Siege (1) The Castle One “They’re coming, you know. They aren’t going to leave anything still standing, you must realise that. It’s all or nothing with these guys, there’s no way round it. They’re on the march as we speak, grouping together as much of their army as they can spare for one final onslaught. They battered the capital with trebuchet and we could do nothing. We’re the last.” George rested his back against the thick, stone curtain wall, his arms crossed. High up on the walkway, his eyes looked down upon the bailey, watching small shadows in spurts of life. “I would never attack another castle or anything of the sort. There’s nothing for them to be worried about. You know me. I don’t really care who’s under control of the country, as long as I’m left in peace in my home. It worked with King Copper, we had an agreement. I’d just send my money each year and he’d leave me alone. Castle Utter isn’t the most well defended castle in the land nor is it the most strategic and I can’t see why they’d want it so badly. It’s almost falling apart for God’s sake! If only I could talk to that Chief Lopps. I’m sure we could work something out together. Anything to save my castle.” Lord Agraff shook his head slowly while sitting on the stone step, his hands combing through his stringy facial hair. Large black boots did not move an inch, as if they had been built there on the wall. “Come on, Agraff. They’re barbarians! What would you say to them? ‘I know you’ve just invaded the country an’ all that, but could you please just let me live in my big castle in peace? I won’t be a bother, I promise!’ Think about it. You are a representative of the old time, they are the new. They’ll want to eradicate everything left behind so there isn’t any possible way for an uprising to form. Castle Utter will be the last to fall. These guys have raped and pillaged their way across the country, destroying town after town, castle after castle. They won’t stop. We will have to flee.” “We can’t flee! Quieten your tongue, George. My family has lived in this castle for centuries. If my family can’t live here for a few more centuries, then I shall fight until they can! No, we shall stand and kill whatever they send. We shall fight the entire enemy forces if needs be, but I am not leaving this castle!” “Then your decision, Lord Agraff, shall be the end of us all.” George scraped a match across the stone wall, sparking a great flame. Covering the large pipe with one hand, he lit the contents and breathed in the smoke. The match was thrown over the side of the wall into the mist below and it disappeared. The sky was clear that night, revealing all of the bright stars that littered everywhere else. The thick mist, meanwhile, was low and sweeping across the countryside, hiding everything. “Look, I’m sorry Agraff,” sympathised George, sitting down on the stone next to the lord of the castle. “I know how much this castle means to you. I mean, we grew up here, it’s our home. But you must consider all of us in your final decision. All of us. You could have a strong family building with Sacha, and you must think about her and your future children. Think of your children, Agraff, who will inherit Castle Utter. Will they want to inherit a ruined castle and a dead father? You must consider that we are not ready for a battle in any way. We are no match against an army. You cannot seriously consider there being a chance for eight against an entire country? Agraff, we shall fall. That is a certainty. Whether we live or die is now in your hands. Consider your friends, Agraff, consider me.” Lord Agraff stood up and looked over the wall at the flowing mist, rippling as the slight breeze swam through. He lit up his own pipe, watching the match for as long as he could as it disappeared into the mist below, into the dry moat. Agraff exhaled, letting a huge cloud of smoke linger and drift around him. “We must be strong, George, we must be strong. Don’t think I haven’t considered everyone in my decision. How could I not? I do not wish to have blood on my hands but if that is what must happen, it shall. It is the principle of the last stronghold, George, the principle. We may be the last. There may be no reinforcements. We may be just a small group of people, but we shall not leave our home. We shall not be driven out like they have done to so many others. We must set an example, George; it’s the principle that counts.” “If that is your decision Agraff, that is your decision. Then I shall fight alongside you, my good friend, and we shall fight till we fall.” “Good, my friend. It is in times like these that man needs allies. The enemy is expected tomorrow?” “Midday, as best as I can tell.” “Then tonight I marry my true love. I will never forget about Sacha, George, never. She is my life, my love, and I shall give her my soul. Tonight we shall be wed and we shall be one. Let her love bless me tomorrow as I defend our home. I expect my children to have Castle Utter, George; they shall rule it as I have done. If for nothing else, that is worth my life.” Two “Rubbish! I need at least fourteen dresses to get me through life, fourteen at all times. Fourteen! And I have, count them, three! One dress for each day of the week, that’s seven. Fourteen to alternate fortnightly, right? I cannot be seen at church one more time wearing the same dress two weeks in a row. I mean, there are ladies down there at church who I have not seen wear the same hat twice, not even mentioning their dresses! Wonderfully embroidered with flowers and plants poking out of every orifice, they’re beautiful. And I have rags in comparison; with a battered hat that’s been a target for so many diarrheic birds that it looks like it’s made from the skin of a Dalmatian!” “I understand, milady.” “Make sure they’re nice dresses too, Blimey, I don’t want money wasted on substituting rags for rags, understand?” “Yes, milady.” “Good. Here you are, twelve koppies - I expect change.” “Certainly milady, first thing in the morning. Good night, milady.” No response. Blimey left bowing low, stepping backwards into the hallway and pulling the double doors shut. Sacha was left alone in the spacious room in her undergarments. She’d sent her three dresses to be burnt as they had all been suffering from extreme wear and tear, making them unbearable to be seen in. Sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg resting on top of the other, she sighed, one eye staring at herself in the large mirror in the corner of the room. The corset was killing her body, slowly strangling as if a large snake was wrapped around her. The servant gone...there was only one servant. She’d been very angry about it, but at this time she was pleased, able to do as she wished in her own room. Sacha stood and looked in the mirror, her hands smoothing over her curvaceous sides until reaching her thighs. “Good evening,” she eloquently said to her reflection, her right hand outstretched, “I am the Lady of the castle, Sacha Byre. May I welcome you to our humble home. Please, feel free to call on our servants for anything you may wish to eat or drink. Oh bugger it.” She looked side on at her figure, sneering, patting her stomach as if to slap the flesh back in. There wasn’t much belly to slap, but every little counted to her. Pulling the corset away and dropping it to the floor after untying it, Sacha felt her breasts with both hands, frowning. Never big enough. Now naked, she dropped to the floor and looked under her bed, pushing the masses of cloths up onto the bed to see clearly. Pulling out a chest, she quickly fumbled with the two locks and bounced the top open. Inside, she grabbed a small pipe, a bundle of tobacco and a box of matches. Quickly, she filled the pipe and lit it. Oh, forbidden luxury, how she needed it. Sacha had been told off about smoking before - it wasn’t ladylike. But she wasn’t ladylike, so it kind of allowed her to smoke. It made sense in her mind, and she wasn’t the sort of person who would get told off easily. She sat back on the bed, inhaling deeply until she sputtered with smoke. Sacha didn’t like it much; she just did it to mellow out. Instead, she wanted sex. She wanted to be prodded and poked and played with. She just hadn’t been able to get any yet. She wanted Agraff’s hulking body to grind upon her own. Only on their wedding night, that was the rule. She wanted to marry him that night and not let him out of bed until dawn. Then she’d give up smoking. A rap at the door almost made her drop the pipe. “Who the hell is it?!” she shouted, her eyes darting worriedly. “It is I, Agraff, my sweet. May I enter?” “Just a minute!” She put out the pipe and slapped it back into the chest, pushing it back under the bed with her feet. She waved the smoke away as best she could, pushing it as far near the open window as was possible. Skipping over to the door, Sacha opened it slightly to let Agraff see her face. “What can I do for you, my love?” “You look flushed, my love, is anything the matter?” “Exercise, my dear, exercise.” “Ah, good. May I come in?” “Certainly.” “I’ll leave you two alone,” said George who was standing closely behind Agraff. Agraff nodded and walked through the door, letting Sacha slam it shut. “Ah, you are not dressed,” said Agraff, suddenly, shielding his eyes with his hand, “I am sorry for calling on you at the wrong time.” “That’s fine; I’ll just get under the bed covers, my dear.” Sacha jumped under the sheets and pulled them right up to her neck, her arms by her sides. Agraff removed his hand and smiled at her in bed. “I have come to talk to you, my dear, about something I hold close to my heart. We are in grave danger here at Castle Utter, in grave danger indeed. The invading forces have taken nearly all of the country and we are the final stronghold. Tomorrow, they shall arrive with an army that will ultimately destroy us all. I am determined to fight this battle, Sacha, till I fall and die. That is why, on my last night of this lowly life, I wish to marry you.” Agraff bent down on one knee beside the bed, his rough hand grabbing her smooth fingers. “Yes!” she exclaimed suddenly, her eyes wide. “Yes, I shall marry you!” “Excellent, then it shall be so!” Sacha jumped out of bed in excitement, grabbing Agraff round the waist as he covered his eyes once more with his hand, not letting him see her beautiful naked body. One hand still wrapped round him, she pulled on the cord next to her bed that rang a bell downstairs. After a few minutes of their bodies being close in tight embrace, Blimey walked through the door to see Sacha’s body entwined around Agraff’s, both standing, as one hand covered the Lord’s eyes blind. “Yes, milady?” blurted Blimey, breaking his low voice back into a high pitched squeak. “Go and tell Pukka that we are to be married and are to have mad passionate love till the sun rises in the east!” said Sacha loudly, arms outstretched while walking towards the servant. “I do!” shouted Blimey, ready to jump at her and bury his face in her breasts. “Not you, you brat!” said Sacha annoyed, slapping Blimey round the head. “Agraff and I! Now be off with you!” Three A slight breeze fluttered through the open window that looked out upon the bailey, gently blowing Pukka’s white beard against his large blue cloak. Eyes closed, the wizard was thinking, pondering, his hands pushing down on the window sill to keep him as placid as was possible. “‘A balanced sorcerer is a formidable divinity’. ‘A balanced sorcerer is a formidable divinity’. Balance yourself, Pukka, balance yourself. ‘To be balanced is to be sound; to be sound is to be competent; to be competent is to be convincing. At least be convincing, and then shall come faith, and with faith, magic.’ Right then.” Pukka released himself from the wall and looked back at the table which was piled with smoky potions and wizardry equipment, from the well-known ‘enchanter topalopolus’ to the ‘occult-a-stick’. Pukka pulled up his huge sleeves and pointed all of his fingers at the caged frog upon a stool next to the table. “Bulbous-gobbledy-goat-of-shame!” A thin bolt of lightening shot out of his index finger, missed the frog and chopped off two of the stool’s legs, sending the cage rocketing to the stone floor. “I give up!” roared Pukka, his mouth snarling. He fell back into a deep chair and let his tall cone hat slide over his drooling eyes. “I can never get anything right,” he sobbed, crossing his arms in pity. That was the fifth time he’d tried to turn the frog into an elephant. Five times, five misses. Five new stools. Never had it occurred to him that he’d be in great danger if it had worked, since the room was far too small to hold even the youngest of elephants and would most likely have exploded due to the lack of space...or something like that. Pukka took off his hat and fumbled around inside for his small pipe. He had to use his whole arm to search around since it was larger on the inside than outside - an old wizard trick. Pukka could not call it his own doing, however, since he had been given it by his uncle, and his uncle before him. With a click of the fingers the pipe was alight and Pukka breathed in as much as he could until it poured out of his large ears. The large book on the table rattled before rising into the air and hovering over to the wizard’s lap. Bound with tired string, it was ancient and held many secrets and magic tricks. Flipping over to the next page, Pukka’s weary eyes fixed upon sorcery known as the ‘dessert stanch’ and he looked over the description as he pulled his sleeve back up. “Fountain-yield-of-mess!” said Pukka, his arm outstretched, sending a bolt of lightening through the fire and up to the chimney. “Hmm, nothing.” A sound of avalanche quickly stampeded down the chimney until a great sea of strawberry ice cream stormed over the fire and onto the floor. “Bugger. Speedy-recovery-of-clean!” The ice cream disappeared and the room was back to normal. Pukka closed the book and put it carefully down on the table before there was a nock at the door. “Come in.” Blimey entered the room and waited a few seconds before he spoke. Only fifteen, the young servant was newly employed but had become fixated on the dealings of the wizard. All those spells and potions looked fun to play around with. “S’cuse me, Pukka...” “That’s Mr Pukka, you runt. What is it?” “Well, m’lord Agraff and m’lady Sacha wish to be wed tonight. They wish you to conduct the service as soon as possible, Mr Pukka.” “They employ a wizard not for magic or sorcery, no, but for the job of a simple priest! My talents go to waste being stuck in this room.” Pukka looked at the certificate on the wall. This is to certify that Wizard Pukka has passed the intermediate level of Marriage allowing him to wed two people in matrimony, effective immediately “So what are you working on?” asked Blimey excitedly, his fingers flailing in anticipation. “Learning to fly? Perfecting the potion for immortality? Reincarnating past heroes?” “Turning frogs into elephants, if it is any of your business at all, young Blimey.” “Cool! Can I see?!” Blimey wasn’t watching the wizard, and instead had turned his attention to the table, letting his hands roam over the bottles and glasses, his fingers turning some of the pages in the books. Pukka grabbed Blimey’s ear and twisted it, making him squeal. “Never try and touch my things again, or I’ll make you play chicken with my collection of acids! Right then, I’ll get the hall ready. I’ll ring the bell when everything’s prepared - make sure everybody knows about it so we don’t have to wait long. It’s quite late but we wizards don’t sleep. Now be off with you!” Let loose, Blimey quickly jumped out of the door. Four Blimey fell down the three or four steps right outside of the door to Pukka’s little room. On his back against the wall, the stone was cold and the air was thin, a sharp breeze from the night entering through the many thin windows placed around the building inside the castle. Lord Agraff’s home, surrounded by tall, thick walls that had begun to slowly decay and crumble over the many hundreds of years that they had stood. The masons lived in the town of Lummux down from the hill, next to the sea, and visited weekly to repair what had been damaged. This was costing many bags of coins, but to Agraff, it was money well spent. Blimey, however, was not as well paid. In fact, he would be making better money shining shoes down in the high street of Lummux than being pushed around, hit and made fun of at Castle Utter. However, it was the underlying thrill and excitement that he was actually living and working in a castle, rather than on any old street. The servant got to his feet as quick as he possibly could and hobbled down a few more steps as he realised he must have twisted an ankle. Moving more slowly than he usually would, Blimey made his way down another set of stairs and pushed a door inward to his very small room. Not that he was one to complain, only being a servant and all, but it did seem quite cramped even if he was only fifteen. The room fit one small bed that he was growing too big for and a little slice of floor to move about and let the door swing open. There were no windows and Blimey had to stash all of his belongings and clothes under the bed. Blimey collapsed onto the bed, looking up at the low ceiling. He’d probably have to duck under it soon enough as he was growing tall, but long term planning or thought wasn’t what he was interested in. He should have been running about, telling everyone that Pukka was getting the hall ready for the marriage, but he had a good idea that everyone would arrive if a bell was sounded, even if they knew not what for. A candle on a small wooden table next to the stairs was the only illumination. The thin shreds of light swept through the open doorway and into Blimey’s small room, lighting up the wall that he stared at upon his bed. Not really looking at it or taking in the details of the wall, but daydreaming. He saw himself as a swordsman, a magician, a sailor, an explorer. Then he remembered Sacha, earlier. After leaving her room and going to see Pukka, he had forgotten all about her naked body. He’d been inches from it; he could smell the sweat of much needed passion rippling off her curves. She was beautiful and he wasn’t ashamed with himself for saying ‘I do’, as he truly would have done anything she said. The surprise and hormones would have taken control and they could be doing it, right now, on her floor. No, not the floor, too cold - on the bed instead. Not creative enough - in the barn, amid the haystacks. Blimey assured himself that one day, now, he was sure, he would make love to Sacha in the barn, married or not, and he would show her how much better than Agraff he could be. He was fifteen; he was in his prime for loving. Well, he thought so anyway. A slam from the door upstairs meant Pukka had left his room. The wizard plodded down the steps, one hand on the wooden banister that followed the wall, sighing and grumbling to himself about this and that. Probably mostly about having to do a marriage so late. Then he’d mumble about actually having to perform a marriage in the first place. Then he’d be grumbling about being wasted. The same old grumbles and mumbles - Blimey was used to hearing them. Pukka walked by the door, not looking through the doorway to notice Blimey on his bed. In frustration, the wizard whacked the candle through the air and against the window, breaking it into shards and blowing the light away. They were both in darkness, but Pukka knew his way down. Blimey’s thoughts went back to Sacha. She must have seen him at the door, therefore must have wanted him to see her naked. Then she must like him in that way! Blimey went through many possibilities, trying to convince himself that he had a chance with the beautiful Sacha, and in many ways, it sounded logical. In the end, however, he kept returning to the same conclusion as to why she would be interested in a mere servant. Sacha’s image in Blimey’s mind shifted into that of the young girl who brought up bread from the bakery to the castle. She was only seventeen herself, and he imagined what she looked like without her clothes. Failing this, he took her head and put it on Sacha’s body. Then it just turned back to Sacha, anyway. Oh it was pointless. “Fire!” bellowed Spicer on the steps, a lantern pulled close to his face revealed half of a bumpy and rather ugly face. It picked out all of the pimples and warts that plagued one side of his face like bees round a nest. “Fire!” he shouted again. “There’s a fire! Wake up you little brat! Wake up! Fire! Fire!” Blimey jumped off the bed and smacked his face into the wall. He must have been resting his eyes for a few minutes as he didn’t see the hard surface on impact. Collapsed onto the bed, Blimey dragged himself up again and into the hallway to the steps. “Fire!” wailed Spicer into Blimey’s face, letting loose phlegm capture his face as if in a spider’s web.
Copyright © 2004 Jack M Brown |