Retaking Concord

Following a sudden and surprising attack by the Khan Order on the port city of Concord, a trade colony of the powerful Matthew family line, the Khan await the Matthew force's inevitable retaliation...

“Archers!” came a shout, disrupting the tranquility of the early morning stillness. Garol awoke with a start to the undesired clamor, his body and mind rebelling as one against the unwanted intrusion to his repose. He rolled over and tried to tell himself that it was just a dream, that they couldn’t possibly be drilling them again for the fourth night this week, that even for the Khan military, it would be too cruel and unthinkable.

“Archers to the docks!” came another cry, this time closer and louder, and definitely belonging to a voice in the real world, not one in Garol’s dreams. There were other shouts rousing more distant troops, and the alarm bells began to clang out harshly, each strike seeming to stoke the chaotic symphony that signaled yet another ruined night of rest.

As he reluctantly clambered out of bed, Garol cursed his squad leader, cursed their company commander, cursed the upper echelons of the Khan military, and just to be thorough, cursed Khan leaders who he wasn’t sure existed, just in case they did. He knew he was not alone in feeling this way. His blue streak of expletives joined a steady stream of epithets coursing from the mouths of his comrades around him.

  Shoddily dressed and armed, Garol and his companions left their barracks, joining the rest of the soldiers who were pouring into the streets from across the city. A half-moons glow struggled to fight its way through cloud cover, casting a sparse and gloomy pall over the dreary and bedraggled men. Their general sense of anger and frustration only festered and multiplied as they joined on their way to the docks, with many complaints loudly voiced and roundly agreed to. There were scowls aplenty, rotten attitudes to match, and nary a battle-ready soldier in sight as they tried to wipe the sleepsand from their eyes and the fatigue from their minds. They shuffled along in a state of half-alive drudgery, in various states of disarray, few of them seeming to care much for their wakefulness or appearance. The archers and foot soldiers converged on the dock and took up ranks, their loud complaints dwindling down to sour mutterings as they approached their officers. Garol stood on the docks amidst his fellow soldiers, and as they awaited orders, his thoughts began to fester. This is what they get for running us into the ground like this. It’s counter-productive idiocy, d****t. Men have been falling asleep at their posts every day, and for what? To pad some ambitious general’s resume?  

               A heavy fog dwelt over the harbor, which only further choked away the sparse light offered by the moon and stars. A scant few torches here and there did little to fend off the prevailing darkness and gloom for more than a few yards. Even the officers are tired. They didn’t wake and prepare ahead as much as they usually do.  Along the docks, the rank and file shivered in discomfort as the unpleasant chill from the water provided a harsh contrast to their warm beds they left behind. However, a few of the more alert soldier’s faces began shifting from displeasure to apprehension, realizing that on this particular morning, something was different. The Squad Leaders were in full battle array, their blades were drawn, and their shouted commands were tinged with more agitation than usual " all of which were in marked contrast to previous drills.

               Then came the second set of commands. “Spearmen in the front! Bladesmen, fall in behind! Archers, two ranks in the rear! Arrows at the ready!” The bowmen, filled with confusion, fell in and slowly reached for their arrows. Shafts were nocked to strings, and eyes focused intently on their leaders.

Garol looked out into the darkness. There were no visible targets. Was this training exercise simply to launch a slew of projectiles into the sea? What a waste of Khan resources " and a good night’s sleep. But no firing command came. They waited, silent and still. Something isn’t right. The men looked nervously at each other and into the darkness, their sleepiness disappearing, as they gradually all came to the same conclusion: This is no drill! Garol strained his eyes, trying to see something, anything but the heavy fog cut visibility down to a fraction of what it ought to be. Fearsome adversaries occasionally loomed in the darkness, but none of them ever emerged to prove themselves as a tangible foe.

Then one of those ghouls of the night, rather than dissipating back into the oblivion of Garol’s imagination, began materializing into something more menacing, dark, and real. At eighty yards, it began taking the shape of some massive sea monster, complete with glowing embers for eyes. Huge, dark and massive " it looked like something straight out of a young boy’s night terrors. And it was plowing through the water at full tilt, on a path straight towards Garol. The hairs on his neck and arms froze into strict attention, and gasps all around him proved that he was not the only one to see the onrushing beast.

               “FIRE!!!” Shouted Garol’s squad leader, rapidly echoed by others up and down the docks. His entire squad fired almost in unison " that part of their training, at least, had been effective. Their volley disappeared into the charging black behemoth, but did nothing to dissuade it from its advance.

Their squad fired off another orchestrated volley as their assailant continued to solidify. A white sail emblazoned with a blue crest revealed itself, mostly obscuring a thick black mast. Though not a supernatural beast of the sea after all, the ship still cut a terrifying figure. Garol guessed at a trajectory that would pass across the ship’s main deck, and loosed his arrow at his leader’s command. Yet again, no screams returned in reward, even after pouring three full volleys into it. If any arrows had found their fleshy marks, then the recipients were either too stoic or too dead to show any sign.          

               “Is that damned ship being crewed by ghosts?” cried a demoralized archer to Garol’s left.

               “FIRE AT WILL!! FIRE AT WILL!!” shouted the captains in desperation, and Garol obeyed in an equal measure of despair, knowing that it was all but a worthless gesture.

As the ships drew to thirty paces, Garol saw how their attacks had been foiled " thick planks of wood had been temporarily fitted around the foredeck of the ship, providing a protective structure for the soldiers who were sure to be crowded beneath. The defensive brow was studded with Khan arrows, torches behind the wooden slabs created a baleful death glare, and beneath it all loomed the hungry jaws of a reinforced and jagged battering ram.

               Thirty paces was far too little warning for them to escape from their impending doom, but the closely packed spearmen and swordsmen still tried frantically to do so. “Back up, back up!!” begged the foot soldiers trying desperately to retreat from the front of the pier, but their tight defensive formations caused them to trip and fumble over one another. Seeing their protective lines falling apart, the archers panicked and began withdrawing as well. The pier devolved into chaos as soldiers clumsily stumbled over one another.

               Impact. The ship blasted into the front of the dock and plowed a furrow fifteen paces deep, sending Khan soldiers and broken shards of wood flying in all directions. Over half the spearmen and swordsmen were immediately crushed to death or thrown into the bay to fight against the weight of their full armor, which was cruelly transformed from a lifesaving necessity into a certain death sentence. The remaining Khan were in disarray, though a handful of spearmen tried to set up a haphazard wall of spears to impale the first Matthew soldiers off the boat and buy time for their compatriots to reassemble into fighting form.

Garol loosed another arrow into the bow of the ships, which of course didn’t find any mark but impenetrable wood. Before he could string another arrow, the heavy wooden planks were unexpectedly launched outwards, knocking several spearmen unconscious, throwing others to the ground, and scattering the remainder into vulnerable isolation. The last semblances of Khan defensive discipline were completely shattered as the Matthew soldiers descended upon them with a bloodthirsty yell. Garol loosed a few arrows into the attackers pouring onto the dock, managing to injure one. But his companions could not withstand their ferocity. The Matthew soldiers cut through the disorderly Khan ranks, surging from the docks and into the scattered archers.

Garol turned and ran headlong towards Concord, but before he could make it twenty paces a searing pain flashed across his back, and he was thrown forward by the impact. He released his bow and attempted to catch himself as he collapsed to the ground. Garol’s back danced with pain. A chill swept through his body and the sand became wet with blood. He rolled over, feebly searching for a dagger, but found only a grim-faced assailant, weapon cocked back to strike.

His white stone blade flashed, catching moonlight in its descent. Then, darkness fell.

 

. . .

 

               On the other end of the harbor, Branson’s ship was fast approaching their assigned dock. His suggestion to barricade the bow of the ship had worked to perfection, with the only injuries being a few minor flesh wounds inflicted by deflected arrows.

               Another volley came, and while the men still flinched when the arrows hit, it was clear that their confidence had been boosted by the effectiveness of their attack plan.

               Drawing his men in close, Branson addressed them, “Just as we practiced, Blood Squad! As soon as we stop, launch the beams directly into their ranks " and that’s your cue to disembark! I want you out there not a second after them! Take advantage of their disarray and claim the center of the dock. Push outwards from there " remember, we don’t have to get them all by blade, let the narrow dock and deep water be our allies. Keep your brothers close and cover for each other. I want every man coming out of this battle alive!”

               At the front of the ship, John and Jaran peered between planks to examine the Khan defensive formation. At first sight, it looked disciplined and intimidating, but as the ship became clearly visible, shouts of fear rippled through the ranks, and they began to lose cohesion in their hasty efforts to retreat.

               John whooped in satisfaction, and yelled “It’s working, sir!! They’re already losing formation!” The rest of blood squad joined him in exultant war cries. As the ship closed in on its helpless wooden victim, incoming Khan arrow fire dwindled to a stream of individual shots rather than orchestrated volleys.

“Let’s give ‘em hell!” shouted Jaran.

“Brace yourselves!” commanded Branson. “Contact in three… two… one…”

CRASH!!! The ship groaned, shuddered, and jerked mightily as its prow exploded through the dock and plowed a swath of destruction through it. John’s body jerked forward at impact, despite his best efforts at bracing. The men behind him followed suit, briefly crushing him against the front of the ship. His head thumped against the wooden bracers. Darkness and stars engulfed him for a brief moment before relenting.  

He shook his head to clear it and instinctively checked to his left, shouting “You alright Jaran?” A shaky but affirmative nod was his young comrade’s reply.

As the ship came to a shuddering halt, Branson shouted, “Beams, NOW!!” The squad immediately followed his command. As soon as the thick planks were hurled out, John let out a primal howl, and jumped straight after them into the chaos of the dock. Jaran was just behind and to his left as John launched himself at the off-balance Khan defenders on the right side of the dock. He charged into the first three like a runaway boulder, using his shield as both cover and battering ram. His initial impact knocked one clean off his feet and into the water, while the other two staggered and fought to maintain their balance. He followed up with a quick slash that sent one to the ground while Jaran darted in to finish off the other.

“Push in towards land!” came Branson’s order, and remembering the plan, Blood Squad responded immediately to press their advantage. They had decimated the Khans, who were now beating a hasty and undisciplined retreat. As John leapt into pursuit, a red dawn began to peek over the misty green slopes of the Eastern Mountains. A new day breaks upon these treacherous Khan. A day of reckoning. Our blades speak vengeance today for their cruelty of a fortnight ago.

The Matthew soldiers quickly advanced off of the docks, leaving dozens of dead Khan soldiers in their wake, with more yet bobbing lifeless in the water. As they harried their fleeing foes, striking down those not quick enough to escape their advance, John made sure to stay within a few paces of Jaran. After dispatching another foe, he caught a glimpse of his young friend adeptly doing the same. He has acquitted himself well, despite his fears. If only Thomas could see him now. Reaching the edges of the town wall, they heard Branson’s voice commanding them, “Blood Squad, hold fast!” They immediately obeyed and pulled back from their pursuit, though not all were pleased to do so.

 “But we had them on their heels!” exclaimed Gage, a fearsome warrior with a greater inclination for wrath than tactical finesse. As he spoke, the last of the Khan stragglers trailed into the city, and the heavy wooden gates were drawn to a thunderous close.

“And throw away your squadmates lives by running into a deathtrap?” barked Branson curtly. “They’ll regroup in there, and despite their losses they could still crush an isolated squad. And that’s what we would be " look around. We’ve outpaced even Ace Squad to the gates.”

John felt his chest swell up with Branson’s approval. It was not often in the history of Matthew that Blood Squad outpaced Ace Squad in any category but casualties suffered (hence their moniker), but under Branson’s guidance they had slowly risen into contention with Ace for the position of pride within the Matthew Guard.

Branson continued, “And better yet, you’ve managed to keep yourselves alive and well. I hardly see a speck of blood on you save that which once belonged to the Khan!” He paused briefly to let the compliment sink in before giving new directions. “Form up eighty paces from the gate so the rest of the Guard can catch up. Our archers will join us to soften up the town defenses.”

The edge in the squad dissipated as the soldiers sheathed their weapons and allowed themselves momentary relief from the adrenaline rush of battle. Pats on the back and glory stories were shared as the men tended to minor injuries. Even the burly Gage cracked a smile when young Jaran joked about having to protect him in battle. It’s hard to not like the kid, even for a battle-worn brute like Gage, thought John.

As the rest of the early landing squads caught up to them, John noticed with pleasure that they took their cue from Blood Squad, falling into formation with them. Few of the other squads arrived with their full complement of troopers, and in a rare role reversal, they all seemed to have suffered more injuries than Blood Squad. Shockingly, even Ace was barely above half strength when they formed up next to them. There was an element of begrudging respect in the soldiers eyes, but their captains demeanor towards Branson was cold and aloof. Their captain sees this landing as a failure because he was outperformed. He treats them like pawns; Branson treats us like beloved sons.

The archer squads, or “String Fairies” as Blood Squad affectionately called them, formed up behind the foot soldiers. Their captains planted a torch by each squad, and the archers passed the flame from man to man before bending back their bows in unison. I almost feel bad for the poor b******s, thought John, as their arrows cut burning paths across the sky.  Upon impact, the arrows created pockets of fire that began to gnaw away at the reinforced gates, the archer’s parapets, and the first line of wooden dwellings.

After three volleys, those flames had merged and grown into a fiery sea of wanton destruction. The inferno raged, engulfing their defenses, and joined with the rising red sun to cast out all darkness in the town. The Matthew captains, satisfied with the work of the archers, commanded the troops to let the flames do their work before advancing into the city.

“Captains to me!” came a pointed command. At the rear of the formation stood the commanding officer of the entire Matthew army, General Clement. Nodding in the direction of the unusually young general, John said, “I figured it was only a matter of time before he joined us. Must have come ashore in one of the battering vessels.”

Jaran turned to investigate John’s remark. “Clement - why is he on the front line?” They both watched as Branson and the other squad captains promptly reported to their leader near the rear of the Matthew formation.

“That would be General Clement, you impudent little minnow,” scolded John in a half-teasing tone. “And despite his relative youth in the role, he has more combat experience than our previous three generals combined, thanks to his ten harrowing seasons with Branson in the northern jungle.”

Jaran’s smile faded. “Yeah, I know, Thomas told me a million stories about  "“

“I know… but I want you to really understand. Branson and Clement earned every bit of their reputation as heroes of Matthew Isle. And it came by means of blood, sweat and sacrifice.” He glanced back at Jaran’s inscrutable expression. “As did Thomas. And if it hadn’t been for his injury…”

 “Thomas wasn’t a climber. And don’t you dare suggest it.”

 “You know that’s not what I think of him. And Clement is no climber either! I know his rapid promotions makes him seem like one, but that’s not who he is. Don’t judge someone you haven’t first encountered personally.”

Jaran didn’t reply, but his silence was pensive rather than petulant. Then, the banter of the soldiers behind them dwindled, signaling Branson’s return. “Blood Squad!” he shouted, “The honors in the attack go to us, so when that gate goes down we’ll be leading the charge. Stay sharp, men. I want the same out of you this time, no casualties!” They made one last round of checks on their armor, tightening and adjusting where necessary.

John’s spine tingled with the anticipation of battle as adrenaline began to seep back into his blood. He turned to Jaran, saying “Hey, I didn’t mean to reopen those wounds. Forgive me.”

 “I mean, you can sign over your firstborn if you want to complete the apology.” Jaran straightened his smirk and said in a more earnest tone, “But yes, John. I forgive you.”

“Good!” exclaimed John in relief as he adjusted the bindings at the back of Jaran’s leather jerkin. The last thing we need in battle is unresolved conflict between us. “Don’t stray from my side! I’ll be ri-”

“Right with me the whole time. I know.” Jaran rolled his eyes. “You gonna be able to wield your blade and hold my hand at the same time?”

John looked back with surprise at Jaran’s ribbing, then laughed and threw a light punch into his ribs. Branson’s leadership has done wonders for him. I’ve never seen him this confident before.

“Move, move, move!” came distant shouts from along the docks. The ship crews had disembarked by this time and dismantled one of the battering rams attached to the attack ships. Squads D, F, and G, which bore the nicknames Dingo, Fin, and Green, were tasked with bringing the ponderous weapon to bear upon the gate.

“Battering ram to the gate!” Shouted Clement.

Dingo, Fin, and Green squads approached the burning gate with a combination of trepidation and courage. The three veteran squads of Ace, Blood, and Crow lined up to the sides of the ram team with blades drawn, and the archer squads formed up at the rear, arrows at the ready in anticipation.

“On my command, battering team. Three… Two… One!” Shouted Clement. Cinders flew and smoke billowed at each strike. By the fifth collision, the burning door began violently shuddering and creaking.  By the seventh the hinges groaned and the wood splintered, and by the tenth, the center latchings of the doors burst free of the wood. The doors swung open, raining fiery shards into the town square behind it, which was already a scene of burning mayhem.

“Fire!!” shouted Clement, and the archers obliged with a deathly rain of arrows.

“Charge!” came the command, and with a ferocious roar Ace, Blood and Crow raced in. As they surged through the gate, a second wave of Matthew arrows flew over their head. John knew the town would soon be theirs as they closed the gap to their depleted foes.

Shields crashed and spears splintered as Blood Squad tore through the center of the ragged enemy line. John knocked his man straight back and to the ground without bothering to finish him, knowing that Jaran right behind him would deliver the killing blow. Gage rampaged through the Khan, laying enemies to waste left and right as he caught up to them. Together they led Blood squad and the entire Matthew army into the heart of Concord.

 

. . .

 

The mid-morning sun beat down on the shoreline of Concord. The thick white fog of dawn was replaced by a sooty grey smog emanating from Concord. Dark smoke rose from the torched sections of the city, gradually fading into a full spectrum of gray.

 Only a light haze reached out to the three ships anchored a ways off of shore. Unlike the smaller and faster assault ships, these robust vessels were built for whitestone transport. Hastily converted into troop transports, the ships were laden with soldiers and decked out with rowboats, which the crew began lowering into the water. The small vessels were piled full of infantry, then serenely paddled their way to shore.

               When the first boat landed, the disembarking men were met by a cloud of smoke, which billowed from the charred remains of the Port City gate. Scattered about the shoreline and ruined docks, men were at work piling up timber from the shattered docks and tending to wounded Matthew soldiers. The beach was littered with dead Khan, lying where they had fallen in battle. A tall man with dark hair and a haggard frame came forth from the vessel, wearing an expression that seemed permanently formed into a scowl of distaste. He likely cut a powerful figure at one point, but his many seasons had not worn on him kindly. His muscles were thin and stringy, as if tired from many years of hanging from the bone.  Looking out at the wreckage, the Matthew Crest caught his eye, waving victoriously over the city. “Scorched to cinders and ash,” he muttered to himself.

               “And back in your care, sir,” said General Clement, trudging through the gate to greet the Master of Matthew Isle.

               “What’s left of her, that is. What’s the report, Clement?”

               “Seven Khan Squads occupied Concord. We broke their defenses, inflicted heavy casualties, and reclaimed her by daybreak. As per your command, sir, we showed no mercy and took no prisoners, however a dozen or so Khan did escape into the northern jungle.”

               “Losses?”

               “Minimal. It appears Branson’s tactics saved many lives today. Only eleven sons of Matthew dead and twenty-three wounded, Master Edwin.”

               Anger flashed through Edwin’s eyes. “He’s not your superior anymore Clement, you can stop kissing his a*s. You’re a general now, so act like it! It’s time for you to stop worshiping him and make your own decisions.” The decrepit old master breathed heavily for a moment. “Now, what’s our current position?”

               If Clement chafed at the reprimand, his steady voice and expression did not reveal it. “Seven Squads active; two patrolling the jungle line, two spread among the lookout towers, and two on cleanup.”

               “What of the other Squad?” inquired the Matthew Master.

               “I sent Blood Squad in pursuit of the Khan deserters.”

               “Blood squad…” Edwin thought for a moment, then his expression darkened. “Please don’t tell me those are Branson’s men.”

               “Sir… He’s had twenty years of experience in jungle warfare, and-”

               “Enough!” Shouted Edwin, spittle flying from his mouth as he suddenly wheeled upon the younger man. “Your old mentor has become a timeworn fossil of a bygone era, and I don’t trust him. His leadership is outdated and unfit for this new age of active duty. Call them back immediately.” He viciously spat a thick glob of phlegm onto the ground, missing Clement’s boot by an inch.

               “On my way,” replied Clement hastily, as he turned to leave.

               “Wait!”

               “Sir?”                     

               “Any sign of Triad?” asked Edwin quietly. Clement shook his head. “Nothing?”

               “No, Master. No sign of them.”

               Edwin’s voice exploded with rage, “What the hell is taking him so long?”

Clement recoiled from the sudden outburst, then said, “I… I don’t-“

“Get out of here!” snarled the fuming Edwin. Clement willingly obliged.

As Clement obediently departed from his master, Edwin withdrew to a pile of scraps, and drawing his blade, violently slashed at the rubble. He hacked at the pieces, sending the neat pile of scraps flying through the air in every direction. He suddenly staggered, overtaken by a horrid coughing spell. The Matthew Master clutched his breast, as if trying to dig out the source of his agony, before slowly managing to regain his composure. He spat on the ground again, then wiped at the corner of his mouth. His hand came away with a bloody streak on it, which he quickly wiped away on his cloak before wandering eyes could take notice.

Author's Note

Please disregard the indentations...the transfer over messed with the formatting a bit. Thanks for your reviews, everyone!

Reviews

[Dust That Drifts Throug..]

So far it's a good story. I wonder if Clement is going to die or not.

[Jones Crimson]

7th paragraph 34th line (I think)
either my eyes are playing tricks or there is a random quotation mark there.

I'm still reading, but for now I only have two complaints. Both sides are making totally ridiculous strategic decisions. If they are hitting sand at the end of the dock and the docks themselves are made of wood, that probably indicates there are no walls further back but it still doesn't excuse the fact that they would have a much better position from the shore. What were they expecting to do with spears from the dock? Board the attackers? My next big complaint is if there probably aren't any walls and it's a sneak attack in the middle of the night, it would have been faster to assault the city by land under the cover of fog. If they follow the shore they wouldn't even need torches and could ride or even walk right in while everyone was asleep.

I'm just nitpicking though, so far it's been a really good read. You really paint a picture with words.

[M.K.K.A.]

Hey thanks for your critiques, Jones Crimson. We certainly appreciate any and all feedback/comments on this tale. Thank you for helping us to make this story better.