Ch 18 Keep dancing, my marionette. I pull the strings around here.

Captain Rognar stood at the bow of his flagship, peering out over the tailing with his first mate at his side. Below them, the sounds of steel ringing and men crying out echoed up from the streets of west harbor. His crew of roughly two thousand battle-hardened raiders had come ashore that morning to collect the taxes owed to him by the city's inhabitants and merchants. But the greedy locals had refused, thinking their town guard and petty militia could withstand the infamous pirate and his bloodthirsty men.

They were sorely mistaken.

Even now, the streets ran red with blood as the pirates cut their way through the outmatched city guard. Common folk fled screaming while soldiers attempted to rally some semblance of defense. Bit they were no match for the frenzied reavers thirst for spoils. Behind Rognar, the bay was filled with his fleet – twenty wolfships crewed by thousands more of killers and thieves. Far more than what this backwater port could ever resist.

At the sound of footsteps, Rognar turned to see his burly quartermaster approaching. "The men are enjoying themselves," the quartermaster grinned savagely. "We've already secured the harbor and marketplace. The wealthiest homes are being looted as we speak."

Rognar nodded in approval, arms crossed over his scarred chest. "Good. squeeze every last coin from these cowardly dogs. And if they continue to resist, put their precious city to torch."

The quartermaster let out a dark chuckle. "It will be our pleasure, captain. By nightfall, they'll be begging to pay our tribute."

With a sneer, Rognar turned back to watch columns of black smoke beginning to rise over west harbor. The once-proud townsfolk would learn that this island, and all its wealth, now belonged to him. All who sailed these waters must pay. And those who refused would be given a stark lesson in the price of defiance.

Captain Rognar turned from the burning harbor, ready to retire to his chambers after a long day of slaughter and pillage. His quartermaster continued bellowing orders to the men as they kicked down doors and dragged heavy chests filled with west harbor's treasures back to the waiting longships.

The pirate smiled with satisfaction. These pathetic islanders had refused his reasonable demand for tribute, and now they were paying the price. Surely after today tales would spread across the islands of the cost of defying him. He began to descend the gangplank back onto the blood-spattered docks when suddenly a sound echoed over the soft lapping of waves against the hulls.

But as the sea shanty grew louder, rolling clearly over the sullen waves, he realized the voices came from beyond the twenty wolfships of his own fleet, moored arrogantly against the battered docks. Singing. Distant voices raised together in what sounded almost like a…. cheerful melody? Furrowing his brow, Rognar strode back to rail peering out between his moored wolfships.

Squinting against the columns of smoke rising from the burning city, Rognar gazed out across the darkening expanse of ocean. Tiny lights winked along the distant line of the horizon. With a start, he grabbed his spyglass and hastily extended it, scouring the far ships that were steadily growing larger.

The words of the chorus cane again on the salty wind:

"Oh, the Pirate King comes sailin' in, 

With his wolfish, wicked grin, 

Twenty ships or more line up behind, 

Enough to curse your fate and mine.

Defy old king if ye dare! 

But brace for blood and grim despair 

All who fail to pay the claim, 

Will die by iron, fire and flame!"

"More ships," Rognar muttered. "Flying colors, I don't recognize." He slammed the glass closed.

"My lord?" his quartermaster questioned uneasily. "Reinforcements for the islanders?"

Rognar's expression darkened like a stormcloud, "No pirates." He whirled and began bellowing orders to crew still loading plunder from the docks. "Make read to sail! Unmoor and set oars! We may soon have a fight on our hands…"

He would teach these new arrivals the high cost of defiance as well.

Lewis surveyed the unfolding chaos below, his expressions grim. Endless legions of twisted abominations flung themselves against the ramparts in psychotic fervor, driven by some unseen malevolent will. Bereft of reason or self-preservation instincts, the tidal wave of horrors continued their frenzied attempts to overwhelm the fortress through sheer mass. 

Gathered in a relentless press around the fortress, the creatures used their own dead as ladders, clambering over mounded piles of corpses dozes deep to reach the parapets. Archers lined the walls unleashed relentless volleys into their numbers, but the deluge did not abate. Arrows protruded like porcupine quills from the suppurating mounds, rebounding the horrendous stench of decay that clung to the besieged fortress. 

Still the monsters hurled themselves forward with preternatural fury, driven by some unseen hand. Hideous emaciated goblins with sickly green skin and glinting feral eyes clawed maniacally at the granite bulwarks until their malformed nails split and fingers shattered. Packs of lumbering trolls with lumpy misshapen frames blistered and blackened in the midday sun, their regenerative flesh mending almost as quickly as witton's defenders could inflict harm. Heavy spiked clubs thirstily sought purchase, crushing any solider unlucky enough to lose footing atop the parapets slick with blood and offal. Lewis noted their number seemed inexhaustible. 

Massive fanged orcs covered in ritual scarification and piercings bellowed gutturally, single-minded in their lust for carnage. Brawny white Uruk berserkers, albino skin marred by oozing sores, hurled massive axes with inhuman strength, embedding them deeply into sturdy oaken gates and support beams. How long would those fortifications possibly endure these endless attacks?

Though brute force and surprising mobility drove the swirling melee, lewis noted the distinct lack of tactics or strategy in the beast's offense. Their eyes registered no cunning nor true sentience – just vacant hunger goaded into action by forces unseen. What was in the eldritch depth of the wood that could mobilize such an ocean of horde against witton fortress. Lewis desperately wondered? Exhaustion drew heavy on the garrison of defenders manning the ramparts. Time was not on their side. 

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the horde's maddened assault abruptly ceased, as it had each dusk before. Though the twisted invaders attacked with single-minded ferocity during the day, come nightfall saw them inexplicably retreating back into the gloom of forest.

Lewis sighed in weary relief as the last of the routed beasts disappeared into the trees. The courageous defenders of Witton had held for another day, though none could say how many more such pyrrhic victories the garrison could withstand.

With the setting sun, lewis noted the substantial troll this ceaseless battle had extracted – collapsed soldiers bearing gruesome wounds, depleted quivers, and rapidly dwindling stockpiles of weapons and arrows. Gazing at the gore – slick ramparts now temporarily speared from the endless waves, the young lewis wondered what compelled the beasts each dawn to fling themselves suicidally against the fortress.

As lewis turned his fatigued countenance up towards the emerging stars and a bright full moon cresting the ramparts, a howl echoed in the distance – the haunting, forlorn cry of a lone wolf that sent a chill through exhausted hearts now granted but a few hours respite. Something ancient and fell stirred in the depths of forest, relentlessly driving this cycle of daytime fury and nocturnal unnatural calm.

Returning to his bedchamber, lewis ruminated uneasily on the urgent message he had received from his father. It conveyed dire news – chimera incursion in the kingdom had surged sharply of late. Where they were once considered fanciful rumor, the reality of the creature's devastation was now irrefutably etched in blood across remote steads. Numerous small villages had been ruthlessly gutted down to the foundation stones; their populations devoured in a single night. Livestock shredded, farmlands despoiled, trade routes abandoned in fear.

Furthermore, the ongoing war campaign against the pirate king captain Samuel was to be suspended. Resources would redirect toward elimination the predatory menace and uncovering the catalyst behind their sudden surge in numbers. With the frontier hamlets and throps left vulnerable, the crown could no longer dismiss frightened tales.

Reaching his room, an exhausted lewis settled heavily into his high-backed chair, uneasy thoughts weighing as heavily as the duties of leadership in trying times. Nocturnal howls mocked from outside the window where flickering candles cast menacing shapes upon the cold stone walls.

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