The Grey Ones
The Dark Before the Dawn: VII

THE VASAATH

The encampment finally looked as though it was a war band set on defeating their enemy. The Vasaath stood at the battlements, overlooking his men as they prepared for battle. He had told them, that tonight was the night they took Noxborough—or they would die trying. It wasn’t only his pride at stake this time, but also Kasethen’s life. The Duke would regret the day he decided to insult the Vasaath personally.

He sought out the kaseraad and ordered an update on the civil unrest. After the murder of Duke Cornwall, Duke Arlington had closed the city gates, effectively cutting off any trade or supply routes in and out of Noxborough. This had caused distress amongst the citizens and the unrest had worsened to the brink of anarchy.

“Outfit them,” the Vasaath ordered the spies. “Tell them to fight. The streets will run red tonight and this will be the only chance they’ll ever get to oppose the Duke. Make sure they’ll take it. Lie if you have to. Awaken their thirst for blood. Get help from the converters if need be, they know the people. Tell them it’s a matter of urgency—if it’s not done tonight, they will never have justice.”

“Yes, sir. We know where their armoury is; we’ll storm it.”

“Good. Make sure every battleworthy man has a sword in his hand and an urge to kill guards and nobles.”

The spies all nodded and hurried away to put the plan into motion.

When the darkness fell and the rain still poured, the Vasaath had his men ready by the barricades. He felt agitated, excited, and eager to finally storm that castle and end this preposterous farce. He would wait until he heard the turmoil on the streets, and then wait some more until the Duke would call out his men. Then, he would launch his attack.

Twenty minutes passed in the stormy night, and the city was still silent. The anticipation from the soldiers was tangible, as though they were all standing on springboards, ready to leap into battle. The rain didn’t faze them, and the thunder only seemed to spur them on.

A few minutes more and then, the Vasaath could hear the faint but familiar sounds of fighting; the chanting of people, the shouting of men, the clash of swords, the rustle of armour—the ruckus spread fast. The uprising was long overdue and the people did not want to wait any longer. A little push was all that was needed to tip the scale.

The Vasaath looked up at the hill where Castle Fairgarden was, focusing all his anger and strength on his goal. He took a deep breath, patiently waiting. A few more minutes, he thought—and then, just as a loud thunderclap had faded over the hills, the bells started chiming over the rooftops. The Vasaath smirked.

He turned to his soldiers, looked at their ready forms—like predators waiting to bring down their prey—and barked, “Kill anyone who comes at you; kill every man and woman who does not submit; if they show no respect, you will show no mercy. We will scrub these streets clean with their blood and we shall retrieve the brother they stole from us! It is time we rid these lands of the corruption once and for all! Order through submission!”

The men answered him, echoed the first tenet in deafening unison with growling vigour, and hit the butts of their spears into the stone just as the white flash of lightning illuminated the two hundred warriors and the bloodlust in their burning eyes. And then, they marched.

The Vasaath was at the front, leading his troops with intent. He did not care whom he cut down as long as he made it to the castle where he would replace the Duke and gut him like the slimy fish he was.

The uprising had been fast and relentless; clearly, the people had been waiting a long time for an opportunity like this. The guards seemed all in disarray, as though they were not at all prepared for fighting their own.

The Kas saw very little opposition in the lower parts of the city as the guards were too busy cutting down, and being cut down, by the hundreds upon hundreds of starving people armed with swords, daggers, and axes.

The Vasaath kept his eyes on the castle upon the hill and paid no mind to the chaos around him, but even so, he saw the indecency, and a crawling thought in his mind told him that he would not wish any of the mainlanders to join the Kasenon; the mob was tearing guards apart, limb from limb, despite their chilling cries and their desperate pleas; women were being violated openly in the streets, and children were being dragged by the hair; from the corner of his eyes, the Vasaath even saw a man chewing on another man’s neck while mounting his back, as if he was some sort of animal.

Although he was appalled by what he witnessed, he pressed on. He could not—would not—be distracted. He could punish them later.

The rioting people were rabid beasts as they tore through the city like a plague, bringing chaos and destruction to every corner of Noxborough. Many died at the hands of the trained guards, but the sheer mass of people was like a tidal wave no man could hinder. Nobles were being dragged out of their homes, and entire families were being strung up and hanged from rafters.

The Vasaath repressed the urge to fight it all—his mission was more important. Kasethen would be horrified if he saw what carnage the Vasaath had permitted, and he could hear his voice as clear as day where he said that he would rather sacrifice himself than let the people kill each other in such a gruesome way. But the Vasaath didn’t care. He would not let Kasethen die, no matter how many uprisings he would have to elicit to prevent it.

It wasn’t until further up into the higher districts, the guards realised that the riot was hardly their biggest concern. Here, the Kas met battle, but the humans were ill-fitted to fight in the dark. They saw very little, while the Kas saw clearly.

The advantage was greater than anyone could have expected, and the guards were cut down without much effort. The Vasaath knew that the Duke would have the bulk of his forces guarding Fairgarden, where he would be fortified.

When they reached the walls of the castle, the chaos could still be heard from the city. Houses had been lit on fire and despite the pouring rain, the city burned. The Vasaath and his men halted outside the gates as about a hundred archers were stationed upon the battlements.

“Submit and you shall survive,” the Vasaath called, and he saw how the guards glanced at each other.

“Nock!” shouted a commander from atop the ramparts, completely ignoring the Vasaath’s demands.

“Refuse, and we shall cut down each and every one of you,” the Vasaath continued.

“Draw!”

The Vasaath grunted. Mainlanders were stupid, he knew that now.

“Loose!”

“Shield wall!” the Vasaath bellowed, and the troops moved with precision as they covered each other with their large shields just before the arrows hit them. When the volley was over, the Vasaath straightened and glared at the commander.

He took a deep breath, stared the commander in the eye, and realised that they would not back down.

“Bring forth the ram!” he barked. “Shield the rammers!”

The men moved in unison, in harmony, and created a perfect tunnel for the rammers to batter the gate. They heard the guards as they scurried about, and soon, more arrows came flying at them, some even lit on fire. The heavy ram smashed against the gate, and it was clear that the wooden doors weren’t built to withstand the bashing of ten Kas warriors, and before long, it started to give.

Suddenly, a painful groan was heard as one of the kasaath buckled underneath a boulder that had been dropped from the battlements, and the shield wall was breached.

“Cover him!” the Vasaath roared, and the men were quick to repair the wall, but an arrow found its way straight through the neck of another soldier, who fell down into the mud. The Vasaath only saw the faint shadow of the man as he fell, and he roared, “Strengthen the Kas!”

The fifth tenet was repeated by the men as they battered the ram into the gate once more. Another set of boulders were thrown, and despite the men having some difficulty deflecting the heavy boulders, the wall remained intact.

The soldier that was hit by the heavy stone was quickly on his feet, and even though his arm was injured, he strapped the shield of his fallen brother onto his good arm and resumed his place amongst the ranks.

Another ram, and the gates came flying off their hinges, and the Kas soldiers could march into the bailey.

Once the gates were breached, the guards sprung to action. They fired another volley of arrows into the courtyard, but the Vasaath was quick to order another shield wall before issuing men to storm the ramparts. He led the assault himself in the bailey as knights marched out to meet them head-on. He knew not how many guards had been ordered to contain the rioters, or how many knights they had to face, but the battle was grand—the Kas warriors were finally in their proper element.

The Vasaath felt more like himself than he had in months as he let his sword cut through the armours like a hot knife through butter. Every muscle in his body knew what to do and they moved almost on their own, gracefully dancing through the battle.

One lucky guard grazed him with his sword and made a cut on his arm that drew blood, but the Vasaath only grinned. The sting from the cut and the blood that ran down his skin edged him on and he plunged his heavy sword right into the guard’s chest, piercing his plate armour, all the way through to the back. He watched as life disappeared from the man’s eyes before he braced his foot against the dying man’s chest and pushed down while retracting the blood-drenched blade.

His trained eye saw the guard that attempted to stab the warrior to his left and his reaction was purely reflexes, etched into his very core from years of practice, as he slammed his shield into the guard, knocking him to the ground with a single strike.

The troops moved forwards, slowly but surely, and trampled over the already fallen guards. The Kas had only lost one so far, and barely anyone had been injured—the Noxborough City Guard was not trained for warfare. They were not trained warriors, or even soldiers. Some might have seen real combat once or twice before, but most were frightened young men; if they didn’t rush foolishly at a blade or a spear, they dropped their weapons and fell to their knees to plead for their lives. Those who did so were spared. All others were killed.

The fighting was quick and soon, they could advance to the gates to the inner yard that lead to the Keep. They were easily forced open. Guards came at them from there as well, but they posed no greater threat than those they had already fought.

The Vasaath ordered his men to scour through the castle—the orders were the same as before: kill anyone who came at them, and kill those who did not submit.

They swept through the castle fairly quickly. About a hundred guards were inside the castle itself, and here, the Vasaath found more resistance than he had anticipated. Clearly, the Duke had barricaded himself inside the Keep, surrounding himself with his elite guards in the hopes that they would not let anyone through. The Kas soldiers were superior, indeed, but their luck had reached its limit.

The Vasaath watched as some of his brothers were cut down as they made fatal mistakes, but the rest pressed on. These guards fought with strategy and discipline but they all lacked what the Vasaath had—conviction, fury, and a lust for vengeance.

At last, he found the door to what could not be anything but the Duke’s quarters, guarded by four heavily armoured knights with experienced statures. The Vasaath lunged at them with a roar, not caring about the bruises he would suffer from the counters he received. At one point, both his sword and his shield were knocked out of his grip, but he just kept fighting with his bare hands until the last guard had fallen.

The Vasaath breathed heavily, felt the strain of battle, as he reached down for the sword he had lost. With one strong kick, the door burst open, revealing the Duke as he sat behind his desk, drunken and bitter.

“So you came, at last,” he muttered and took a rich sip from a goblet. “What took you so long?”

The Vasaath bared his teeth as he moved into the room. “Your men are dead. Your people are rioting. Noxborough is no more.”

The Duke turned up his nose and drawled, “You got lucky, that’s all.” Then he smirked. “Do you know what a rat does if it’s cornered? It will chew its way out, almost through anything. I heard about the riots—I suppose enough rats eventually become a big problem. How clever of you to use that to your advantage. They’re your problem now.”

The Vasaath stopped and tightened his jaw. “I’m not as arrogant as you,” he said darkly, but the Duke scoffed and smirked.

“No?” he asked. “Calling yourself the Demon of the North isn’t what you’d consider as arrogant, then?”

“I see my people,” the Vasaath growled, eager to tear off the head of this man, “and I see yours. You’re nothing but animals.”

The smugness was still plastered upon the Duke’s face, but there was resentment in his eyes. “And what about my lovely daughter? Is she an animal? Do you fuck her as one?”

The Vasaath had to restrain himself from hurling at the man, but all he could think of was how much he would enjoy killing him. Before mentioning Juniper in such a degrading way, the Duke might have been granted a quick and painless death. Now he would suffer, and the Vasaath would make sure of it.

He gave no reply, no retort, but strode up to the desk and grabbed the hand in which the Duke held his goblet, and nimbly twisted it to the point where he felt the bone snap. The Duke cried out in pain, and the goblet fell to the floor, spilling the wine.

“You fucking pig!” the Duke bellowed, but the Vasaath swiftly grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head against the desk, breaking his nose and knocking some teeth out.

Without a word, he then grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of the room. The Duke was crying, groaning, struggling, but the Vasaath’s grip was like steel. He dragged him into a great hall where his men had gathered with the castle staff and the guards that had submitted. He looked at the sad gathering of frightened humans, knowing that most of them had only submitted because they feared death. He didn’t care—he could weed them out later.

He tossed the bleeding and groaning Duke onto the floor and turned to the surrenders to the gasps and shrieks of the people around him.

“This was your leader,” he said. “Now look at him. While you all were left to fend for yourself, this man cowered in his quarters, drinking wine. Pathetic.” He then ordered two of his men to grab hold of him. The Vasaath looked at the frightened people and said, “You have all submitted, yes, but you are not out of danger yet. Those of you who can reveal to me where your prisoner is kept, the prisoner that is one of us, will be safe. This, I promise you.”

At once, a guard stepped forwards. He had a pitiful countenance, a pathetic stance, as he said, “He is in the dungeons, milord. Please, don’t kill me.”

“Wiltbourne, you fucking traitor!” the Duke spat but was violently silenced by the soldiers holding him.

The Vasaath glared at the man with narrowed eyes. “Is he still alive?”

But the guard only shook his head. “I-I don’t know, sir.”

“He is alive.” From amongst the surrenders, a boy with rosy cheeks and silver eyes stepped forth. Sebastian Arlington tried to straighten and look unfazed by the situation, but he was clearly terrified.

The Duke suddenly started to writhe in the soldiers’ grip. “Sebastian, shut your—”

One of the soldiers slapped him in the face, and the Vasaath urged the boy to speak.

“He is alive, and he would not be pleased to know what has happened here tonight.”

The Vasaath scowled, but could not withhold a smirk. “You speak as if you know him.” Slowly, he moved towards the boy. “Indeed, he is not very keen on violence, but trust me, boy—he is just as much Kas as I am, and he would rather see the world burn than compromise the mission.”

The Arlington boy wavered—he swallowed nervously and his eyes flickered. “But he said—”

“I don’t doubt that he told you he would not want war,” said the Vasaath, “and his words were undoubtedly the truth, but he knew all along that war was inevitable.” He then huffed and turned to his men. “Put the boy and the old man in the dungeons, and bring me Kasethen. You.” He turned to the man who had revealed the truth, who whimpered. “You will show them to the dungeons.”

“Y-yes, sir!” The middle-aged soldier was hardly scathed at all. He had knelt the moment he’d seen the Kas warriors.

As the Vasaath watched the Duke and his son be taken away, he turned to one of his rasaath, Madeth. “How many did we lose?”

“I’m not entirely sure yet, sir,” said the soldier. “We lost some, but most are still alive. Many are wounded, though.”

The Vasaath nodded. “Get the maasas here as soon as possible.”

“But sir, we need to address the situation down in the city first. They must have sent half their forces down there.”

“Yes, you’re right,” the Vasaath muttered. “But I want to make sure Kasethen is alive before we do anything.” He clenched his jaw. “If he’s not, I’ll kill every last one of them.”

Translation:

Kasaath – warrior; “strength of the people”

Kaseraad – spies; “the shadow of the people”

Maasa – healer

Rasaath – officer; dutiful soldier; true soldier