PULL ME UNDER - Gung-Ho - Thirty

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Thirty

Every stone on the surrounding earth had been taken, anything Ddun’s forces could have used against the castle walls. Grassland that could have still been grazed by their goats through the snow had been churned and patches of brush burned. With his army further flattening the landscape, it looked as if a battle had already taken place without the fertilization of their blood in the soil.

Snow flitted down and made the castle in the distance look as if clouded by white smoke, and so he retreated to the back of the line to consult the elders—especially one Stenyan-born but wholly Dvarri, Luvan, who was thorough with his advice on sieges. A weak point in Dvarri warfare. He helped oversee the construction of the weapons that would be storming Kisku.

The mass of soldiers waited for the final word, breath hitched in heavy anticipation, hands at bowstrings twitching. “What did you see in the liver?” he asked the elders. “We will be engaging them before long unless I say to halt. There’s no sign of them preparing to meet us in the open. Lauren feels nothing extraordinary.”

“We have made ready what we can through the night,” Luvan said. “If the liver says so, we are ready.”

“Now is the time,” they all agreed. “It’s very clear in the veins.” The fresh liver still splayed out on the ground, poked and prodded by old fingers. If it was that sure, all the elders in agreement, he would continue on, despite the tug at the back of his mind it might be better to wait. Tanner hadn’t returned with any news.

Ddun sought out a unit of ten to ride ahead with a banner of peace to discuss terms, but had little faith they would return with word that Grandfather’s men were ready to lay down their arms, not the way he saw the land, not with the watchtower fires all lit in warning to the castle.

Lauren would stay at the rear, her presence a boon to morale but she would not be a target. She agreed, and he gave her a low bow as he passed her a final time before leading his men on. “Will you give us your blessing?” he asked. The air around him seemed to light as she smiled and bowed in return.

“I would be happy to bless the men, My General.”

The camp was set up as a place to retreat, expecting a long siege. Stenyan carpenters were finishing up their assembly of the ballistas and catapults under Luvan’s instruction, all the pieces hauled the long distance from Kaddusk, readying them to be taken to the knolls that dotted the landscape within sight of the city. That vibration of nerves and excitement and rushing blood as the men dressed and prayed and made their offerings to the Sky Father and the earth spirits. Lauren rode through the clusters of men and brushed the hands of any who wanted her luck, men reaching out to touch her feet and the banner poles at her saddle, some men begging her to kiss them, which she did with brief pecks on their foreheads, and the heat of pride in Ddun’s chest poured out to his fingertips to see her glow, to see the men stand taller as she rode past. She was his witch, but she was a sorceress of all their hearts.

The snow cleared as they readied themselves for the advance. The riders returned with shrugged shoulders, tossing the flag of talks to the wind. Grandfather had refused to speak, so siege it was.

The drums shook Ddun, his armour weighing him, horn blown to signal the advance. He pushed his faceguard down. One third of the force with him in the first wave, and the others waiting as relief, paired off in groups of ten, riders spread across a mile.

As the castle broke through the haze of distant snow, horns from Ddun’s east flank made the rest turn to see the hidden force rise from behind the hills edging the river. His men were swift in their discipline while the arrows were raining down on them, with each whistle of feathers Ddun’s heart beat harder, driving soldiers in a wave to the frozen riverbeds that fed Kisku, now bearing the weight of two armies. A glancing blow off his helmet that echoed down to his navel, his wet breath froze against the leather over his mouth.

Arrows like rain, his men returning every shot, and he lowered his lance—the sight of their white-smoke eyes made his spleen twist. Fodder, a distraction, even as he drove his lance through the chest of a man bewitched, he knew, taking back his lance with a difficult pull and ejection of blood. A signal blown for his flagmen, false retreat. He brought out his bow once his lance splintered at a second charge through an enemy, blood threatening to blind him in the spray. Arrows shot behind him in the retreat, his horse bounded the hillocks.

Back on higher ground, fistfulls of arrows ready to nock, they charged again. The bewitched men were no match for them, but dread welled up in Ddun to think there was more he didn’t, or couldn’t, see. Bewitched men didn’t flee, and once the last of them fell, his men advanced down the river, sweat-drenched and acid-veined.

Rocks were launched from the walls to break the river ice, with deafening thuds and cracks. He ordered his men into groups of twenty with signals, and began the encircling of the castle. Riders relaying the battle went for the reserves as his men rode on, dodging the rocks and the fragile cracks—a bridge had been dismantled long before they arrived—his arrows picked off men on the parapets, in the watchtowers, heads hacked from the fallen defenders to feed his catapults in lieu of stones.

***

Lauren’s fear was nauseating, every muscle tense. Despite her promise, she watched at the front of the reserves, hand on her belly. The men saw her straight in the saddle, feigning bravery as the arrows rained in the distance and horses wove in and out of the fray—the only signs of Ddun were the banners at the saddle, harder to see the more the snow turned red. It was a dreadful, awe-inspiring dance, and soon men on both sides littered the ice.

Knowing they were back on the leyline, felt it on her skin, anything could happen… Resisting the urge to use her magic was difficult as she watched Ddun narrowly escape arrows, hearing the cracks on the ice even at her distance. Riders waved signal flags and the next batch of men went forward to encircle the castle.

No sign at all of Tanner or Irynna, and that added to the tremors in her heart. She could hardly breathe, her chest so tight.

Rudda was at the head of the next charge, bow in hand, and she caught his eyes from under his helmet, dark and brooding, in a way he seemed to be pleading, but what he was pleading for she couldn’t say. Then he turned to the castle, banner cracking behind him as he launched his horse to action, the stream of men on either side of him like a tidal wave over the landscape, their heavy breathing and shouts, the heat of them, all around her were men raging forward, bows ready.

And then the shimmer appeared before the charge, her skin crawled violently, a strange heat flowing from her stomach. She couldn’t stop herself now, her hands began to burn at the sight of Rudda turning his horse, firing behind him with his men shouting at the sight of the army of dark-clad things stepping out of nothing—more of Meired’s demons. Grotesque gaits and pig-nosed faces, more and more coming out of the dark shimmer, a line as wide as Ddun’s first charge and thick with bodies, all with weapons drawn, gibbering and cackling, charging toward them, several rows thick.

Rudda’s band were so entangled, their bows aimed with their arms twisted behind their heads, a strange and effective maneuver to shoot straight down to the crawling things beneath the horses. Some of the horses burst into fragments and the men with them, swords and axes and hammers out in a melee. More than one man was ripped limb from limb, the bile rising hot in her throat at the sight and sounds of the screaming.

Rudda blew into his horn. His command was echoed. The ballistas that were ready to move were loaded.

Her hands burning into the gloves, blisters fusing wet into the leather, hands raised to the air, horse ready to soar—she drew the monstrous attention with a scream: “Come at me!”

She imagined the dark glass that had been fired through the camp the night of the giant, and thus conjured her own. A tearing in the air above her, noise like ripped denim, jagged missiles fired at the fiends of Meired’s conjuration, pinning them to the ground, running them through with howls and bursts of blood.

Rudda’s men turned again, arrows direct and fierce. Soon the shimmer faded, allowing them to advance with almost gleeful shouts to trample the sulfuric bodies, the devils still grabbing at them and swiping them with their jagged weapons and claws. Lauren’s head was aflame with magic, and she could barely think, everything tornadoing around her. With arms still raised and dark glass still crashing down in splinters around her, the feeling of Meired’s magic lessened, leaving her skin cold. Rudda had lost his mount, and ran on foot to the nearest watchtower with some other dismounted soldiers, shooting up at the guards in the watchtower to take it.

Rocks launched from the castle lifted earth.

She soared through the air to find Ddun. From her vantage, she could see the castle was more than ready to hold them off, and she wished she could magic every man encircling the walls. As it was, the best she could do was try to find a way to quicken their victory, earn her title as witch.

***

As Ddun made the order to take the watchtower apart, a rock hit the earth at his horse’s feet and heaved the ground—an arrow through his horse’s shoulder, another at the flank, another stuck deep into the saddle, jolting him with fright that it had bit into his leg—no time to process his fall. A shadow covered the sun as he struggled to sit, and a soldier nearby howled a cheer to see their sorceress had taken flight.

Lauren dove, hand outstretched, and he could feel the little creatures gather, crawling over his legs, lifting the saddle up with its cocked-askew banners, ignoring the arrows that continued to fly through them. He reached out too, eyes blinded by the ribboned light that flowed from her, his bloodied hand grazed her glove, heat up his arm. His next breath was sharp, energy renewed in a burst, and he remounted his horse to return to the rear line, the fierceness in her eyes burned in him. Horses across the field all rose to the relief of the dismounted men—the ones able to climb back on their saddles.

Soon the ballistas would be in position, and the catapults, as riders continued picking off men from atop the parapets. He would have to take some time to consult with the elders while he rested his muscles for the next wave. A good pile of heads were already massing, and with a thrill he watched his men load them up like cruel insults to be flung over the walls. He passed the field of stinking devils left fallen with black shards of glass through them, and delighted in that too.

To get too close to the castle would sacrifice too many of his men, now that they knew for certain there were no other forces lying in wait outside the walls. Encircling it, picking off the odd fool who stuck his head too far out, and offering terms that went ignored. He wondered, as his muscles burned, if Grandfather was even inside to hear them.

***

A pain in her abdomen made her double in the saddle, clutching underneath her belly as the baby kicked her insides. She had done what she could, reviving the horses and sending them back to the rear.

Her own horse faltered, a groan escaping her at the pain, and she had to turn back. Whatever the pain was, it was affecting her flight, which made her bladder lurch to acknowledge her height over the field. She had to find Ddun—but her horse refused to turn, her limbs electric with panic, and she screamed as she fell.

***

Her scream carried over the field, a nail straight in Ddun’s ears. He spun his horse, but saw nothing. Teeth clenched and eyes bulging he roared in frustration that he couldn’t see where it was, spit through his teeth hitting the leather. “She’s falling!” someone yelled. “Help her!”

The more he looked and couldn’t find her the more his heart howled with fear. Men were running and riding to the spot where she must have been, heads turned skyward, but he still couldn’t see. He yelled for them to catch her, he prayed they could—perhaps something was stopping him from seeing her, until one of his men caught her in open arms, cradling her and turning, and Ddun followed after him, numb head to toe.

The rider took her to the tents where Grandmothers were attending the wounded, and Ddun could barely feel the ground under his feet to step down from his horse, stumbling to follow the man who held Lauren. She was glistening with sweat and clutching her belly, her cries pitched, and Ddun could hardly breathe with the fear not only for Lauren, but—it was too early, too early, please, please—he ran to bedding as she was laid gently down, a Grandmother running to them covered in another man’s blood. Ddun tore free his suffocating helmet, tossed it without care. His hands shook as he touched her face, so pale and damp with sweat and melted snow.

“It feels like it’s ripping, it’s ripping,” the soft words warped as if he were going deaf, the noise of the battle ringing him still. His arms seized in his terror, the sight of her hurting more frightening than anything on the battlefield.

“Hush my Lady,” the Grandmother said, “it’s a pulled muscle, a strain, you just need to rest yourself.”

“Is there blood?” Lauren asked through a weak sob, and Ddun knelt mute to watch the Grandmother wipe her hands clean before reaching under Lauren’s tunic, undoing ties underneath, motions he couldn’t see. The old woman’s face was calm as a pond. She removed her hand from between Lauren’s legs, thumb rubbing her two fingers.

“Small threads, small threads, but this is common. Bedrest is the best cure. You’ve pulled something, that’s all.”

Ddun let himself sink into the bedding beside Lauren, his body hunched low to embrace her. She struggled to raise her arms to his shoulders. Gentle pressure through his armour, fear seeping down through him and into the earth. She would be alright.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to catch you,” he whispered, breath jagged, “I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t see where you were.”

She winced, and he pulled back as if he had done something to hurt her. “My hands.”

Lauren cried sharp when the Grandmother attempted to pull free the glove. The old eyes betrayed a shadow of trepidation, even seen through her mask, more fear there than when she had checked between Lauren’s thighs. Despite her eyes, the Grandmother asked calmly for the thin shears near the bed. Careful snips freed the leather from Lauren’s skin.

The inside of the glove was soaked with pink, sucking wet as it peeled and took skin with it. Lauren’s face contorted with the pain, and Ddun could do nothing for her but caress her cheek and brow while the old woman removed the glove bit by bit. She had burned herself, somehow, under the leather, a layer of flesh gone, strings of yellow and pink and red. Both hands were the same, bandages and poultices were soon fetched to wrap her hands while her teeth chattered from the pain.

Men had come into the tent to give messages to Ddun—it was like listening to rambling goats, he was too distracted. His hand on Lauren’s belly tried to feel any movement, if there was still life in that sacred space. He hunched low to her again, his hand still cupping her belly, his other hand in her hair, face buried in her neck.

At the sight the men stopped speaking, ushered from the tent but for the other injured men and healers.

“I’m sorry, I’m so stupid,” she said softly, “I’m so sorry.”

He kissed her. “You did what you thought was right, and the men are grateful, I know it.”

“Is Rudda alright?”

“I’ll find out.”

“Ah!” she hissed in pain again. “I’m still cramping.”

“Just rest. Alright? That’s what she said was best.” His own stomach fluttered with worry, but he kept his face still. He could hear the roar outside of men returning and reserves going out. More men flooding into the tents sweating blood, stinking of battle. Now, they just needed to maintain the siege. The ballistas would fire at the gatehouse, at the towers, until the bolts were gone, or the men inside spilled out, or starved and rotted. Soon he would get some numbers from the men. How many of the bewitched died on the ice, how many of his in exchange. Could his men be bewitched by Meired? The thought made his skin crawl. Though he was confident the numbers would favour him, the field of grotesques pierced with black glass gave him pause. Lauren had picked this spot for camp because she didn’t feel the magic of a leyline, but that didn’t mean they might not be close enough. Meired could do anything, and Lauren had to stay in bed. He rested his brow on her chest. She had fallen asleep.