Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 39 (Patreon)

Lys half-carried, half-dragged Garrett through the chaos of the camp, his blood soaking both of them. Tents flapped in the wind, many of them smoldering from the flaming arrows.

They reached the medical tents, which were far enough back that they had avoided being set ablaze. Wounded men lay on cots and pallets, their moans and cries filling the air.

“Medic!” Lys shouted, her voice hoarse. “I need a medic here!”

A harried-looking man hurried over. “What’s the problem?”

“He’s been stabbed,” Lys said, nodding at Garrett’s side. “Please, you have to help him.”

The medic gestured to a nearby cot. “Lay him down there. I’ll see what I can do.”

Lys eased Garrett onto the cot, his face pale and clammy. She stepped back, her hands shaking as the medic bent over him, cutting away his tunic to expose the wound.

“You there, boy!” another voice called out. “Are you injured?”

Lys turned to see a woman with a bloodstained apron eyeing her critically. She glanced down at herself, taking stock for the first time. Her clothes were stained with blood and dirt, but she seemed otherwise unharmed.

“No, I’m fine,” Lys said, shaking her head.

The woman grabbed her by the arm, steering her towards the tent flap. “Then get back to your unit! We need every able-bodied soldier out there fighting!”

Lys stumbled as the healer shoved her outside. She caught herself, then looked back at the tent with a pang of worry for Garrett. It was the sounds of battle that tore her attention away—the clash of steel, the cries of the fighting.

She took a deep breath and steeled herself, then turned and ran back towards the fight. She had to find her unit, had to keep fighting. There would be time to worry about Garrett later—if they survived this battle at all.

She dodged running men and bellowing sergeants. Tents and supply crates blurred in her peripheral vision as she focused on finding her unit.

A group of skirmishers firing from behind wooden breastworks caught her eye, and she sprinted towards them, relief washing over her at the sight of Sergeant Tilledge.

“Where have you been, recruit?” Tilledge demanded, grabbing her arm as she reached the group.

“I was at the front, then the medical tents,” Lys replied, her voice strained from exhaustion.

Tilledge’s eyes swept over her blood-stained uniform, and he grunted, releasing his grip. “Keep firing!” he shouted to the group before turning back to Lys. “Get your bow and join the line, now!”

Lys hurried to comply, grabbing a weapon and quiver of arrows from the nearby pile. She took her place at the normal distance, nocking an arrow, but panic seized her as she realized she didn’t know what to aim for. They didn’t have a line a sight, and even if they did, there was a wall of smoke rising in front of them.

“Aim for the Irongians on the ladders if things clear up,” Dax said from beside her, noticing her confusion. He pointed at the wall. “But don’t risk hitting any friendlies. Otherwise, aim high and let the arc carry the arrows just beyond the wall.”

Lys nodded, her hands trembling slightly as she drew back her bowstring. Around her, the steady twang of bows releasing filled the air, providing a relentless stream of arrows to rain down on the enemy. She took a deep breath, focusing on Dax’s instructions, and let her arrow fly, watching it disappear into the haze.

They had a lot of arrows piled nearby, so she let loose without worrying about running out of ammunition. A dozen. Two dozen. She had to grab another bundle.

Eventually, the haze began to life and the morning sun crept high enough to light the scene. How long could the enemy fight? The siege had made them desperate to break through.

She nocked another arrow, drawing the bowstring back to her cheek. She scanned the ramparts. The walls were still held by White Dragons. She searched for a target. An enemy stood at the top of a ladder, his sword raised high. Lys exhaled, releasing the arrow. It flew true, striking the man in the face. He toppled backward, disappearing from view.

She reached for another arrow, spotting a large axe-wielding warrior smashing through the shields of a group of spearmen. Lys aimed, then loosed, striking his shoulder. He staggered, and the spearmen surged forward, stabbing him with their weapons.

She lost herself in the process, putting everything out of her mind except for her shots and the breaths that came between. Draw. Release. Breathe.

Heat built in her core, a strange energy thrumming through her veins. She picked every target she could see, her focus narrowing until it was a deadly tunnel of intention.

“Incoming!” Sergeant Tilledge shouted. “Brace!”

Dax’s hand clamped around Lys’s arm, yanking her mid-shot. The arrow went wide as he threw her against the breastwork. A volley of fire arrows thudded into the wood and the ground where they had been standing a second before.

As soon as the barrage passed, Tilledge stood, his voice booming across the line. “Spread out and skirmish!”

Lys staggered to her feet, Dax’s hand on her back, pushing her forward.

“Spread out,” he said, his voice urgent. “Keep an eye out for each other, the sky, and targets. Don’t get tunnel vision!”

Lys nodded, hurrying to comply. That had been close.

She moved away from the others. Along the walls, the enemy surged forward, attempting to breach the defenses from multiple angles.

A makeshift bridge of ladders spanned the ditches, allowing the Irongians to pour across in greater numbers. The entire wall was lined with ladders that had bit in and refused to be dislodged.

The defenders waited to meet them, stabbing them as the enemy climbed. Despite the desperate attack, the defenses seemed to make it futile.

Lys scrambled up an incline, clambering atop a cart for a better vantage point. She drew upon the strange energy thrumming through her core and began to rain down a series of precise shots.

An arrow whistled towards her, but she targeted it, splitting it in half with a well-aimed shot. The halves spun harmlessly past her and she continued to rain death upon the exposed enemy.

Until she reached for another arrow and found her quiver empty. She leaped down from the cart, narrowly avoiding a barrage of incoming fire. Her eyes darted around, searching for ammunition.

A fallen skirmisher caught her attention, his bow and quiver lying beside his corpse. She sprinted toward him and snatched up the quiver, slinging it over her shoulder as the enemy surged in a brutal push.

She ran down the line until she found a spot that wasn’t under direct attack. She pushed through the men standing guard there, despite their complaints. With a clear view of the fighting, she took aim and began to shoot into them from the flank.

The tide of battle shifted. The Irongians began to shrink as men scrambled back down the ladders. They’d lost too many men, and lost their nerve.

A stranger shoved a quiver into Lys’s hands, his voice urgent. “Keep firing into the retreat!”

Other skirmishers mounted the wall as well and opened fire with their bows and slings, picking off targets with deadly precision.

Lys realized the others were targeting the enemy archers, their lack of cover making them vulnerable. She adjusted her aim, focusing on the bowmen.

She struck an archer in the chest just as he was about to draw. He stumbled, his bow clattering to the ground.

Another shot, another fallen enemy.

Her lungs burned like they were on fire as her arrows seemed to be guided by an unseen force, each one finding a vital spot.

Another Irongian tumbled to the ground as he dropped his bow and started to turn away. A sling stone from a nearby skirmisher crushed the skull of another.

Lys drew back her bowstring, aiming at a group of Irongians running up the hill. Her arrow pierced the throat of a group leader with a fancy helmet. He clawed at his throat while two of his men tried to help him stagger away. She shot both of them in the backs. One of them continued to crawl up the slope.

The enemy’s retreat turned into a rout.

She reached for another arrow, her fingers grasping at empty air. Her quiver was empty.

The last of the Irongians disappeared over the hill and back into their fortified camp on the escarpment. The White Dragons had held the contravallation.

Lys leaned forward against a log, her chest heaving. Each breath felt like she was breathing in fire and the strange energy that had filled her during the battle began to dissipate, leaving her feeling drained and shaky.