A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1671 - 1671: A Captured Capital - Part 6

BAM! BAM!

Just as they made their withdrawal, and complement of catapult fire was set flying over their heads. Just where those men had been mere second before, giant boulders bounced and crashed, flying straight into the doors.

The first shot was enough to break them through, and then the second shot went rolling through the new opening, into the darkness behind, mowing down the defending men that had been tasked with the hopeful objective of seeing the locking beams of the gate changed.

Blackwell raised his hand in a salute for his ally Broadstone, appreciating the man's reading of the battlefield, and of Blackwell's strategy. He was beginning to enjoy fighting alongside the man – they were both beginning to properly understand each other.

The gates were wide open now, but Blackwell sent no men in after them. For as long as Pedidarius failed to reveal himself, there was a constant threat. He couldn't advance completely, he could only continue to test the waters, and try to find out the full extent of Pedidarius' strategy.

Atop the wall, Captain Kamly and his men had come to a stop. The aggressive tide that they'd managed to cause had been brought to a complete halt, and only by the men in front of them.

Beneath them, Blackwell's teams with their ladders made their ascent, and were greeted by more than a few arrows, sending them clattering down below. Blackwell stroked his beard, and narrowed his eyes, searching amid the fire, the chaos and the screams for the man he was looking for – but he couldn't catch neither hair nor hide of him.

It was a fact that brought on a chill. The sort of chill that made him look behind him in his uncertainty. The sun was growing low in the sky. They would have to fight in the dark soon. But Blackwell had every intention of doing that. Such a fortress, with so many different fortifications to overcome, ought to be taken all at once, lest they give the enemy a chance to repair and be made to fight through the same defences again.

The one thing that would crush them as they stood where they were was an attack to the rear. The logic didn't add up, however. For Blackwell's scouts had been sure that it was twenty thousand men that they'd seen, and Blackwell himself had kept a careful track of the enemy's positioning. The sensation, however, was undeniable. It made the hairs on the back of Blackwell's hands stand up.

The wind howled something rotten in his ears, it sang a song of despair right down to his soul, and set him to shivering, for all his time spent in his lack of activity. It fought the noises of battle, and made them seem increasingly chaotic. It was hard to paint the fullest picture with it there, obscuring everything…

And then there was that dark grey sky, the promise of snow, the promise of less visibility. They were all ominous warnings of the most irritating sort – and yet there it was, the gates to the Pendragon Capital, already open, ready and waiting for them. They'd managed to achieve it quickly. One could even say that they'd done so easily, though Blackwell's men would have protested, and pointed to the two thousand casualties that they'd already sustained. Yet against a man like Pedidarius, was that not still too easy?

Logic could not explain it, nor could strategy. Blackwell gave the orders nonetheless. "Colonel Wilem," he said.

"Yes, General?" Willem said, from by his side. "Ride to Broadstone. Order a withdrawal."

"A withdrawal?" Willem said, his eyes wide in shock. The hard look that Blackwell gave him told him not to ask any more questions than that. The Colonel nodded. "Very well. I shall see it done."

Off he was set to galloping, as Blackwell too gave an order of his own, rallying his own men, pulling those back from the wall that were not already committed. It was a risk, a complete and terrible risk, knowing that he was most certainly leaving Captain Kamly and those Second Boundary men that fought with him to die, but Blackwell could not deny his instincts. They were what made him the terrifying General that he was. His aptitude in strategy was above that of most Generals – but it was that threading of the dark inks of instinct that made him a monster that even Blackthorn had to respect, even if he did so out of hatred.

The retreat was a strange-looking thing, as Blackwell had willed it to be. It did not look like a withdrawal. It looked like a repositioning, temptingly done. It still had his men suspended however, ready and willing to move, just when the shout was given.

He saw Willem carry his message to Broadstone, and he started to see Broadstone's army shift as well, in the same sort of pattern. Blackwell nodded again, out of respect. Even without likely understanding the nature of Blackwell's instinct, Broadstone had guessed at what Blackwell had feared would happen, and he kept his retreat covered in the same kind of tempting cowl that Blackwell had.

The timing was perfect. The setting sun was just beginning to fall, the world was darkened just enough for the visibility to be poor at range, but well enough when in close. The first flakes of snow began to fall with it, and that wind heightened even further, tearing at their faces like a pair of icy claws.

Then Blackwell saw them – just beyond the right flank of Broadstone's army. Shadows arising from the settling fog. He could feel them too, even if he couldn't hear them. The pounding of hooves, a mighty calvary.

His eyes went wide, not in shock, but exhilaration. A form of madness, peculiar just to those of his House. That animalism that he felt, whenever he gave in entirely to it and he saw that they were well founded.

His army had been poised like a coiled spring, and when he gave the order to move, they were able to dash, far faster than their enemy could have anticipated. "ENEMYYYY ATTACCCK!" Blackwell bellowed. "REINFORCE GENERAL BROADSTONE!"