Siege (7) “We shall see. Give me my sword.” Tankard passed Jeller’s blade to him and watched. He took the sword out of its case and ran his eye lengthways, swung it to gain an idea of balance. It was a good sword. A stable boy interrupted, one hand holding the reins to Jeller’s steed. “Hurst,” said Jeller, smoothing the horse’s long face from its brow to the muzzle. Usually, Jeller was quick with thoughts and decisions, but his actions now were slow and long thought out. There was a belief of finality in his tone of voice; he was frightened for the first time as a soldier. In his tent, he had been thinking deeply about what was to be done in this last battle of probably his last campaign. He had tried to delve into the minds of his enemies, think what they were thinking, but it had not worked. He couldn’t seem to understand any of them, not even the one he had talked to earlier – this troubled him. This would have been his method to win but now he had none, just superior numbers and experience. He couldn’t foresee what they would have in store for him. He would be defensive in his offensive – he would crumble. For the first time on exiting his tent, Jeller looked about him, his eyes shooting into each of the soldiers’ eyes. Some he couldn’t see. About a hundred of which some were infantry and some archers. “Today we’re going to kill some people!” roared Jeller bluntly, gaining great applause from the soldiers. “Their leader, Lord Agraff, said he wanted to bugger and decapitate all of your mothers and daughters. His wizard, Pukka, wants to have fun with their carcasses. The others worship the devil. I don’t ask you to love me or my ways, I ask you to love my leadership and follow me till death. If you give it, I shall make sure God gives you a seat in heaven!” A howl of applause shook the area. “Ruttard, you’re in charge,” said Jeller, not wanting to catch sight of his second in command that stood just in front of him. “What about the trebuchet, sir? Why don’t we just use them instead of sacrificing lives?” Jeller grappled on top of Hurst and sighed. “True, the trebuchet would break Castle Utter into pieces in mere moments, none of our army wasted. People like yourself have forgotten the beauty of battle – drop a few large rocks on your enemy and that’s it, no effort at all. You haven’t won anything, you’ve stolen, and thieves like yourself deserve their hands to be sliced off. When I return, I want you gone. You are no replacement to Fug, and you never will be.” Twenty-one “What are you thinking?” “I think we’ll win,” replied Blimey, looking down at the floor, his back resting against the stone wall. He was playing with a small dagger between his hands, watching the sun’s sharp rays bounce off of the blade. “Really? You think we’ll win?” “No,” he replied smiling, now looking into Agraff’s eyes. “No, we’ll be slaughtered.” “My thoughts exactly.” From standing straight in front of the young servant, Agraff rested by his side in the same position. He brought his sword out in front of him and the same gleam from the sun shone from the cutting blade. “Was there anybody that you cared about before all this? A girl you thought about or had an eye for?” “Please,” replied Blimey with a giggle. Deep down he knew that he wanted to continue the conversation to see where it would go, but it was the sheer embarrassment that held him back. “No, c’mon, you can tell me. This may be your last chance to tell anyone.” “Well…” Blimey left a long pause before he decided to continue. “There was one girl but I didn’t know her name. She brought bread up from the town to the castle.” “The bread girl?” “Yes.” “Are you serious, the bread girl? She was really young, too young surely.” “She’s seventeen.” “Exactly.” “But I’m fifteen.” “Ah, well that’s different isn’t it…” Agraff pulled his tongue into his cheek and made it look as if he was looking elsewhere, not that interested in the conversation. “So did you two ever…?” “No! No. Never could work up the courage to talk to her, let alone bed her.” The conversation drifted and neither seemed to know what to say. But then, Blimey worked up the courage to ask a question that had been plaguing him. “Why did Jeller do what he did? To Sacha? What could make a man do such a thing?” “There are some bad men in this world, Blimey. War can create and change people. Jeller probably started the invasion enjoying what he did but now he does not. After killing so many people, enemy after enemy, life begins to mean so little to them. They begin to hate themselves as who else can they blame for bringing such misery? As they begin to hate themselves, they lose faith in God and in a heaven. Such things are mere memories destroyed by their experience. Their Godless vision of life pounds them down until they revert to savagery once again. Pukka told me in detail what he did to Sacha. Jeller has gone back to our true nature, one where he must show his authority by mounting the female, like dogs. What is worrying is that this method still gets the point across. He scares me.” “But you shall kill him, right?” “I shall kill him. I shall do everything in my power to kill him for what he has done.” “You’re a knowledgeable man, Agraff,” said Pukka who had been listening intently from below. His slow trudging up the steps gave him the presence that he desired, of a man with authority. “How are the preparations?” “Spicer is boiling the oil as we speak but it’s taking a long time. Bourbon and Pompey seem to have a mutual understanding and are getting into good positions to give them the greatest range.” “How’s your own skill?” “Well…my magic was never that good anyway, but I may at least be able to give a good fireworks show at least.” There was a silence between the three. All were emotional and unsure about their futures. They had lost and regained their pride, but deep down, a foundation was missing, Sacha was missing, and it had affected them all. If she could die, any of them could die, now that they realized it, there was very little to talk about. “The bread girl?!” Twenty-two The formation of marching soldiers was almost a perfect square, their shoulders almost touching those of the next. The clumping of metal against metal ran through the air like the chime of a church bell signalling their nearing arrival at Castle Utter. For the infantry, their swords swung beside their legs, not yet clasped by gloved hands, but the few pikemen that lead the way held their weapons firm, the sharp blades propped in the air catching sight of the sun, the same sun that hit the metal of Blimey’s dagger and Agraff’s steel. The archers bringing up the rear carried their bows gracefully, with peace as if they were extensions of their own arms, a pack of arrows slung over their shoulders, able to be quickly snatched. Like two more columns of soldiers were rungs of large ladders carried close either side of the block. As if a cell was around them, the guards were mounted, Tankard on the left and Jeller on the right, their eyes sharp. Jeller was especially nervous. He’d walked this path before but he didn’t know where he was going – it was a jungle in there, his mind was becoming a blank of how to navigate and control. Shaking his head a little didn’t help, making sure none of the soldiers saw of course, and he just continued following those to the left of him, their limbs swaying to and fro. There was something hypnotic about their movements and Jeller felt he was getting dizzy. Things like this had never affected him as such before, it was confusing and he didn’t like it. It was a different story for Tankard, however. He seemed to know what he was doing all of the time, his eyes darting not because of confusion and dizziness like Jeller, but because he was trying to take everything he saw into account – any small detail that could help him during this battle. The walls were tall and thick, the dry moat was deep and dangerous, and the wooden pikes were sharp and ready to skewer anybody willing to fall into the teeth-filled trap. Tankard was young and naïve, however, in Jeller’s comparison. He was at a stage, as described by Agraff, as enjoying what he was doing, and slowly the value of life as he would see it would dampen. Slowly he would degenerate into hating life and becoming Jeller. They were two extremes of this process and both were very dangerous in similar but different ways – one willing to do his name proud while the other a homicidal maniac seeing life as a slaughter house where he was the butcher. Neither was worse than the other, but neither was better either. The procession marched ever closer to the open drawbridge and passed over it, the wood creaking under the weight of so many pairs of feet and four pairs of hooves. The darkness under the stone ceiling shaded their snarling faces for a moment before they reached the bailey, their marching rhythmically pounded on the floor, those in the Keep watching, wondering about each of their plans of offensive. Jeller kicked his heels into Hurst and they burst forward to take charge of the group, halting the proceeds hopefully a safe distance away from any attack by archers. Tankard made the archers form ranks down in the bailey and half upon the curtain wall. “I don’t want to do this,” yelled Jeller, “but I must offer you one last chance to leave in peace. I promise not to kill you, you may walk free.” Tankard looked confused but mustered his concentration again to await an answer. “After what you did to Sacha?! I’ll never trust you, Jeller, you little bugger! Come and get us!” Agraff was enraged and spat when snarling. Jeller licked his lips. He was hoping for them to walk peacefully so any mistake caused during this confused state would not be witnessed. “I was hoping you’d refuse!” laid Jeller, smiling to his soldiers only, not himself. “I’m glad to see you awake, Lord Agraff. You shall have the honour of being my kill of the day. I shall cut off your head and place it on my kitchen’s wall.” Jeller was unsure as to where these words were coming from. Just before he was unsure about everything, the world, himself, everything. Now these words flowed out easily and painlessly, once again he seemed proud of what he did. He hated himself so much. “Archers! Fire!” Twenty-three Percifil ruffled her feathers and gnawed under her wing. The fright from Agraff in the Keep had startled her and it would take time to get over the shock. So, before she headed down to the town where all her friends were, Percifil had decided to sit upon the curtain wall closest to the sea and watch the sun move across the sky. Not looking directly into it, mind, but at least watching the shadows stretch and shrink. Upsetting her more so, however, was the sight of a bulk of men covered with metal, marching towards her through under the barbican, pikes held high at the front, catching the light and reflecting it into the poor bird’s eyes. Whatever was happening seemed interesting but the prospect of understanding it or getting any food out of it seemed slim to Percifil. However, the actions of those who crawled the land was often a sight to see and perhaps she could, for once, try the delicacy of their flesh that her parents had feasted on after battles that had been remembered from long ago. Thus the prospect of feast sounded not so far away as before so Percifil kept her eyes open and her talons tapping against the stone. With great amazement she watched as many men from below and the curtain wall fired volleys of sticks soaring into the air from thin pulled back branches. They hurtled high and shot straight at the nasty old Agraff who stood atop the Keep watching, but none found targets. Some of the arrows merely deflected off of the circular stone while some missed altogether, either not going far enough or zooming far beyond. Obviously aiming was difficult for these land crawlers, thought Percifil, but she daren’t get closer in case of being hit herself. Another volley was sent flying over to cover the men with swords who carried two large ladders. Two with similar branches in the Keep sent shots downwards towards them and hit one or two. However, their vision was cut short by the flying arrows as they crouched behind the stone. Percifil watched open-mouthed, amazed at how the soldiers were scaling the ladders, one hand clasping a sword at the same time. The two from the Keep used the time between volleys of arrows to fire upon the men climbing, easily propelling them off of the wooden structure to the ground below or into the people behind. But the men on the ladders were gaining quickly, as Percifil noticed, barging their way to the top. Then Percifil’s attention was brought back down into the bailey, to Jeller who sat upon Hurst the horse. The bird studied his eyes, eyes of an unsure man, maybe even a scared man. Even from this distance, Percifil could see and smell the sweat trickled down from his hair past his eyes and sometimes into his panting mouth. His hands were fidgeting with the reins, unsure as of what to do. Tankard, behind him, was lapping up the action with his eyes and tongue, moving them in the direction of death and destruction, wanting more, craving for more and more. The action was thick and furious, the soldiers with swords, blades glinting in the sun, were almost at the top of the ladders, almost at the top of the Keep. Bourbon and Pompey couldn’t keep up with the onslaught and were pushed down as the first soldier climbed over the wall. Twenty-four The first Jab soldier to touch the top of the wall surrounding the Keep smacked a fist into Bourbon’s face sending him backwards, almost tumbling over the walkway. It hadn’t been an easy time for Bourbon, hearing all but saying nothing. If he could have said anything at this point, it would have been an obscene exclamation, the biggest he could ever have thought of – the punch had been quite tough on the old mug. How had he got himself in such a predicament? He blamed his father for teaching him archery in the first place and then his mother for ever giving birth to him. Then in a split second afterwards he realized it was his own fault, no one else’s. He’d listened to other people and just went along with it – he could hardly argue, now, could he? It had got him a good job though, even if it had ended up like this. Good employers, good pay, good food – it was almost like a family living at the castle and Bourbon appreciated it. When he arrived, it had just been him as the lone archer but then Pompey had arrived on a ship, shown by the townsfolk up to the castle where his archery skills may be needed. Between them grew an unlikely companionship as seen by everyone else. In reality, neither could quite make out the other and Bourbon had always felt sour grapes towards Pompey interfering in his isolation. Following the fist was a large sword that came plunging down towards the archer’s head. Bourbon moved out of the way in time, however, and grabbed the soldier’s arm to pull him over the walkway down into the Keep. The mute got to his feet quickly and turned to face the next soldier coming over the wall. Defenceless, Bourbon could only endure as the soldier pulled a dagger from his side and plunged it blade-first into the archer’s mouth. Bourbon could not scream but the air rushed through his mouth trying to escape the pouring blood that ran out like a river. Pouring down either side of his mouth, Bourbon’s eyes keeled over and he fell backwards over the walkway onto the cold stone, cracking the back of his skull. Pukka watched from below as Bourbon’s blood spouting head fell backwards, hitting the stone floor. It was a realization of what might happen to him and little more. Neither had made a significant effort to get to know the other, they were merely just there, there in the background. Bourbon’s arrival at the castle had been a mere few weeks after his. Sadly, however, Bourbon’s disability of not being able to speak constituted for Pukka not speaking to him, otherwise only in necessity. Now, as the wizard watched the tumble of this mute, there was a deep guilt of knowing of him but not actually knowing who he was. Here was someone who had shared his home in Castle Utter who had just died. He knew he should be feeling something more than just guilt for not knowing him much, which made his heart cringe, his mind wanting to find excuses to satisfy his heart. From beside the second ladder, Pompey fired an arrow from a well pulled back bow into the cheek of the murderous soldier, the arrowhead plunging straight through to the other side. The soldier’s eyes rolled back as the force keeled him back over the side of the wall, far down into the bailey. Pukka felt easier inside now, knowing that Bourbon’s life had been avenged, but he was still shouting at himself for acting the way he did – there was no excuse not to feel bad about what happened. Compelled to act, the wizard found his strength and willed the first ladder back down into the bailey, several soldiers still clinging onto the rungs for support. Their plummeting bodies crashed into the ground, badly injuring some while only bruising others. The act had made Pukka slightly dizzy but he wasn’t willing to stop while on the trot. Clambering to the walkway around the Keep, he found bolts of energy inside of himself hurtling from his wrists down at the archers, missing most of them but others exploding into flame. Burst after burst made his stability worse as if he was boozing himself with crates of ale. Very quickly, Pukka was exhausted and he didn’t fully realise at first that he had been struck by a well placed arrow in the chest. He spied the rod with confusion. For one moment he had been on top of the world, and now he was down on the floor, blood squirting from the hole, the blaze of fire that had crept into his eyes dissipating into that of a match and then disappearing altogether. Spicer had now watched the coming and going of a good friend, finally a good wizard. Although his magical skills had only just been realised, his knowledge and logic had been felt by all who had met him. Spicer had looked up to him for this reason. There had only been Spicer and Agraff living in Castle Utter at the time of the wizard’s arrival. It was good company, an extra voice amid the stone walls. The comfort was that of a family, a growing family that would continue building. Spicer himself had never known his family, his parents. Whether he had had a brother or sister was information never to be gained. He could only guess while he worked as a blacksmith, the blood pumping through his veins, building up the muscles in his arms and chest. He imagined his brother’s name as Bill and his sister as Susan. They were adequate names, nothing special in them, he didn’t ask for much. They would live in a home with a loving mother and father, sit by the fireplace and hear tales from their grandfather of days past, of adventures long ago. Then the images would fade and he would remember none of it to be true. Soldiers were making it over the wall onto the walkway now. Pompey had been pushed away, back down into the Keep. He fired up, drilling arrows into the torsos and limbs of able and willing snarling bodies. Soldiers that had been pushed down from the ladder by Pukka that had survived the fall were now banging away at the door to the Keep. They had jogged up the stone steps and were bashing the hilts of their swords against the wood, trying to force their way through. A plan swirling around in his mind, Spicer picked up the cauldron of still-warm oil with both hands, his strength struggling, and half pushed, half threw the dangerous object straight at the door. The velocity of the object crashed through the wood and the flesh behind it, easily pushing people off of the steps, flattening them under its immense wait or bowling them down the steep stone staircase, sending rumbling shockwaves and enormous crashing sounds as it bounced, the oil washing away. Stepping through the door, Spicer looked victorious, eyeing the crushed bodies and blood stained stone. Pulling his sword from his belt, the blacksmith roared like a caged animal and took on two steps at a time as more soldiers tried to stop his advancement. He ploughed straight through them with blade and bone, knocking them down or simply slicing them into pieces. None could match his strength and he soon reached the bailey, his eyes darting for more foes to be beaten. There in front of the blacksmith was Tankard atop his steed, the sun glinting off of his helmet and armour as it steadily moved across the sky, the day well into the afternoon casting long shadows. Spicer was patient as the well armoured soldier thudded to the ground on leaping from his horse. Tankard drew his sword from his side and readied himself. The blacksmith went for the first blow, the blade raised high above his head before coming crashing down into the soldier’s well placed sword. With a quick sidestep, Tankard gained the upper hand by slicing a gash just under Spicer’s arm. Blood and bits gushed out like a pie’s innards of steak and kidney sloshing out with gravy. The blacksmith’s eyes gave the impression of hopelessness and loss, but it soon turned into anger as he turned, fighting the pain, to confront the soldier. With a thunderous strike, Spicer’s sword crunched into Tankard’s head. It wasn’t a clean cut through, the skull and brain broke inwards like ice being smashed, large chunks throwing themselves out onto the floor. Spicer breathed heavily, the metallic smell of blood drifting up his nose as he winced with his own wound. Jeller had been watching and lifted his eyebrows at Tankard’s death. He had not been banking on so quick a kill. However, he felt as if it wouldn’t be right not to interfere so he threw his sword through the air like a pike. It cut straight into Spicer’s stomach, spilling his guts. Pompey could only tell that something had happened by the sudden cry from Blimey who had been watching from the doorway next to Agraff. What had happened, however, he could not tell. Pompey’s father had been clinically insane, or so thought by everyone who met him. His mother had died in childbirth but Pagro, as he was called, was mad many years before this. Obsessed with tales of dragons and castles, he had taught his son the art of the bow and of the sword and had sent him away on a ship to find adventure and to fight evil. Many months passed before Pompey finally arrived at Lummux, the life of a seaman scarred upon his life forever. Glad to escape the seas and oceans, Pompey had found himself in a foreign land, not knowing the language or customs at all. By chance he had met a crazy old hag who sent him up to Castle Utter wanting some milk. Agraff had taken a liking to him due to his amusing language and posted him as a second lookout alongside Bourbon – a match made in heaven it seemed. Pompey had been very confused but soon adapted to the life as it was lazy yet quite well paid. He’d never really had time to get to know any of the others quite well as he couldn’t understand them and they couldn’t understand him. He was just the other guy, and to him, they were just the other guys. Pompey was willing to protect them all the same, however, and grabbed and fired arrow after arrow at the oncoming soldiers. Soon enough, however, he had run out of arrows and so he pulled out his short sword and made his way to the walkway once again, slicing flesh and bone to get at the ladder. His steps were hurried except for treading carefully around Pukka’s fallen body. They had respected each other it had seemed mutually. Whether it was true or not, neither would ever know. Pompey grappled onto the ladder that was still swarming with soldiers trying to get up it but his weight pushed it away from the wall. Suddenly Pompey understood what he had just done, the Keep, slowly at first, running away from him until the air got thicker with speed. He could have dropped and hoped for the best but fear made him hold tight as he watched the top of the ladder cut through the air like a guillotine, perfectly passing either side of an archer’s head on the curtain wall, the two sides smashing into his shoulders bending his body in the wrong direction, his spine and hips cracking with ease. The shock now let go of Pompey and he fell, violently plunging onto the bailey floor, snapping his neck and arm. Agraff sheltered Blimey as both pairs of eyes focussed on the fallen carcass of Spicer the blacksmith, once a good friend. What had just happened to Pompey was a mystery to them, a situation only noticed by the screams and shouts of many soldiers falling out of their line of sight. Agraff’s only choice was to get Blimey to safety and so they started down the steps as quickly and as carefully as they could, making sure they didn’t slip up on parts of flesh, blood or spilt oil from the battered cauldron. The only enemy soldiers remaining were a few archers on the curtain wall who had had about enough themselves. Jeller had dismounted to fetch his sharp sword from Spicer’s large belly but now just stood, watching Agraff and Blimey’s decent. Ordering a volley of arrows, the killers flew high and struck. *** Ruttard was still furious with what Jeller had told him. He knew that he was sure to be killed on his return, or beaten and fired at least. All that mattered to Ruttard was making sure that this did not happen. He was an intelligent person and he had realised this – his ingenuity running through his veins, he had been the perfect candidate for second in command, Jeller’s right hand man. What had Jeller seen in him that he had not realised about himself? Sure that there was nothing wrong with him, Ruttard demanded satisfaction and had thus aimed for and arrived at the trebuchet. He was, after all, in charge until Jeller’s return. *** The graceful whistle of the shot bounded across the sky over the tops of tents and helmets towards Castle Utter. Its hulking mass twisted and turned until it slammed straight into the nearest curtain wall, crushing the archers’ bodies that had unfortunately been placed there. The shock sent Jeller face first to the floor of the bailey, his eyes enraged due to orders not being followed properly. Agraff’s eyes opened slowly in the confusion. Only now did he notice and arrow poking out of his left arm, and the dead youth of Blimey that had caught three separate arrows in the chest and leg. Agraff had seen all of his friends die so quickly. He had said earlier that more and more death meant life wasn’t so important. He was wrong. Agraff realised that only when death occurs does life increase in importance, does it become ever so more valuable. Another trebuchet shot flew straight into the Keep battering it, the entire structure being thrown down with one shot towards the water’s edge. Jeller got to his feet angrily and made towards Agraff to finish what he had started. However, in his haste of climbing the steps, Agraff plunged a sword straight through him. Jeller was shocked, his mouth and eyes open in sheer confusion. Taking a few steps backwards, he rested against the wall as he watched a third great boulder now hurtling towards him. It struck, destroying his weak in comparison body, breaking through the wall. In the blast, Agraff was pushed along with the force, his own body escaping through the wall. He held on with his good right arm, his face crunching up in anguish in a want to survive. On the remains of the steps, George stood staring at him. “Help me!” squealed Agraff, his grip failing. “How can I if I’m already dead?” Agraff fell the short distance to the wall-side edge of the dry moat and tumbled in, a large pike skewering his body, wringing his torso into submission as it fatally gave up. Twenty-five Percifil had been lucky to escape the fatal last boulder, her quick thinking sending her shooting into the air for safety as blood tried to join her. What had just happened she found confusing and didn’t quite understand why it had all happened. Bodies lay scattered everywhere in all manners of condition but all dead. When all the great rocks had stopped falling, she decided that she’d feast that night, not on fish, but on the dead bodies. It wasn’t wrong to do so as in death they were nothing, their bodies only wasted in the ground otherwise. In life however, they should be left alone as then they are living which is a special gift and only taken in necessity. The carnage was heard from Lummux and soon enough the whole flock had arrived to catch what they could.
Copyright © 2004 Jack M Brown |