Chapter 105

The first indication that something was wrong was the shouting. It was the middle of the night, and much of our camp was asleep. I myself was asleep, though I bolted upright in my camp bed when I heard the shouts. It seemed a pair of our sentries had been slain by enemy action and allowed an advanced party into the camp before the alarm was raised. When it was, shouts of 'Alarm, alarm! Two sentries slain!' were quickly superceded by gunfire. I rushed out of my command tent to see that we were being attacked.

The enemy was a mixed force of light infantry and skirmishers from the Windblown, likely having just arrived on the scene after we had begun our siege of Saltharvest. The Skirmishers with their matchlocks could periodically be seen from flashes of musketry as they downed sentries, but the light infantry had managed to be stealthy, and some of them had slipped into the camp in the confusion.

Inside the siege lines was chaos, as a few tents were aflame while men sought to repel the attackers. No one had time to do much in the way of equipping themselves, and while my forces had weapons, none had time to don more than the odd helm. This was in contrast to the Windblown Light Infantry, who had infiltrated the camp, as they were equipped in boiled leather and oiled chainmail, the latter of which made little noise thanks to the oiling of the links, showing how they were able to infiltrate so easily.

"We're under attack!" I snarled, grabbing for my blade.

I managed to buckle on my swordbelt and draw my blade just in time, too, as a trio of Windblown Light Infantry emerged from the brush near my command tent. One of them tossed a Javelin my way, which I cut out of the air, snapping off a crisp parry. This, however, gave the other two time to charge me with their blades. I ducked a cut from a Windblown Light Infantryman's Falchion, dropping one hand to the ground to steady myself as I did so and thrusting my sidesword up and into his ribs from below. The Passata-Soto Stocatta, a rising thrust from a three-point crouch, punched through boiled leather and oiled chain and slew the man, his falchion dropping from nerveless fingers.

I rose as he toppled, only to have to cut a second javelin out of the air in a quick parry. That was all the time the third Light Infantryman needed to cut out at me with his Baselard-Style Fighting Dagger. I twisted with the blow, lessening its severity, but it still slashed through the cloth of my shirt, cutting through the indigo cotton and opening a shallow gash along my left side. I hissed through my teeth as that happened, lashing out with my blade in a Horizontal Manco Tondo cut that slashed my Opponent's throat out from left to right, but the damage had been done. I was just thankful that the cut was shallow instead of something more severe. A bit of time with the camp surgeon to stitch me up after this would be warranted, but I was still wounded.

Fortunately for me, as the last Light Infantryman threw his last Javelin, I was able to parry it out of the air once again, though I winced as the motion tugged at my wounded side. That didn't stop the man from drawing a sidesword and charging me with a shout. His lunging thrust forced me to parry, pumping out further blood and aggravating my wound more. The Valyrian steel of my blade struck sparks off of and tore a chunk out of his blade. As he tried to come in at me with a follow-on moulinet, flicking his wrist around and sending his blade into a sort of swift, arcing, windmill cut, I parried again. This time, his blade sheared in twain thanks to the Valyrian Steel of my own blade cutting through it. He gaped at his cut-through sword, and that gave me the opportunity to run him through with my own blade, my overarm stoccata thrust punching through his armor and ribcage to pierce his heart.

As the last of my Windblown Light Infantry Attackers fell, I looked out at the camp. We were pushing the enemy back, but they had slain a number of our forces in the early confusion of the attack. Not only that, but it seemed that they'd burned up some of our fodder and food supplies in the surprise attack. We were lucky that they hadn't penetrated the camp all the way to where the supply tents storing the powder and shot were, or that would have been an even bigger problem. Doubtless, that had been their intent, but I had instituted enough of a system of distributed storage that even in the event of a raid on our camp, the enemy likely wouldn't penetrate that far.

It had been a good attempt and would set us back longer as we would have to ship in replacement supplies before pushing on Maidenpool, but the attack would ultimately just contribute to attrition instead of totally defeating us. It was unfortunate, but that was just how it was. Once we fully pushed the enemy off, I would order an intensified bombardment to batter down a few breaches in the Stone Wall of Saltharvest. It shouldn't take more than an hour or so to form a breach, and I judged three breaches enough for an assault. I would have no more time to waste trying to completely wreck Saltharvest's Walls in a more distributed bombardment. Not after this attack.

"I'm sorry." Came a voice from behind me.

I frowned, turning around in time to see a man who was garbed in the Brigandine over mail of my Guard Forces rush me with a sidesword. His movements with the blade were quick but spoke more of familiarity with the falchion or scimitar than a blade which could thrust as well as cut. I snapped off a wild series of parries as he tried to cut at my throat, then my legs, before once more cutting high at my throat. Sparks struck off the blade, but it held up longer than the Windblown's sword had against my Valyrian Steel, largely thanks to it being Arsenal Steel.

"Who are you?" I demanded.

"I'm sorry." Was the only thing I got in response as my attacker slammed a kick into the side of my knee.

I grunted as I went down to one knee from the kick. It dawned on me then, between the apologies and the cutting strokes of the sword meant for a scimitar or falchion. This was a Sorrowful Man, one of the famed order of Qartheen Assassins. It made sense, most of the schools of swordsmanship in Qarth, what few there were, practiced fighting with scimitars, falchions, and other slashing blades. As he cut down at my head, taking advantage of my momentary poor positing, I was forced to throw up a desperate parry. As our blades locked together, I realized that though the Sorrowful Man was fast, he was not strong, likely a factor in his training.

As the blood pumped out of my wounded side, I growled, shunting the pain aside and surging upward, drawing my dagger with my off-hand as the blade lock continued. I began to overpower the Sorrowful Man, winding and binding in the blade lock until I opened up a gap in his defense that I thrust my dagger through. The tip of my dagger punched through his eye and into his brain, passing through the open face of his Burgonet-style halfhelm. The Sorrowful Man toppled dead to the ground as I winced in pain from the aggravated cut to my side, my dagger lodged in his eye.

Unfortunately, the night wasn't over yet, as it seemed that a contingent of cavalry, Household Knights of House Cox, Hired Hedge Knights and Freeriders, and Mounted Militia had emerged from a postern gate on the riverbank, led by Ser Quincy Cox. They were charging along the Riverbank toward the flank of the ad-hoc force that was pushing the Windblown back away from our Camp. With no pikes and few halberds among that force, they would be slaughtered by the rag-tag mounted force of House Cox. I would need to do something drastic to avoid even more of my men dying tonight.

Concentrating, I squeezed at my side, sacrificing enough of my own blood and drawing on the unique qualities of my double soul to enact a bit of Rhoynar Water Magic. Fortunately, I would survive the required sacrifice, thanks to my unique capabilities. A normal water mage would have to sacrifice two pints of blood to do this, which was enough to be deadly in most circumstances. I could get away with losing a pint for this. As I did so, I murmured an incantation in Old Rhoynish, imploring the Mother of Rivers to stir her child to action. I wasn't entirely sure it would work, Westeros was far from Mother Rhoyne, after all, but it did.

Just before the cavalry force of House Cox would have reached the point where they would begin riding away from the riverbank on their final approach to smash into my Ad-Hoc Force of Camp Guardians, a surge of water from the Holywater flooded into the Trident, causing the latter river to flood its banks violently. There was a shout from the suddenly inundated House Cox Cavalry, and then they were swept away in the floodtide. The heavy armor they were wearing drowned most of them, including Ser Quincy Cox and all three of his sons. The floodwaters receded down the Trident as swiftly as they had arrived from the Holywater, taking the enemy cavalry with them. On seeing this, the Windblown forces sounded the retreat. The camp was safe.

It was around that time that a wave of dizziness came over me, and I stumbled. Frowning, I realized belatedly that I must have lost too much blood over the course of the camp raid. A pint and a half at least, likely more. The camp was starting to spin as I sank to my knees, and I let off a hapless chuckle at the absurdity of the whole thing. The last thing I saw before I passed out was Ser Roger Groves and Ser Bryen Farring leading a party of men to my position.

Then darkness took me. . .

XXXX

When I awoke, the sun was high in the sky, and it seemed I had been moved back into my command tent. Looking down at my side, I realized that my wound had been patched up and a poultice had been placed over it, one of the foul-smelling ones that contained an antiseptic mixture. I was alive, at least, and that was what mattered here, even if it felt like my head was stuffed with cotton wool.

"Milord! You're awake!" Came Ser Bryen Farring's Voice.

I looked over to see him and Ser Denys Irons keeping watch over me in my tent. I pushed myself up into a sitting position, wincing as the motion tugged at my stitches. It didn't hurt as much as it would have if I had been freshly stitched-up, however, which said bad things for how long we had been here. I needed to know the exact number of days we had been stalled out here by my unconsciousness.

"How long?" I questioned.

"Three days. The Camp Surgeon said not to move you, otherwise, we would have taken you into Saltharvest Castle." Informed Ser Denys Irons.

"So we took the town?" I queried.

"After the Night Battle. Lady Cox surrendered the Town and Castle on behalf of the new Lord Raynald Cox, her Grandson." Answered Ser Bryen Farring.

"He's a lad of eleven years, and thus needed his Grandmother to act as regent." Added Ser Denys Irons.

"Where is Ser Roger?" I asked.

"Overseeing the purchase of fodder and food to replace what was lost in the surprise attack. He should return from the town with the supplies within the day. By tomorrow, we should be able to march for Saltpans." Informed Ser Denys Irons.

"Aye, Milord. It's needed. Apparently, Salhador Saan won't return with the Baidak Flotilla until the morning. Something about dealing with a sudden lowering of the water level in the Holywater delaying his return after the defeat against the fireships." Concurred Ser Bryen Farring.

Of course, that would be the case. Even with my special circumstances, there was always a price for magic on Planetos. Especially with magic that affected the environment like Rhoynar Water Magic. You could get away with using a few drops of animal blood to charge up a rune scheme, but this sort of magic would always come back to bite you in some way. It's why I preferred technological solutions whenever possible. There was no time to ruminate on that, however. I needed to know what the status of our force was.

"Tell me everything that happened while I was out." I commanded.

And so Ser Denys and Ser Bryen did. It turned out that we had lost quite a bit of manpower in the raid. Eight hundred men had been killed or wounded, which, given the force sizes in play here, wasn't great for us. Fortunately, while I had been unconscious, the wounded from the Battle of Timber Hall had mostly recovered, stabilizing our numbers at five-thousand-three-hundred men. Meanwhile, we didn't have an accurate count of killed and wounded enemy numbers, but it was at least four hundred. By that metric, this was a loss. At the same time, we had been stalled out here at Saltharvest for three days while the clock was ticking on the Vale's involvement. By that metric, this was a loss as well. We had, at least, managed to take Saltharvest, which was a victory, but given how it was outweighed by the lopsided casualty and timing figures, I could hardly call it one. No, even if this was technically a victory, the Tattered Prince had gotten the better of me this day.

And that was something I would not forget when we next faced each other across the field. . .

XXXX

AN: All right, so here we see the next chapter. It turns out that the Tattered Prince's strategy has forced Ricasso to draw on Rhoynar Water Magic to manage a victory, and even in doing so, made it Pyrrhic. Between the night attack and the fireships that sent the Baidaks retreating back up the Holywater, the Tattered Prince is proving a formidable enemy, even when not physically present on the field. Adding onto that fact the attack from a Sorrowful Man, likely bought and paid for by Tywin Lannister, and this is the closest Ricasso has come personally to an unqualified defeat.

You can bet that Ricasso will remember this going forward. The Tattered Prince is likely to become something of an Arch-enemy to Ricasso, compared to the various other commanders he's faced. On the one hand, this makes him worthy of respect, but on the other, having competent opponents is a problem.

At any rate, the next chapter will be the march to and beginning of the Siege of Saltpans.

Stay tuned. . .