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Chapter 60: Siege of Stilwood Part 2 

…

Third POV

The southern walls of Stilwood Keep were alive with chaos. 

Archers loosed volley after volley, their arrows cutting through the air to strike down Nemean soldiers attempting to scale the walls. 

Ladders thudded against stone, but few invaders made it far.

Hot oil cascaded down, searing flesh and forcing screams from the men below. 

Large stone fell, smashing at shields and bone, sending climbers plummeting to their deaths. 

The Stilwood wall was a maelstrom of violence, and for every Nemean that reached the top, four more were cast down.

In less than half an hour, close to twenty Nemean soldiers had died or suffered severely, their bodies laying at the foot of the walls. 

On the walls above, Stilwood defenders shouted in triumph, their morale soaring as their losses remained minimal.

Jamond, leader of Stilwood garrison, allowed himself a moment of hope. He stood atop the central tower, surveying the battlefield. 

"Hold fast, men!" he bellowed. "They'll break soon enough. Show them what it means to defend your home!"

But down below, among the Nemean ranks, there was no retreat.

Centurion Dalton, his face grim beneath the wolfskin draped over his helm, stared down at the lifeless bodies of his men. 

A seething fury churned within him, fueled by a deep, gnawing guilt. 

These were his soldiers, his brothers, and he could no longer bear to watch them fall.

"Move aside," Dalton growled, shoving a soldier back from the ladder.

"Centurion Dalton, wait!" the soldier protested.

Dalton shot him a glare that brooked no argument.

With his shield strapped to one arm and his other gripping the ladder, Dalton began to climb.

Arrows whistled past, and rocks slammed into the rungs, shaking the structure. 

His shield absorbed a heavy impact, nearly wrenching him free, but Dalton held on.

Halfway up, he glanced above and saw a Stilwood defender tumble from the wall, an arrow lodged clean through his head. 

Blood sprayed as the body hit the ground with a sickening crunch.

Dalton's heart pounded. Immediately one thing came to his mind. Lord Galahad is inside, he's breached their defenses. 

He redoubled his efforts, climbing faster despite the hail of projectiles.

When he reached the top, he surged over the wall parapet, shield raised just in time to block a downward sword stroke. 

The impact rattled his arm, but he thrust forward with his short sword, the blade punching through the throat of the Stilwood defender. 

Blood spurted, and the man collapsed in a gurgling heap.

Dalton had no time to catch his breath. A second defender appeared, hefting a pot of boiling oil. 

Dalton raised his shield, but the searing liquid splashed over the edge, coating his right arm. 

Pain lanced through him, the heat biting deep into flesh.

"Seven hells!" he roared, the agony almost making him drop his sword. But his adrenaline continued to surge, and with a snarl, he lashed out. 

His blade severed the man's neck, sending his head tumbling.

Panting, Dalton pressed forward, even as his burned arm throbbed. 

Around him, Stilwood defenders hesitated, their confidence wavering in the face of his ferocity.

"You want to die?!!" Dalton growled, his voice a low rumble. "Come then!"

Before the defenders could act, arrows rained down. Stilwood men crumpled, shafts sprouting from their backs. 

Dalton turned and spotted the source—Lord Galahad on the eastern wall, standing tall with his weirwood bow in hand.

"My lord!" Dalton shouted.

Galahad—Richard—fired another arrow, dropping an archer who had been aiming at Dalton. He pointed to a group of Stilwood soldiers rushing toward the centurion.

Dalton understood immediately. 

He raised his sword high and let loose a thunderous war cry. "FOR NEMÉOS!"

The defenders hesitated for a heartbeat as Dalton's war cry thundered across the southern wall. 

His voice was a rallying cry for the Nemean forces and a chilling herald of doom for the Stilwood soldiers.

Minutes earlier, on the Eastern Walls. Richard moved like a shadow, weaving through the carnage with a predator's grace. 

His weirwood bow sang as he loosed arrow after arrow, each shot precise, each shaft finding its mark. 

Stilwood archers fell one by one, clutching at the arrows buried deep in their skulls or throats before toppling from the walls.

A sharp cry rose as one of the defenders finally spotted him. 

"There! On the eastern wall!" Several Stilwood conscripts turned their attention to Richard, but his quiver was nearly empty. 

He loosed his final arrows with practiced ease, dropping two more men before placing his bow to the ground.

No hesitation. No retreat.

Richard drew his twin blades, their edges gleaming.

Ten men rushed toward him, their faces twisted with fury.

He charged to meet them.

The first man raised his shield, but Richard was faster. His right blade swept upward, cleaving through wood and steel before severing the man's head in a single, fluid motion. 

Blood sprayed, painting the stones red as the lifeless body collapsed.

The next two came together, hoping to overpower him with numbers. Richard stepped into their charge, ducking low and slashing out with both blades. 

His left sword sliced through the thigh of one man, sending him to his knees with a scream, while his right took the arm of the other.

Their screams filled the air, but Richard did not relent. 

He stepped between them and struck again—one decapitated, the other silenced with a blade through the heart.

The remaining seven hesitated. They had seen too much. 

The knight before them moved like a wraith, his blades dancing with an almost unnatural speed and precision.

"Run!" one of them shouted, dropping his weapon and turning to flee.

Richard was on him in an instant, his enhanced speed making escape impossible. 

His sword flashed, and the man's head tumbled from his shoulders. 

The others barely had time to react before Richard fell upon them, his blades cutting through flesh and bone with horrifying efficiency.

By the time Richard was done, the stone floor was slick with blood, and the bodies of ten Stilwood defenders lay scattered around him.

Moments later, a commotion from below caught his attention.

The gates were open. Nemean infantry poured into the keep, their war cries mingling with the clashing of steel. 

Richard's sharp eyes scanned the scene, spotting his twenty knights near the gate. 

Bloodied but alive, they stood victorious, their path marked by the corpses of Stilwood soldiers. 

They had fought their way to the gate, ensuring its fall.

From the southern walls, the cry of "For Neméos!" resounded once more.

Richard turned to see at least twenty Nemean soldiers holding their ground on the southern wall. 

They faced a tide of over seventy Stilwood defenders, yet the Nemeans, with their superior armor, training, and discipline, fought like lions. 

Despite their disadvantage in numbers, they stemmed the Stilwood advance, their shields and swords moving in deadly harmony.

Morale among the Stilwood forces was breaking. Some soldiers dropped their weapons, raising their hands in surrender. 

Others hesitated, their resolve wavering as they watched the hundreds of Nemeans infantrymen flood the keep.

With this Neméos victory was assured.

…

Richard POV

Hours later 

The siege had ended. Inside the walls of Stilwood Keep, the air was thick with the acrid stench of burning flesh. 

Hundreds of my men gathered around, their faces shadowed by firelight as we stood among the grim spoils of battle. 

Two separate piles had formed.

One, larger and still growing, made of over seventy Stilwood soldiers whose bodies were now being consumed by the flames.

The other, thirty-one Nemean warriors laid reverently in wagons, ready to be carried back to Neméos for burial.

I walked toward one of the wagons, my boots crunching against the bloodied ground. 

Silence rippled outward as my men turned to watch me, their eyes filled with exhaustion and curiosity. 

They were wondering what their lord would say, what words I could offer after the bloodshed.

Stopping beside the nearest wagon, I placed a hand on its wooden edge, where the bodies of my fallen infantrymen lay shrouded in cloaks. 

For a moment, I studied their still forms, thinking of their sacrifice. They had given their lives for me.

I turned to face the men, drawing in a breath. "Brothers," I began, my voice steady but carrying the weight of the night's cost. "Look around you. What you see here, in these wagons, are the bravest of us. Men who stood unflinching in the face of death, who gave their lives so that the rest of us might stand here, victorious."

A murmur ran through the crowd. I let it settle before continuing. "Let it be known that their sacrifice will not go unnoticed, nor unpaid." 

I raised my voice, letting it carry to the farthest ranks. "For every man who gave his life today, a gold coin will be sent to his family. A small token, perhaps, but one that carries the weight of my gratitude—and my promise that their loyalty will always be remembered."

The murmurs turned into a roar of approval. Some of the younger men clutched their swords tighter, their faces alight with determination.

"For Neméos," I said, stepping forward, unsheathing my bloody sword, I raised it high into the darkened sky, "and for those who fought for it!"

The cry came back, loud and fierce. "FOR NEMÉOS! FOR LORD GALAHAD!" Hundreds of swords pointed into the sky.

I watched as the fire in their eyes reignited. 

They had seen horrors tonight, and many bore fresh wounds, but they stood taller now, shoulders squared with renewed pride. 

I sheathed my swords and cast one last look at the wagons. Rest now, brothers. Your fight is over. 

Then, I turned back to the sea of faces before me.

"Tonight, we honor the dead," I said, my voice softer now but no less resolute. "And tomorrow, we march forward, stronger than before."

The words lingered in the cold air, and as I turned to leave, the men erupted into a unified cry: "For Neméos! For Lord Galahad!" Their voices thundered across the field, rekindling a sense of purpose and loyalty.

Without another word, I strode toward the keep, the sound of their fervor fading behind me.

Inside the keep, the scene shifted to one of pain and perseverance. 

The wounded filled the halls, their groans and cries echoing off the stone walls. Torches flickered, casting uneven light over the injured men laid out on sheets. 

Their comrades worked tirelessly beside them, binding wounds, offering water, or simply murmuring words of encouragement.

My eyes scanned the room, taking in the toll the battle had taken. 

Among the injured, one figure caught my attention: Centurion Dalton.

I approached him, surprised he was even alive. His right arm was red and raw, the unmistakable mark of second-degree burns covering most of it. 

His left side fared no better, a deep stab wound visible on his shoulder. His left thigh was wrapped up, I could see bleeding.

His face was a testament to his near brush with death—a long gash ran from his brow to his cheekbone, dangerously close to his eye.

Despite the obvious pain etched across his face, Dalton's gaze met mine, and he immediately tried to rise.

"There is no need," I said, raising a hand to stop him.

He grimaced but obeyed, laying back down. Yet even in his pain, he brought his hand to his chest in salute.

I returned the gesture with a nod, stepping closer. "I saw what you did today," I said, my voice steady. "Quite brave. You inspired our men when they needed it most."

Dalton's eyes widened slightly at my words, but I wasn't finished. "That being said, next time, be smarter. I don't want to lose a warrior like you," I added, a faint smile tugging at my lips.

"Thank you, my lord," Dalton rasped, awe and gratitude evident in his tone.

I nodded again, clapping him gently on the uninjured shoulder. 

Then, without another word, I turned and moved on, my thoughts already on the next steps to come.

…

Elayne POV

The cold, damp air of the cell clung to my skin as I sat on the filthy ground, knees drawn to my chest. 

My dress, once fine, now hung in tatters, its fabric clinging to the dirt that seemed permanently etched into me. 

I could hear it again—the agonized cries echoing from the far end of the dungeons. My father's screams.

They had been going on for what felt like an eternity. 

Each sound was a knife to my heart, each pause a cruel tease that his torment might be over. But it never was. 

Hick—my sobs broke the silence of my cell as tears streamed down my cheeks, hot and relentless.

Where did everything go wrong?

Not long ago, my betrothed had been taken from me. 

His head—oh gods, his head—was sent to me in a box, his lifeless eyes staring back at me, mocking my despair. 

My father's lands, our keep, the legacy of House Stilwood—all of it had been taken, ripped away by the relentless tide of Neméos.

And now this. Now I sat in darkness, powerless, awaiting whatever fate these men had planned for me. 

My father's screams stopped abruptly, leaving behind an oppressive silence that weighed heavier than the cries had.

My breath hitched as I realized the truth. His suffering had ended. My father was dead.

A wave of hopelessness crashed over me. My body trembled, and my mind spun with dark thoughts. Should I end it now? 

Death seemed kinder than the horrors I feared awaited me.

I pressed my trembling hands to my face, trying to summon the courage. 

Tears mixed with the dirt on my cheeks as I whispered, "It's better than this. Better than what they'll do to me."

Without thinking, I extended my tongue and bit down, hard. 

Pain shot through me—a searing, metallic burst of agony. 

I tasted blood, warm and bitter. My body rebelled, and I released my bite with a choked sob.

"I can't do it," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the sound of my ragged breathing. "I don't want to die."

My resolve crumbled as I curled into myself, crying softly. 

The blood from my lip dripped onto the filthy ground, mingling with the grime.

Moments later, I heard footsteps. The faint echo grew louder, accompanied by the clink of armor. 

My heart leapt into my throat as I scrambled backward, pressing my back against the cold stone wall. 

My eyes darted to the cell door as shadows danced across it, illuminated by flickering torchlight.

The door creaked open, and two figures stepped inside. 

The first was a knight, his full plate armor blending with the darkness.

His blonde hair framed a face that might have been handsome if not for the coldness in his green eyes. 

Behind him, another man held a torch, his face obscured by a helm.

The knight's gaze swept over me, and I felt his scrutiny like a physical weight. His expression was unreadable, a mask of indifference that chilled me to the core.

"Open it," he commanded, his voice firm and emotionless.

The second man obeyed, unlocking the cell door with a metallic clatter. 

The knight stepped inside, his boots crunching against the dirt floor.

I tried to push myself further into the wall, my trembling hands scraping against the stone as if I could somehow disappear. 

He crouched before me, his armor creaking softly with the movement.

His green eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe. 

There was no pity in his gaze, no kindness—only calculation, as though he were assessing the value of a tool.

"Rejoice, woman," he said, his voice cold and cutting. "For you are still useful to me alive."

His words sent a jolt through me. Hope, fragile and fleeting, stirred in my chest. Useful. Alive. They weren't promises of safety, but they weren't the finality of death either.

I nodded quickly, too terrified to speak, and he straightened, towering over me.

"Bring her," he said to the man with the torch. Without another glance at me, he turned and strode from the cell, his presence leaving an oppressive void in its wake.

The torchbearer stepped forward, reaching for me. My legs felt weak as I stumbled to my feet, guided more by fear than strength. 

As we moved into the corridor, the darkness seemed to close in around me, but I clung to one thought.

I was still alive. And as long as I breathed, there was a chance—however small—that I could find a way to reclaim my life.

…

Author note: With that we finish with the Stilwoods. The chapter could be better and bloodier, but this will do.

The next few chaps will be some small time skips with new POVs.