The advancing army encircles our castle, severing the roads, blockading all access over land. Only the water gate remains open to resupply and reinforcements, with the odd courier stealing inside with a pouch full of dispatches. Daily flights of pigeons carry communiqués beyond the wall. Those trapped outside form a guerrilla band, the seeds of relief as the enemy grinds its strength against our unyielding stone.
In the gray of the next morning we tour the arsenal one final time before the battle breaks upon us. Scores of arrows sheafed like kindling lean against every wall. Pyramids of rounded stones squat upon the floor between ballista spears stacked in cordwood bundles. Down a narrow stair behind an iron door lay the bunker where we stockpile ammunition for the trebuchet, skins laden with a clear and deadly witches’ brew, terra cotta pots encapsulating Greek fire. In an adjacent workroom, future incendiaries await final, miscible components to endow their lethal magic.
Trailing phosphorus and sulfur, we transport our opening rounds to the battlements. With thick leather gloves, the artillerists pass pots from one to the next as they load the trebuchet. They christen the canisters El Diablo Rojo, the Red Devil, as they are powerful, volatile and crimson bright. Nested within the hoarding, bladders filled from the ocean are ready to baptize our fortification after every shot. Though the sea washes away the Red Devil's sin and stain, each dose etches its mark upon stone.
Enemy mercenaries plot counterattacks when our hero is weak from battle. The apothecary crushes powders with a pestle to gird her against fatigue, preparing soothing infusions should her stomach grow restive, handcrafting a potion which imbues strength for the wearying days between.
Our mage-general anticipates a longer siege, twenty weeks from the onset. Though no 900 days of Leningrad, spring and summer will pass behind the walls leaving only an autumn campaign before winter shrouds the land once more. As a final preparation, we scrub the kitchens and garderobes, mercilessly scouring every corner for rats and other vermin to prevent any outbreak of infection. In siege, disease is a more lethal foe than combat.
With the enemy at the gates, she shears her hair militantly, denying the mutagenic beasts any handhold once the melee ensues. We ready ourselves to lever ladders from the walls and pour boiling oil like disinfectant upon any monstrous mercenaries or their surrogates that dare assail the keep.
There is an excitement that the waiting is finally over, that, at last, the battle is being joined. Later comes the fatigue, the boredom, the sheer monotony describing the day by day of siege, little changing until the relief force rides within sight.
With targets on the horizon, we loose our first volley. Tasting the intensity of our fire, the grendel's most aggressive units, fully one third of its attacking force, throw down their arms, routed from the field. This initial, bloodless victory raises a cheer from the wall, heartening us as we retire to the inner ward, leaving the enemy to the scrutiny of our sentries.
Finishing this latest dispatch, I release a new wave of pigeons, which, like my thoughts, scatter in all directions. Some arrive faithfully at their destinations, while others, distracted by new green leaves, perch in the surrounding oaks, basking a while in the bright, spring day, their responsibilities forgotten, before winging forth once more, revitalized in the hope renewed life brings.
© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III
