, the mercenaries’ spirits kindled. Someone shouted, “No!” and soon the others echoed it.

“We absolutely cannot go back like this!”

“We’d rather die here than leave our brothers unavenged!”

“Kill every last one of those Brick bastards!”

Seeing his men’s morale surge, Cassel raised his cup. “Brothers, drink this cup, and then we charge in! Kill every Brick you see and take every silver coin they own! Cheers!”

“Cheers!” they all shouted, draining their cups and steeling themselves for another assault.

By now, the sun was nearly set. For this attack, Cassel didn’t have his men build a battering ram or scaling ladders; such preparations would waste precious time, and the newly reignited morale could not withstand delay. He led twenty shield-bearing heavy infantry himself, each carrying a log in one hand and a shield in the other, and charged toward the gates of Westis Town.

When they reached the great pit before the gate, three squads had already laid logs across it, forming a makeshift bridge. Cassel’s team hurried across with their battering ram and began pounding at the town’s gates.

As they battered the doors, the defenders atop the walls unleashed a rain of arrows, logs, and stones. The Black Mountain mercenaries paid a heavy price, but the town’s garrison lost over a dozen men to the mercenaries’ elite archers.

In the midst of this fierce struggle, a loud crack rang out—the crossbar of the gate snapped under their assault. The great doors, now without their support, soon shuddered and, with a crash, collapsed inward under the relentless blows.

The heavy gates fell to the ground, billowing dust through the entryway. With victory in sight, Cassel ignored the choking smoke, swung his war hammer, and charged in, bellowing, “Kill!” Derrick and the others followed, shouting as they stormed inside.

By the time they broke through, night had fallen. In the dim torchlight atop the walls, they could barely make out two or three dozen peasant levies in gray cloaks with long spears.

Though Cassel’s force was less than a hundred strong, they were confident that was enough to sweep Westis Town. Their pride blinded them to the fact that this was a far deadlier trap than any of the day.

Cassel rushed at the levies, swinging his hammer and smashing one aside—so far the peasant flew, it couldn’t be an adult’s weight. He yanked the cloak from another and found only a scarecrow, woven from fresh-cut wheat straw.

Roaring in fury, Cassel tore the cloaks from the other “levies.” Seeing the straw soldiers, cold sweat broke out down his back. He realized instantly it was a trap.

“Withdraw! Withdraw! It’s an ambush!” he shouted.

But before they could reach the gate, there was a heavy crash—the wooden portcullis slammed down. Behind it, stones and logs rained down, quickly blocking the gate passage completely.

With their escape cut off, Cassel ordered his men deeper into the town, only to find that the area behind the gate—barely an acre—was ringed with wooden walls.

It was already nightfall when the Black Mountain Company attacked. As they broke in, the moonless night was pitch black, explaining why they had missed the straw men and wooden walls.

Cassel’s excitement and fervor plummeted to despair as he realized they were trapped in a narrow enclosure, with the only exit sealed. The garrison could simply starve them out. The three wooden walls had been hastily constructed by Sir Taur’s steward at Beryon’s command, using logs from the local lumberyard. They were thick and sturdy, not easily breached.

While Cassel racked his brains for a way out and wondered how the enemy would deal with them, the darkness was suddenly banished by dozens of torches flaring to life atop the high walls.

The defenders shouted in unison, ordering the mercenaries to lay down their arms and surrender. But these men, who had only recently massacred a village, dared not surrender immediately. Armed, they still had a fighting chance. Disarmed, they were nothing but lambs to the slaughter.

While they hesitated, clay jars rained down from the walls. As they shattered, liquid splashed out, drenching the mercenaries.

Derrick, who had nearly been burned alive earlier, felt the liquid on his skin, sniffed his fingers, and shouted, “Careful, it’s oil! Those Brick swine mean to burn us alive!”

At his warning, Cassel and the others tried to dodge, but there was little room—the attackers targeted any spot where men clustered.

After a second volley, the defenders hurled torches into the enclosure. Instantly, a roaring fire erupted; several mercenaries struck by the oil jars burst into flames, shrieking horribly.

Cassel and Derrick led the unburned men toward the unlit corners, but archers on all sides took aim and loosed their arrows.

In this cramped killing ground, the Black Mountain men were slow-moving targets amid the flames—easy prey. In no time, five crossbowmen from Beryon’s guard had shot down seven, and Sir Taur’s archers killed another eight or nine.

Trapped in an inferno, surrounded by archers, the mercenaries’ ordeal was not over. Soon, flaming arrows streaked from the walls. The oil-soaked cloth around the arrowheads set shields and armor ablaze on impact. Anyone who tried to put out the fire became a target for the archers.

The mercenaries faced a choice: be burned alive or die under a hail of arrows.

Sir Taur and Beryon stood side by side. Watching the Black Mountain men’s misery, Sir Taur laughed heartily, slapping the battlements. “Serves them right! Let them burn for slaughtering my villagers. May these beasts roast in hell and atone for my people’s deaths!”

Beryon, observing the baron who days before had been so anxious about the coming siege, felt a surge of emotion. Truly, men are creatures of circumstance—how quickly mood shifts with fortune. Still, Beryon thought, at least Taur would pay his fee in full.

The mercenaries could do nothing but endure, unable to strike back. Seeing their seasoned comrades, once so fierce, now shot down by peasant archers, Derrick’s heart bled.

Cassel’s pain was greater, but he forced himself to focus on saving as many of his brothers as he could—money was lost for sure, but perhaps some men could yet be saved.

Suddenly, Beryon and Sir Taur heard a shout from below: “Stop shooting! We surrender!”

Beryon immediately ordered a cease-fire. Sir Taur, his glee soured, protested, “Why stop? Keep shooting and kill them all! I want vengeance for my people!”

Beryon smiled slightly. “Sir Taur, do you want to slaughter these last few Black Mountain mercenaries and await a greater, more elite force of theirs coming for revenge? Or would you rather settle your feud now, so this grievance ceases to be yours?”

Sir Taur was taken aback, then broke into a broad smile. “Beryon, my good friend, I knew you’d have a way. I’ll do whatever you say, so long as this matter is truly finished between me and these bastards.”

He paused to consider, then added, “So long as you can truly sever my ties with the Black Mountain Company, I’ll pay you five thousand denars more. And you’ll have the friendship of my house and myself—should you or Norlandburg ever be in need, I won’t stand idly by.”

Beryon nodded solemnly. “Rest assured, Sir Taur.”

Beryon instructed Sir Taur to stand on the wall and call for the mercenaries’ surrender.

At first, Derrick would rather die than give in—he even raised his axe to Cassel’s throat, demanding he rescind the order.

But Cassel’s words broke his resolve: “Centurion, do you want more brothers to die like this? Only if we live can we avenge them.”

So Cassel, Derrick, and the remaining Black Mountain men threw down their weapons and removed their armor.

Only after Sir Ander and his men had confiscated all arms and armor did they open the hidden door at the base of the wooden wall and march the captives out, one by one.

The Westis Town soldiers, who had once feared the Black Mountain Company as tigers, now looked at these reputedly invincible warriors with contempt in their eyes and derision in their smiles.

The mercenaries dared not show their anger, though they seethed inside. They felt the townsfolk had not won with true strength but with low cunning—being captured by such cowardly, base peasants was a bitter humiliation.

But none of that mattered. War only cares for results. If you win, you are the victor and everything you say is right; if you lose, no matter how much you protest your strength, your mistakes, or your chances, no one will listen or believe you. As losers, you earn only scorn and curses. This rule of human society is universal and immutable in every world.