Siege (6)
Agraff woke suddenly shouting an obscenity, his torso rising up with his hands clasped around his wounded head. The shout made a large white bird above break off from its wail and scare it away back into the sky. Agraff collapsed back down onto the uncomfortable old sack that he had been using as a pillow, imagining the ease of the bird’s life, the lack of suffering and strife. He struggled to his feet, keeping a hand on his head, realizing that when he moved it, it ached with pain. Beside the deep well, looking down into the gloom with his back to Agraff was George. He was as clear as any other man to Agraff, yet none of the others could see him. How this could be, he did not know. George didn’t turn or take notice of Agraff getting up. He was intelligent and had been realistic when answering Agraff’s questions. It was not a matter of not trusting him; it was a matter of realizing what was real and what was not. Agraff left George and walked into the corridor, one hand on the cold wall to keep his balance. He noticed that he was in the Keep; how he’d got there, he was unsure. He walked up the steps to the walkway and found the others there, looking out across the bailey and beyond in silence, the experiences that they had just endured still taking their toll. “Hello,” said Agraff, meekly, his hand raised a little to greet their sorrowful faces. Their eyes seemed distant but they recognized Agraff’s presence. “Ah, you’re awake, Agraff, good,” said Pukka, rubbing his hands together as a breeze blew around them. “How are you feeling?” “My head hurts. How did we come to be here?” “Spicer had brought all of our herbs and medicines up here when preparing the Keep – it was the only place to bring you. Now, however, we’ve trapped ourselves.” “Why what’s wrong?” “It’s best you not know, Agraff,” said Spicer, putting a large hand on his shoulder, blocking his sight with his giant presence. “Best I don’t know what?” “Just best you don’t know,” followed Pukka. “Please, Agraff, just accept what we have said. Things have happened here this day that need not repeating.” “As Lord of this castle, I demand you to tell me,” proclaimed Agraff, stubbornly, looking directly into Pukka’s weary eyes. “Very well, see for yourself.” Pukka and Spicer moved out of the way and Agraff stepped forward to look over the wall down into the bailey. There, face down on the ground was a woman, her head bludgeoned, while soldiers’ bodies lay fallen on the steps to the Keep. “What happened here?” asked Agraff, confused. “Jeller Mokkas came with some of his men. He brutalized and killed Sacha while we managed to defend the Keep easily against the oncoming soldiers. Fug was also taken in the attack. I’m sorry, Agraff, but all bargains to leave Castle Utter in one piece have faded.” “Sacha’s gone?” Agraff clawed at where he thought his heart was and dropped to a knee and then sat with his back to the wall, a hand over his eyes as he wept. “If only I’d woken up sooner…maybe I could have saved her, you know?” “No you couldn’t, you know you couldn’t,” said George who stood, looking out across the bailey. “There’s no need to blame yourself. I couldn’t have done any better, Agraff, it would have been useless.” “It would never have been useless.” “Pardon me?” asked Blimey. “It would never have been useless!” Agraff’s eyes darted wildly about those who stood over him. “I would have died fighting for her!” Agraff struggled to get to his feet and half hopped, half fell, down the steep stone steps. Eighteen With the last of his efforts, still suffering from the blow to his head, Agraff fell face first onto the floor, his hands scratched and bleeding from struggle. Gasping for breath, he wanted to get up to his feet and run away from this place, from the confines of the thick walls, from the prison that he had created for himself. “Don’t blame yourself, Agraff,” repeated George from the top of the steps, “there was nothing that you could have done.” Agraff began to whimper as he struggled to his feet. He reached a wooden chair uneasily and fell into it, his eyes wide open. “I loved her, I loved her…” Pukka left the others who were eagerly watching to be by Agraff’s side and knelt by his side, putting one hand on his shoulder. “George isn’t really there, Agraff, don’t listen to him. Ignore what he has to say.” “He’s right in front of me…He’s right in front of me, Pukka, as real as you or me. How can I say that my senses are lying?” “Your mind is playing tricks on you, Agraff. We cannot see him, only you can.” “I talk with him, he replies. I’ve known him for the best part of my life, he cannot merely disappear. He’s as real as I am, you must understand that.” “I’ll prove to you that he’s not there. Where is he at the moment?” “Over there, by the door, right in front of it.” Pukka looked up at Bourbon and nodded. The mute pulled back on his bow and sent an arrow hurtling towards the door. It passed only through air before it stuck itself in the wood. Agraff jumped in his seat, his brow frowning, his mouth and eyes wide open in terror. The arrow was stuck in George’s shoulder, and the ‘imaginary’ man had been thrown against the door and then onto the cold stone, his face cringing with pain. “You bastard!” said Agraff, getting out of his seat and confronting the wizard. “You bastard, he didn’t deserve that!” “He’s not real!” wailed Pukka, pushing Agraff to the floor. Still weak, Agraff couldn’t find it in himself to get back to his feet in quick response. Pukka walked over to the near wall where Spicer had stacked weapons and grabbed an axe. “Is this his leg?” The wizard stared into the lord’s eyes, hoping for a positive response. Impatient, Pukka slammed the axe down and Agraff yelled in fury. Blood poured out of the wound as George squirmed, desperately trying to pull the arrow out of his shoulder with one hand and put his leg back together with the other. *** Agraff stared down between his legs, his arms curled around them with his back against stone. His head still hurt but it was a minor issue now. He was all alone in a keep of friends. Like an old dog crawling up before death, he felt as if the time had finally come. Unravelling himself, Agraff crawled over to the deep well and looked into the dark depths, his eyes trying to follow the stone as it crept downwards, making an effort to find where solid became liquid, where reality became the not-so-real, where truth became the dream. But there was no significant break in the darkness that resembled this, perhaps one and the other were the same. A hand rested itself on his left shoulder and he turned to look round. George was staring over his shoulder, down into the depths. Their eyes met, Agraff’s looking relieved but confused. There was nothing wrong with his shoulder or leg, but Agraff didn’t seem to realize for the moment. George bent down. “There’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “You must forget Sacha for the time being, there shall be plenty of time to mourn her death afterwards. Firstly, we must escape Castle Utter but the time to do so is short.” “Your leg healed quickly,” said Agraff, smirking, ignoring what George had just said. “Yes, it was just a small cut, thankfully.” “No it wasn’t. He chopped your leg off. You died. When something dies, it should stay dead.” With ease, Agraff grabbed George’s wrist and pulled him over his shoulder down into the dark depths. The Battle Nineteen The group had decided upon a meeting so that ideas about their predicament and the escape from it could be bounced back and forth. Blimey was kept up the steps due to his youth and therefore lack of experience, doubling also as a lookout. This left Pukka and Spicer as the only two would do the talking as although Bourbon and Pompey sat in the circle, neither was able to contribute. Agraff remained in the other room, presumably trying to come to terms with what had previously happened. “Options?” asked Pukka, trying to start some sort of debate to get the ideas flowing. “I think we should sneak out, myself,” replied Spicer. “Do it quickly and quietly before Jeller gets any ideas about which limbs he wants to pull off us first.” “But where would we go afterwards? Jeller would hunt us down for sure.” “That’s a risk we must take. We make for the sea, get a boat from town – it’s our only means of escaping in one piece.” “It’s not that I disagree with you, Spicer, far from it – it’s a plan that could certainly work. I don’t know about you, though, but I think I’d feel bad about not giving it a go.” “Giving what a go?” “Taking down Jeller Mokkas. Especially after what he did to Sacha, you’ve got to see my point.” “I know where you’re coming from, Pukka, I really do. But think for a moment – these are the sort of words that earlier we were ready to walk out on Agraff for. He wanted to stand up and fight, and now you do also. As discussed, it’s futile – death will be quick and harsh.” “I know, I know…Then you leave and I shall stay. I shall stay and kill Jeller in the name of Agraff – he wants vengeance, I can feel it, but he is too weak to do so. You take him down into Lummux with Blimey, Bourbon and Pompey, get a boat and get out of here. They shall hunt you down.” Spicer stood up and took a few steps towards the door, but turned slowly. “How do you expect to kill Jeller?” “I am a wizard. The black arts run through my veins, Spicer.” “Yes, but like everyone else, I know that you’re the worst sorcerer in the world who dare call himself one.” Pukka nodded a shallow nod – he’d already come to terms with this deficiency. Spicer continued towards the door and turned right into the other room to find Agraff crouching beside the well. “Come on, Agraff.” He didn’t move so Spicer walked over to him. Agraff burst out with claws and snarls to scare the big man away, not wanting to be disturbed. “Looks like Agraff wants to stay here,” he called to Pukka. “Come on Blimey…Bourbon.” Blimey resisted, standing firm as look-out for the Keep. “Come on Blimey, I don’t want to have to come up there.” Blimey gave in and trudged down the steps. Bourbon was quicker to do what he was told, grabbing Pompey’s arm. “Good luck,” called Pukka, rubbing his hands together rhythmically. “You too,” breathed Spicer while opening the door. They started down the steps slowly in the most leisurely escape they could possibly have mustered. But Spicer stopped, shaking his head. He quickly turned and drew his sword by the hilt, an enraged frown across his face. “Bugger it!” He marched back into the Keep and confronted Pukka with his sword. “You’d better have a good idea about how we’re going to do this! There’s thousands of them and only six of us. What you’re planning will have to be so foolproof that it wouldn’t shake if a giant fool fell head first into it.” “I have all the confidence in the world in us. I have no plan, but I certainly have the man. Agraff’s the only person that could get the job done – nothing to lose, everything to gain.” Spicer turned to see Agraff standing by the door, locking it shut. “He’s certainly the only man crazy enough to attempt it, we all know that. But he’s had a plan ever since he decided to defend Castle Utter to the death many hours ago.” “He’s been in consultation with George for a long time. Our fate lies in the hands of an imaginary friend.” Twenty Jeller Mokkas exited his tent, plates of armour over his arms, chest and legs. As he walked he put on and adjusted his protective gloves. Stopping ten feet from the entrance to his tent, he half shut his eyes and deeply breathed in the cool air. It swirled up his nostrils, invigorating him, his eyes seemingly growing sharper because of its near-the-coast freshness. “A fine day for it, sir,” beamed Tankard atop his steed that rustled its feet here and there to keep balance. Jeller’s personal bodyguard, Tankard was a strong and youthful soldier. Favouring a pair of axes to the blade of a sword, he was famed for ruthless yet clean kills. “Indeed it is, Tankard. I have grown to trust in the weather – it can tell much about who shall be victorious on the battlefield, what can go right for one and wrong for the other. Today, however, it lies.” “It says we shall lose?” “No, it says we shall win.” “You believe we shall be toppled by six men who aren’t soldiers?” “Tell me, when did you stop believing that any one man can kill another? We are mere mortals and I always ride into battle thinking that I shall be beaten, so I don’t have anything to live up to.” “Do not worry sir, the battlefield is yours.”
Copyright © 2004 Jack M Brown |