At the same hour, atop the cliffs of Edinburgh, the siege dragged into its second month.
Inside the wooden citadel, Lord Arkense had been living on the edge of despair. When word spread that friendly banners had appeared on the southern horizon, he could scarcely contain his joy.
He buckled on his sword, calling for his men to follow him down the slope—only for a messenger to burst in, pale-faced, with devastating news.
"My lord… the reinforcements are retreating."
"Retreating?" Arkense froze. "Those cowards marched all this way—only to flee after a single charge?"
In desperation, he ordered everyone to shout for them, to light signal fires, to make some sign of defiance. But no answer came.
Far below, the Gaelic host scattered into the green folds of the southern hills—swallowed by the forest as if they had never existed.
By sunset, the clouds blushed pink in the fading light. On the western plain, new banners appeared—black cloth marked with a golden serpent. Arkense rubbed his weary eyes, hoping he was mistaken. He wasn't. His last hope crumbled.
At the foot of the hill, Vig surveyed the bodies lying beyond the outer ditch.
"Report," he said.
Burlow saluted.
"The Gaels panicked at the sight of our fortifications. They made a token assault, then fled into the woods. The garrison on the hill tried to break out but, after seeing their allies run, withdrew back into the fort."
"Ran, did they?"
Vig gazed south at the rolling forests—no movement, no banners. He sighed, a mix of frustration and satisfaction.
A disorganized enemy, scattered through wild country with no supplies, was as good as defeated.
"After this," Vig murmured, "the Picts and Gaels will have no field armies left. From now on, the war becomes a series of sieges."
He rubbed his temples, then called for the man who had distinguished himself most in the fighting.
When Torga appeared—lean, fair-haired, still wearing his dented helm—Vig greeted him with a broad grin and tossed him a wineskin.
"Men are easy to find," he said. "But a commander worth following—he's rare."
Torga knelt and accepted it. After this campaign, he knew where the wind was blowing. When the north was conquered, Vig would have land enough to reward all who served him.
"To serve the one chosen by the gods," Torga said solemnly, "is the highest honor."
Two days later, Vig marched back to Stirling, settling in for another round of patient waiting.
By late June, the heat was oppressive. Each morning, the besiegers awoke to the smell of pine smoke and the faint cries from the starving fortress above.
Then, one dawn, something changed.
The sentries on the inner wall spotted movement in the grass—five thin figures creeping downslope.
A crossbowman raised his weapon, but his captain stopped him.
"Hold your fire! They're unarmed. Looks like they mean to surrender."
They sent for Burlow. Within minutes, the Welsh commander climbed the rampart with a company of archers. Through an interpreter, he called out to the five Picts, demanding to know why they came.
"Master," one cried hoarsely, "there's no food left. We've eaten half a crust of black bread and two cups of rainwater each day. Some have already starved."
Burlow studied their hollow cheeks and trembling hands, ordered them to strip their tunics to ensure they carried no blades, then allowed them inside.
The moment they saw the steaming cauldron of oat porridge, the five men threw aside all pretense of dignity, rushing forward with bowls to scoop up mouthfuls, tears in their eyes.
Burlow waved his men off.
"Let them eat."
Once fed, the Picts described the situation inside the fortress.
That winter, Lord Arkense had pressed the peasants to reinforce the fort, dig a huge cistern to collect rainwater, and stock the cellars with grain for a long siege.
After the town below fell in April, hundreds of refugees had climbed the slopes. Arkense conscripted the men—around four hundred fighters, with three hundred family members sheltering inside.
By now, their supplies were almost gone. Arkense had cut rations to a sliver, keeping full portions only for himself, fifty guards, and a few relatives.
The rest—peasants and servants alike—were starving.
"We slipped away at night," one man admitted, "just for a full meal."
Burlow nodded thoughtfully.
"Seven hundred souls on that rock for two months… they can't have much left."
He remembered what Vig had once told him before the campaign:
"War is a contest of exhaustion—men, food, and willpower. Spend less to make the enemy spend more, and victory will come by itself."
The truth of that lesson struck him now.
He smiled faintly and turned to the five Picts.
"I have a task for you. Voluntary—but worth twenty silver pennies if you accept."
Their eyes lit up.
The mission was simple: climb back up the slope and call for surrender. Promise food for those who laid down arms—and an extra reward for anyone who brought weapons or armor with them.
"Grain and silver for soldiers and steel," Burlow said under his breath. "A fine trade indeed. The lord won't fault me for that."
That afternoon, under guard, the five men went up the hill shouting:
"Brothers! The Serpent of the North swears no harm to farmers or slaves! Guards who surrender will serve a short time in labor—only the lord's family will be punished!"
Their cries drew arrows from the fortress, but the Pictish bows lacked range. No one was hit.
The next day, Burlow took it further. He had his men boil porridge and roast mutton on the slope, letting the rich smell drift up the wind toward the starving garrison.
That night, three figures crept down through the darkness. The Welsh archers caught them at the ditch and made them sit until dawn, then escorted them inside.
After a warm meal, they too agreed to call for surrender.
Each night after, more came—peasants, guards, even a few soldiers. One brought down a fine iron cuirass; Burlow rewarded him on the spot with a small cask of beer and fifty silver pennies.
The fortress was unraveling from within.
Finally, one moonless night, Lord Arkense himself attempted escape. With a handful of loyal men, he descended the cliff on ropes, pretending to surrender—until one of them slipped, shouting in panic.
The sentries below were ready. A skirmish erupted at the base of the rock. When it was over, the lord of Edinburgh lay among the dead, a spear through his chest.
By dawn on July 5th, the wooden fortress opened its gates.
Edinburgh had fallen.
~~--------------------------
Patreon Advanced Chapters:
patreon.com/YonkoSlayer