Siege (3) “George? Oh, of course, you haven’t been working here that long have you? I don’t know what he looks like, but he’s Agraff’s invisible friend. His best friend. Best to avoid talking about George.” “Why’s that?” “Because Agraff doesn’t know he’s not real.” *** “Come on Agraff, you’ve got to do this properly.” “Okay, here goes again.” Agraff scooped Sacha up into his arms, her legs waving over his left arm wildly, kicking her two shoes into the air and down the dark hallway. It was early in the morning, around two. Strange time for a wedding. When Agraff was stable, he kicked his bedroom door inwards and struggled to get her through the small gap. Noticing that the bed was still quite a distance away, he sighed and moved closer, step by step, his knees buckling further and further to the floor until he could finally drop her onto the bed. Panting for breath, Agraff was red in the face and started taking off his jacket. On the bed, Sacha Byrne looked up at the stone ceiling and began unbuttoning the front of her dress, revealing the white corset that she wore underneath. She looked over her covered breasts to see Agraff standing by the open window, panting. “I’m all out of puff,” breathed Agraff, inhaling and exhaling as much as he could. “Well, get your breath back quickly,” replied Sacha, letting the dress fall away. The corset was untied much more easily this time and fell away, allowing her to breathe fully. Now bare, she walked over to Agraff and pushed him against the wall by the window. She tore the thin shirt to reveal some chest and nibbled into him, making him grown and whimper, he didn’t think he’d have to be bitten all night. Agraff tried to take control and leapt his mouth onto hers, his shirt disappearing behind him. Sacha’s lightening hands unbuckled his trousers and pulled them away, leaving their bodies to join in a rugged embrace. Sacha moved onto the bed, letting her legs wrap around Agraff’s waist and he began pumping his lordship into her. The Siege Seven Agraff’s eyes were the first to open in all of Castle Utter. At first they had opened suddenly, but it was difficult to keep them alert so early in the morning after they realised how tired he was. A deep breath helped set the scene for him as he found himself lying in bed, the covers barely over his chest, the sunlight beaming from the east through the window, capturing life in the early light. Nudged up against his body, bottom first, was his wife, snoring loudly with little splutters and sighs after each snort. “Good morning, my darling,” said Agraff, running his hand over her forehead, trying to pull her eyes open. Sacha kept them closed, however, and murmured “Bugger off,” pushing his hand away. She pulled some more of the rugs over her, coughed and tried to go back to sleep, annoyed with the interruption. Agraff sighed and fixed his eyebrows into a content fashion as if he accepted her willingness to sleep longer. The night of ‘heated passion’, as he could always remember it being called, had been very fulfilling for both of them - finally he was complete. Sacha had done all the work, however, showing him the ropes, using a multitude of amusing positions to get the greater pleasure from their first night as husband and wife. Yes, it had been...good, interesting. Agraff sat up and let the thin cloths collapse to his waist, his arms stretched long to grip around his folding knees. He sat there for a while, letting the sun warm him for a little longer. Getting out of the bed, he passed the window, letting him fall into darkness since the room was large yet the window was too small. It didn’t let enough light in and he had planned to knock down more of it. One day soon, while it was still fresh in his mind, one day soon. Pulling up his trousers, he readied the belt and then tugged a tunic over his torso. Boots came last, and he was out of the door, shutting it slowly and as silently as possible, not wanting to wake his ladyship. “Have you forgotten, Agraff, what is happening today?” George wandered out of the shadows of the corridor. “Shutting the door silently isn’t the only thing you’ll have to worry about in order for her not to wake up.” “I haven’t forgotten about what’s coming, George, don’t think I’m that stupid. I may not have seen much action in my life...or at all, but I’m ready. How goes the preparation?” “Well, I’m sure you’ve been preparing all night,” smiled George, “but I do not know about the others. I, myself, have been sharpening my sword and getting a good night’s rest. The early bird catches the worm, so I thought it would be good to wander the battlements...one last time, if you would like to join me?” “George, you make it sound as if we shall not win. Who’s to say who shall lay claim over the castle at the end of all this?” “Well, forgive me for not having complete faith in our attempts to defend Utter, but when we see the trebuchet set upon the far hills and the swarms of soldiers on the horizon, ready to charge, I think you shall understand why.” “Yes, not long now, I suppose. Come, let’s get to the walls, and find out if they’re here yet or not.” Agraff led the way, George not far behind. At the back of his mind, Agraff felt George’s realism; the harshness of his dejection was there, waiting to jump out. He knew that this could be rife among the others and that he must control it - it was an invisible enemy. The route was quickly covered and the two arrived upon the southern wall where they often came to talk, to think. One glance over the castle and then a look out upon the lands, the greens, the valleys that rose and fell. Agraff was a desperate man, but he didn’t like to show it. Although the past night had relaxed him and taken his mind away from what he was to face, soon he would confront the monster of Lopps’ invading army. They walked slowly along the wide wall towards the barbican on the western wall, towards Bourbon and Pompey’s shed that was perched there. “So we just wait here then?” asked George, breaking the silence, “Until they get here? Wait till they plough their way through the gate?” “Just shut up George, I can’t be thinking like that right now.” “But you’ve got to think like that - let’s face it. If you’re not truthful to yourself in this situation, Agraff, you could get yourself killed - don’t sweeten our situation before you get to the sour centre or you’ll choke and splutter.” “For God’s sake George, we’re going to get through this!” “Are we?” said George, his eyes wide, before turning to leave. Agraff stood alone, beside the crenulated wall, his eyes cast down in thought, in pity for himself. Eight “Just keep working, boy,” said Spicer to Blimey, one hand firmly gripped around the hilt of an old sword, while his eyes watched the depression of Agraff up on the curtain wall. Talking to George again, to himself. It was sad to see him this way; even Spicer felt a weight in his heart, in his throat, as he watched this young man fall into such a disheartening time. In his younger days, Spicer remembered, he had been such a lively child, willing to push his boundaries - but then he’d become very cautious all of a sudden, sometimes the change was subtle and you didn’t notice it, but at other times it was quite apparent how his personality changed at the snap of fingers. He’d become cagey and move slowly; aiming for shadows, often his speech would become cynical and he’d have a go at those around him. Spicer had noticed the development of how this young mind had split into two different people - Agraff and George. George had first appeared when Agraff had been fifteen or so, or that is when Spicer first heard of him. He had made the mistake of asking who George actually was, and on realising, never asked again. ‘George’ had been the name of Agraff’s uncle, a father figure more so than his actual father. Orvon, Agraff’s real father, had been an elderly man at his only son’s birth, a man who was marvelled at for having it still in him to bear children. Of course, the mother had been young and beautiful, but had died to bring the new life into the world. Orvon had been devastated and remained solitary for his remaining years, never wanting to see his son, blaming him for what had happened. His brother, George, decided to take it upon himself to instruct the young child and look after him. When Agraff turned four, however, George fell ill and died. Orvon, grief stricken once again, jumped out of Pukka’s study window. The memories of worse times brought water to Spicer’s eyes as he tried to remind himself what he was doing. Yes, he was sharpening the old sword. Orvon had once held that sword, when he had been a little more youthful, when Spicer was just a young lad. Both hands had gripped the hilt and his eyes had followed the blade through the air, not caring or noticing about anything else around him - the world was just him and the blade and they worked as one. There was a master at work, a swordsman that could not be beaten. If only he would fight alongside them when the enemy began the attack - his skill would be a most welcome ally. “Spicer?” asked Blimey, a little worried, “Spicer? What are you thinking about?” “Better times, Blimey, better times...and some worse. You’ve got to take the good with the bad, I suppose. I was just thinking of Agraff up there, and his father. He was a fine soldier, the greatest. Soon we shall see what steel has been gained through his blood when Agraff leads us into battle.” “Are you afraid?” asked Blimey, his eyes wide open. “I’m afraid. Heh, never thought I’d be going to war. Thought I’d live this life out, you know? Find a nice girl, settle down, start a family. I’m afraid. Are you afraid?” Spicer licked his lips slowly but didn’t answer. “I’m afraid. Don’t see how you couldn’t.” “Excuse me,” said Spicer, dropping the sword to the side and walking back towards the wooden buildings. His head didn’t turn, he didn’t care what Blimey thought of him for the moment. His step quickened and soon he was in the hallway, the remains of the wedding on the right. He pushed forward to the end of the hall and opened the last door on the right into a dimly lit room with no windows. As Spicer stormed through the door he fell to one knee in desperation, a wooden cross in front of him. Fingers clasped the top of his nose, his knuckles wiping his eyes as his mouth wrestled open in a whine. His left hand supported him on the ground as he remained bent down, his body shaking from fear as he started to cry uncontrollably, his sides churning as if to vomit. “I don’t want to die,” he wept quietly, almost whispering. “I don’t want to die,” he repeated, louder than first. “I don’t want to die!” shouting this time, as he fell onto his side, tears pouring down his rough face, his hands doing their best to stop the flow. Spicer looked at the door to find Blimey, unable to understand what was happening. He ran away from the door back to where they had been working, crying, the most powerful man he knew had fallen to emotion. The blacksmith remained on the floor, his hands over his eyes. “Save me Lord.” Nine Pukka broke the nib of his pencil as ‘I don’t want to die’ bellowed up the stone staircase to his room at the top of the tower. He froze, his teeth snapping shut like two magnets slamming together. The pencil fell onto the paper like a tower falling to a strong wind. His right hand swept his hat off of his balding head and the left wiped the trickles of sweat that had collected from the uneasy interruption. The page was supposed to be a list of ingredients needed for potions that he had yet to try - one or two shopping trips into town and an excursion into the nearby woods. However, it was littered with scribbles and rough sketches of clouds and birds with some daisies down in the corner. His mind had been running elsewhere, running along the beach of dreams - a freedom, somehow, an escape. Barefoot he had run, much like when he had sped along the Verma beaches in the south, the sand dry where the sea had yet to get it, while sludgy yet nearly firm closer to the tide. His hand had been in that of a woman ten years his junior - all he needed was the touch of her hand against his, her bare skin and motion not driving his attention away from the cool breeze and hot sun, the water and the sand. “Gemma,” he had said when they finally stopped to lie down next to each other on the dry sand, “I love you. I love you like the seas love the sand, like the sands love the cliff edge, like the fish love the waves.” He placed his hand on her bare stomach and kissed her lips. “Marry me.” The scenery of the beach quickly changed to a burning village. Gemma stood helpless, her child in her arms, crying. Pukka watched the invading Jab sword plunge down and slice. The pencil was in the wizard’s hand again and he drew her face, perfectly - to him, the most beautiful face in the entire world, her golden brown hair cascading down to the shoulders, her shoulders strong. Pukka looked up and out of the window, tears dropping onto the page, smudging her splendour. He tried to wipe them away but the lead on the page only smudged more so, destroying her. He got up and went to the window, one elbow resting on the ledge, the hand splayed over his head. After the incident, he had travelled east - as far east as he possibly could, picking up trades and tricks as he went, until he finally arrived at Castle Utter. Under the guise of a wizard, he joined the family and had remained there ever since, practising small card tricks and being a general handyman - even earning the marriage certificate. Pukka had never forgotten about poor Gemma and they’re child - a girl they had named Annafair, a queen of queens of cute baby looks. Beside the window, Pukka grabbed a large sword out of a wall presentation - two crisscrossed. With the free hand he pulled out the second and held both in front of him, weighing them up and swinging them in circles, nodding quickly to himself. He kicked the wooden door open and trotted down the stone steps, passing Blimey’s small room. Pukka realised that he had little to lose after watching his wife and daughter die - he would get vengeance, he was sure, against the Jabs, for what they did. Pukka passed the chapel where Spicer was huddled in a corner, his large arms cuddling his legs. Spicer got up to follow and coughed, trying to put himself back into the mood of determination that he had achieved earlier in the morning. He watched the back of Pukka march into the light of midday sun, the swords swinging either side of him. On the curtain wall, Agraff had been joined by Blimey, Pompey and Bourbon, gazing out amongst the green. The wizard hopped up the steps and stood alongside them, his hands tightly gripping the hilts. Spicer wiped the remaining water from his eyes and trotted up the steps to be with them. Instantly, his mouth dropped open so that he could breathe a little more easily, the sight obviously having great effect on him. Hundreds, thousands, millions. More and more soldiers appeared in divisions, marching in huddled masses without the conformity of a well structured infantry. Yet they remained in their tribes, great triangular flags of blue, or yellow, or green, or purple, waving high in the air - their armour painted with splashes of the same. Swords, maces, axes, flails... Masses of archers formed behind the infantry, their bows differing in size, torches of flame ready to make the arrows even more deadly. On the hills behind the soldiers sat tall trebuchet that had been hurriedly assembled into position, small dots of men making the final touches from changing it from a wheeled barge of wood. Agraff gasped, unsure as to whether he had made the right decision as to whether they should flee or stay and fight. The far trebuchet was loaded with rock and fired, the great beams of wood swinging to volley the load high into the air. It floated through the sky as if through water, hurtling closer to the great stone structure of Castle Utter. Then it began to fall. At least it’ll be quick, thought Agraff to himself as the rock propelled towards them, but it skimmed over their heads and smashed straight into the top of the tower, destroying Pukka’s room of tricks, sending shards of rock and mortar flying in all directions, most of the weight being sent down onto the roof of the building below, crushing. Ten Screams. Screams flooded the bailey and shot straight into the ears of those that stood on the curtain wall. All six turned in unison, their eyes darting to the debris caused by the trebuchet shot. The screams continued but none of them moved, the army waiting behind them. Agraff started slowly and then jogged to the stone steps down, making his way back into the building. “Why don’t they attack?” asked Pukka, turning to confront the thousands of ugly faces that snarled and shouted and cursed. “Why don’t they attack?” he repeated, demanding an answer. Silence. “Sak taken pakrak.” Pompey had broken the silence, but no one understood one of the three words that had slipped from his lips. Maybe it was an answer - maybe a reason as to why they had stopped, yet no one could decipher. “If you know anything Pompey, tell us,” said Spicer, his fist shaking to enforce his words while making eye contact with some of the barbarians that stood closest to the walls, some three hundreds yards away. Pompey didn’t say a word - not knowing that he was being spoken to nor understanding any of the words coming from Spicer’s ugly mug. They had reached stalemate... at least among themselves. “You got the keep ready, right?” asked Pukka, changing the direction of conversation. “Sure,” replied Spicer, “but how long it’s gonna last against a trebuchet shot like that is anyone’s guess. It might be knocked to pieces by one blow.” “Well, it was built to last, wasn’t it?” “That it was. But being built to last huge rocks being thrown at it - can’t be sure, and it’s doubtful whether they’d put it to the test.” “You mean no one’s ever attacked Castle Utter before?” “Well, it was set deep in Copper territory - it was unlikely that anyone would be able to push the armies back this far. No one attacked from the sea as the Copper navy was too strong.” “So what happened to the navy?” asked Blimey, who had kept quiet until then. “Well, Lopps is famous for hating the water and never having a navy,” replied Spicer. “And our navy?” “Must be still in operation,” said Pukka, realization floating over his tone. “You understand?! We might just survive this! The navy’ll save us, blast those bastards to bits!” “We’re not going to die?! We’re not going to die!”
Copyright © 2004 Jack M Brown |