Besieged

by Verity Moore

  A flaming arrow flew through the window and hit a fulcarry fighter in the back. She grabbed the cloth an elderly was using to fight the fire and rushed to the fighter. She wrapped him in the material and held him from behind, hoping to smother the flames.

  Cantor took over. “I’ll see to him, Lady Kyam.”

  Cierra ran to the stair opening. She pulled in a lungful of air and then bellowed, “Reinforcements with water and bandages on the archer’s perch right now.”

  Rapid footsteps responded.

  “Archers, back to your positions. Tell me if Tellus moves.”

  A rush of loyalists from the fortress floor coincided with Mother’s arrival from the kitchen. Order was restored within moments. Mother led two wounded elderlies away. Cantor followed with the wounded fighter.

  “Father, is all well in the fortress?” She never knew she had so much loudness in her.

  Reg’s grim face appeared in the stairwell. “The door still holds.”

  Her stomach tightened. She turned to the window facing east. “Any sign the people are rousing?”

  The archer stationed there shook his head. “No one on the streets.”

  She didn’t understand. By this time in Risler, with only herself and Lusan ringing the bells, the people had forced the enemy to leave. Why wasn’t the same thing happening here?

  Because they are different. Ya-Wyn’s voice was unexpected. Risler delights in joy and true beauty. They find time to play. Those are powerful inoculations against evil. The people of Lipfar are focused and serious.

  Was that bad? Risler sounded frivolous. Lipfar, strong and dependable.

  Which heart is most open to hearing Our words? Which heart finds it easy to change when it is shown a new truth? Which heart will most readily admit weakness and need? And which heart is most child-like?

  Cierra groaned. Lipfar rarely found itself in a situation it couldn’t conquer. And Lipfarians would be offended if described as childlike. She laughed to herself. All her life she had tried to make herself into the typical serious, reliable Lipfarian, only to find The Masters wanted her to be less so. No wonder they had sent Kyam. How well he had blended the serious and dependable with a childlike joy and trust.

  So does this mean all is lost? That the citizens will not waken in time?

  Are We limited to just one strategy?

  Head on knees, Cierra’s shoulders began to shake. Forgive me. I placed my trust in mere people. I should know by now, they will be unreliable most of the time.

  Fulcarries coming. All your fighters to the archer’s perch. Archers and elderlies move to the stairwell.

  Ya-Wyn’s command had her on her feet and moving before her mind had time to think. “Fighters to the archer’s perch.” Her order echoed up and down the tower. The loyalists scurried to obey. Castoff galloped up the stairs. A breeze brought in the dreaded stench.

  She counted fighters—six. And seven windows to protect. Cantor appeared, whip in hand. She reached for it. He moved it away. “I practiced with them. It is time we did battle rather than relying on your skill.” His smile was rueful. “Of course, if any of us fail, we will once again look to you.”

  Her back ached. Her legs trembled. She was tired and her hands felt—wrong. She looked at them. Burned. From helping the fighter. She couldn’t hold the whip…or bell ropes. Father expected her to lead. But she couldn’t. To try would only endanger them all.

  She’d lost the opportunity to make Father proud.

  She nodded. “The Masters grace you with strength.”

  Cantor turned to the unguarded window.

  “And, Cantor…”

  He swung around.

  “May They give you fresh wisdom and new strategies. Depending on the old can be dangerous.” Now why had she said that?

  With a grin and salute, Cantor took his position at the window.

  Excellent. Watch and see and learn. We have already been speaking to the fighters’ hearts. Your blessing releases them to put into practice what We have instructed.

  A young female fighter sidled up to her. “I heard what you said to Cantor. I have an idea as well. The fulcarries’ overpowering odor stuns. What if we were to neutralize it?”

  “How?”

  “Paro has herbs for seasoning. If we were to put some in a smudge pot…”

  “Do it.”

  The girl hurried away and returned with the cook puffing behind. She carried her biggest kettle filled with small wood shavings and oswala leaves. She plopped it in the center of the room and lit the wood. Tendrils of smoke curled upward.

  She checked to see if the fighters were in position. Some of them held staffs and sticks instead of whips. Cierra opened her mouth to object, but closed it without speaking: She had given them the freedom to fight as they saw fit.

  The room darkened. As if the sun had gone behind a cloud. Three dark elongated shadows appeared on the floor. Moments later fulcarries landed on three window sills, filling the openings. Cierra took a step back, mouth dry. Castoff moved to her side, low growls in his throat.

  The birds rubbed their beaks against their wings, shook their heads, and leaned forward as if trying to see clearly. The herbs appeared to be a marvelous idea.

  The fighters realigned themselves into groups of two for each of the birds. One held a whip, the second a stick.

  “Stupid humans. Do you think to overpower us with a few unsophisticated toys? That we cannot ignore wisps of noxious smoke? We will crush you. Then drain all the blood from your bodies.”

  While the one was still speaking, the other two struck. Their aim was faulty, missing the fighters by five or more tesos. Whips and sticks flashed in unison. By the time Cierra could blink, two fulcarries lay on their backs on the floor, necks at an unnatural angle.

  The final fulcarry screeched. “No. Filth. You can’t beat us. You are rodents. Inferior in every way.”

  “And yet we have dispatched two of your finest.” Cantor slapped the whip handle in his palm. “How long do you think it will take us to deal with you?”

  “Insolent human.” The bird backed out of the window.

  Behind it, the sky was tinged with red. Dusk already? How could it be so? And yet, it felt as if this day had lasted half a year at least. Battles and fear must distort time.

  “This is not the end. You can’t win.” As the fulcarry turned to fly away, a fighter hurled her stick and hit him in his tail feathers. The bird launched itself with an ungainly hop then turned to face them. His wings moving just enough to keep it in place. “You will regret this attack on my dignity. I will personally see to your slow, painful deaths.”

  A flutter of wings and it was gone.

  “Huzzah!” The archers shook their bows above their heads.

  “Praise The Masters.” The fulcarry fighters danced.

  The celebrations stopped suddenly. Everyone was looking at her. She should be rejoicing with them not standing there like a piece of drift wood.

  Cierrra sagged. Her back touched a warm body.

  “Well done.” Father’s arm wrapped around her shoulders. “It’s only a strong, confident leader who allows those under her to grow and take chances. You gave them the skills they needed and then allowed them to create new applications.”

  She turned her face into his chest. He was pleased—proud. Tears slipped down her cheeks. She was not a disappointment.

  Father whispered in her ear. “I knew The Masters had gifted you the first time the midwife put you in my arms. You are all I could ask for in a successor.”

  All this time? Father had never doubted her worth? A sigh from deep within shuddered out. Why had she been so sure he was unhappy with who she was?

  “I have ordered three-fourths to sleep and one fourth to guard. Rotating duties in three hour shifts so all rest. I doubt Tellus will attempt anything at night but it is best to be ready.”

  Cierra nodded, her head rubbing against his shoulder.

  “Rella says the ropes are re-attached and read
y for the dawn ringing.” Father kissed her forehead. “Sleep well. Mother has a cot ready.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Please allow her to fuss over you. She needs the opportunity to show you how much you are loved.”

  Mother pulled the blanket up to her chin. “Sleep well, my darling. You have done more than could ever be expected.”

  “Not won yet.” Her words slurred with sleep.

  “Winning is in The Masters’ hands. You have been a faithful instrument skillfully used.”

  Castoff woofed twice. "Your dog agrees.”

  Her hand slipped from under the cover to rub one floppy ear. “If you guard, I can sleep.”

  A tongue slurp was her answer.

  ✽✽✽

  Cierra woke to the rattle of a kettle and the smell of stew. She eased from her cot lest she waken others before times. Only Paro’s breakfast preparations broke the silence. Castoff sat next to her, relaxed. All must be well.

  The bells. She needed to spend time in their company. Perhaps to bless them.

  As she stepped into the belfry, a shadow detached itself from the farthest bell. Castoff whined a welcome.

  “Are you and your dog checking up on me?” Rella stood arms akimbo.

  “I have never doubted your competence. We came because The Masters drew us.” Cierra stroked the nearest bell and crooned. “Sing out your joy. Ring strong against the tide. Stand fearless against the foe.”

  Blessing complete, Cierra and Rella sat in the glow of the one torch flickering in its wall sconce, putting streaks of red in Rella’s hair. The dawn bells began in less than an hour.

  Cierra stretched and winced.

  “You have given your all, my friend. We would never have thought to fight in this tower without you.” Rella wrapped her arms around her knees. “But I doubt you could have devised a more arduous plan.” She yawned until her jaw cracked.

  “But is it enough? Were you better off in your homes, safely asleep in your beds?”

  “Safe?” Rella shrugged. “Perhaps momentarily. Until the mercenaries decided otherwise. But we were without hope. You gave us that.”

  “Me? Give hope. How The Masters’ laughter must be filling Their throne room. Shaking the chandeliers. Causing trees and plants to bend before the force of Their merriment.”

  “What’s so funny about hope?”

  “Not hope.” Cierra jabbed her chest. “Me. As the instrument. For years I have hated hope. Seen it as a tease, a taunt—always out of reach, but never out of sight.”

  “So, what changed?”

  Cierra traced her steps since meeting Kyam. When had her heart shifted? “A better understanding of the heart and intent of The Masters. A better ability to look beyond the difficulties of a day and see all the way into The Empire. Because I had a companion who was relentlessly hope-filled regardless of my frustrations.”

  “It seems your journey across Capular spanned more than mere melos.” Rella’s head drifted to Cierra's knees. “Your quest has blessed many.”

  She sat stunned beside her slumbering friend. An internal journey every bit as vast as the physical. Kyam, of course, would say it included the scaling of a heart-mountain or two. She had been so focused on reaching Lipfar, she had been unaware of the summit reached in her soul. She smiled. Kyam’s roar of laughter must have joined The Masters. Mountains, indeed.

  ✽✽✽

  Cierra reached the front door as the bells began to ring. She looked through the nearest slit and saw a repeat of yesterday’s assault. Two battering rams poised, archers accompanied by men carrying torches, and foot soldiers with gleaming swords raced toward them.

  But this time the mercenaries didn’t flinch or falter. Had they become immune to the sound of the ringing? They swarmed the door. And then she saw it—the reason the bells had no effect. All the mercenaries had stuffed wadding in their ears.

  The end was near. All they could do was fight to the death.

  Father appeared at her side. “Food, water, and arrows are in short supply.”

  “I’m glad we could fight this last battle together, Father.”

  He hugged her tight. “Always I have loved you, been proud of you. I didn’t understand your gift, but I have always known you are rare and precious.”

  She smeared his cheek with her tears as she kissed him. “Thank you.”

  She turned to the archers. “Who has arrows?”

  Several held up one or two.

  “Pick your targets with care. Make them pay dearly to enter this tower.”

  The archers strung their bows, angled the arrows in the window slits and called out who they were aiming at so that no two archers chose the same man.

  Her heart pounded so loudly she barely heard them talking. Kyam, I’ll be with you soon.

  A picture began to unfold in front of her. Now? I can’t draw now.

  There is no better time.

  Very well, Ya-Wyn. But I have neither paper nor canvas.

  I have provided plenty of walls.

  She groaned. Her friends would think her a coward to leave as the enemy was poised to break in. “Father, The Masters have given me a picture. It has happened before in the midst of danger a scene of sometime yet to come. I must…I’m so sorry, but Ya-Wyn insists that…truly I have no wish to desert…”

  He stopped her with a raised hand. “Go. Their plans and purposes are greater than ours.”

  The first two floors had too many windows breaking the wall space into small segments. And from what The Masters had already shown her this would be a large drawing. How was she ever to accomplish it before they were overrun?

  Mother and Paro watched open-mouthed as she grabbed charcoal and a lamp. One wall looked cleaner than the others. It would do. Castoff agreed. He sat next to it and watched.

  If only she could use the floor—the perspective would be so much easier to get it right. She pressed trembling lips together. She had to start.

  Perhaps if she thought of it as a map, that would help. She sketched clumps of dirt surrounded by pools of water. Clouds hid portions of the map. Was it as if a high-flying bird was looking down? She knew of no birds who could fly this high.

  ✽✽✽

  Watcher Reg stared at the flood of mercenaries spilling into the garden that surrounded the tower. So many, so determined to destroy. They would be torn apart like sheep thrown to a pack of hungry wolves.

  The first rammers hit the door then immediately stepped to the side so that the second rammers had an unobstructed target. The booms followed each other in rapid sequence, reverberating in his head.

  Flaming arrows streaked toward the tower.

  The rams hit the door again. The hinges bent under the barrage.

  Cantor stood next to him. “Another two hits, maybe three, and the door will be breached.”

  “The Masters have not abandoned us. We have brought this catastrophe upon ourselves with our inattention to Their warnings. They will either give us the victory despite our negligence or give us the strength to die well.”

  “Watcher Reg,” the archer stationed next to the door called out, “More mercenaries are coming.”

  Reg looked out the slit. A second wave was rapidly overtaking the first. His knees started to give way. He forced them to hold him up. His final responsibility as Watcher was to show his people how to die.

  ✽✽✽

  Cierra, charcoal in hand, drew with great sweeps of her arm. Mother stood at her side. “Is this really the time to sketch such a strange picture?”

  “I can’t ignore The Masters’ pictures, no matter how inconvenient.”

  “Whatever are you drawing? I grow dizzy looking at it.”

  “I know not what it is. Perhaps… If only Kyam were here.” Cierra choked. “He had a gift for seeing more in my paintings than I do.”

  Castoff, who had been sitting at her side, howled and tore for the stairs.

  She closed her eyes and breathed deep. “I wish he’d stayed. His presence
makes it easier to concentrate.”

  “Then I will fetch him for you.” Mother followed the dog down the steps.

  ✽✽✽

  Raised swords flashed. Flaming arrows flew. Hardened faces surrounded the tower.

  The middle hinge on the door bulged inward. Then ripped from the wall. Shouts of blood and victory poured in. Again the rams hit. The top hinge strained to breaking point. Tellus shouted, “One more push! That’s all it’ll take. Anyone who holds back gets the same execution as these traitors.”

  Reg readied his sword. Hopefully Tellus would be first through the door. His one opportunity to get justice for his city.

  The fresh wave of warriors reached the rear guard. What was this? The new mercenaries overpowered those in the back of the battalion. Why were they killing their companions?

  The rammers hit the door. The top hinge held. How was it so? Only The Masters could make it so. Reg’s heart began to hammer—with hope. Could they hold off the mercenaries until these fresh troops made it to them?

  Tellus stood right outside the door shouting and cursing that the hinge held. Why did he not respond to the attack on his rear? The ear wadding—he was unaware of what was happening because he couldn’t hear.

  “Fight, men. Don’t give up. See, friends are coming to our aid.”

  A few well-placed arrows flew from the perch. One pierced Tellus’ arm.

  The men and women around Reg readied themselves for the first wave of mercenaries to breach the opening. They held pitiful weapons—kitchen knives, pitchforks, shovels. But their faces were bright, focused. Never had he been so proud of his people.

  The doors fell inward on the mounds of sludge. It slowed their advance—kept them off balance—they had not expected a need to climb slopping boards. Their forward rush faltered as they adjusted their minds and feet. A few dropped their weapons when their footing proved unstable. His people were quick to retrieve the plunder. Between narrow access and tilting boards their enemy’s advance slowed to a trickle. A wonderful advantage for his untrained warriors.