The Dark Cycle - Chapter Six

Chapter 6

The Siege

As Raeffe and Lander were approaching from the north-east, Stephen, Grey, and Lyle were already past the boundary of the Dark World. They crossed the Witch’s Finger River before dawn fully broke.

Their early start was against Grey’s wishes, as the boy kept insisting:

“Raeffe is going to be back at any minute, and then he’ll never find us.”

“I don’t think he’s coming back,” Stephen said cautiously, trying not to alarm the younger boy. “I think he meant what he said, about going east to see the nobles.”

“Ugh. Raeffe is a giant, walking contradiction,” Grey insisted. “He never means what he says. He used to be a halfways decent person, until the day he turned fifteen years old and got his ceremonial dagger. Now, there are two Raeffes.”

To illustrate this, while they were walking, Grey held up a pebble and a clod of mud. “This is the real Raeffe,” he said, holding up the pebble. “Dense and dumb. Like a rock. But not altogether bad, and steady.”

“And sort of shiny, too,” Lyle noted.

“Yes, that is also true,” Grey noted, “especially lately, since he turned sixteen, he is as oily as a kitchen-lamp. And this,” he went on, holding up the clod of mud, “is the false Raeffe. Now watch what happens.”

Here, Grey smashed the clod of mud onto the rock and smeared it about. He then revealed the pebble, speckled with brown, gritty earth. “He conceals his true, steady and loyal nature, with a bunch of nonsense.” For dramatic emphasis, Grey threw the pebble on the ground as he declared: “He will be back.”

Stephen wasn’t so sure. Raeffe had seemed pretty positive about the necessity of his departure when he had abandoned the bath-house. And Stephen didn’t want to waste any time twiddling his thumbs and waiting for the nobleman to return. More than anything, he didn’t want to be caught sitting around and waiting like a sad puppy for Raeffe to return. He didn’t want to give the proud young man such satisfaction.

So they pressed on, crossing into the Dark World and then further south. The landscape became increasingly bleak as they travelled. The soil went from fertile plains to dry little tufts of grass, and then to parched silt. Stephen looked out over windswept plains of nothing, and shadowy hills that broke sharply into jagged edges, against a chalky blue sky. The road wound without purpose, like a drunken traveller, lurching hopefully toward the sea.

The Great Southern Sea. Eventually, they reached it. Stephen, Lyle, and Grey climbed to the summit of a sandy crag, which overlooked the dramatic scenes of the valley below. Lyle’s gangly limbs easily navigated the slippery, sun-starched soil. He put a finger to his lips and jogged up the little summit, ducking into some dry thistle-bushes once he reached the top.

Stephen lacked Lyle’s grace, but managed to join him without too much difficulty. Grey was another story. He crawled behind, panting and stopping occasionally to catch his breath.

The climb was only a few yards, but the opposite side of the hill fell steeply downward into an expansive valley. Below, Stephen could make out a fascinating scene: a massive army was besieging a city. From their vantage point, The Iron City was the size of a fist, backed up against the glittering sea. Its towers rose into sharp pinnacles against the sky, rising far above the bumpy carpet of tightly-packed houses. The city was large, but the army camp was much, much bigger.

This was, Stephen thought, the largest grouping of men he had ever seen in his life. Tents were clustered every few yards or so, and puffs of smoke emanated from cooking-fires. Around these landmarks, men walked about, and the landscape was swarming with erratic movement.

From this position, it was clear that the Iron City was fully besieged, with no way out. Ships with sails the soft grey color of cobwebs lolled in the harbor, a safe distance from the city walls. The sea brushed up only against the city’s back quarter, and the three walled sides were bordered with a few yards of untouched, grassy soil before the thick presence of the enemy army began.

Stephen scanned the Knights of Oblivion’s camp. He had never seen a proper mercenary army, but from his experience with the d’Piers personal guards, he was certain that soldiers should be professional and organized.

The camp below him, however, betrayed little consideration for military order. Directly below their spot on the cliff, Stephen saw a few shabbily-dressed soldiers, all cuddled together at the cool bottom of a cistern. A few yards off, another man was slurping wine directly from a cask that was strapped to a wagon. When a few caravaners began to walk over, the drunk soldier rambled off, trying vainly to wipe the tell-tale purplish stains from his lips.

This moment of thievery, however, was nothing compared to the crimes being committed all around the camp. Every single soldier seemed to be occupied in an evil occupation. One crowd of soldiers were wringing the necks of snakes, emptying the oily poison from their fangs onto stacks of arrowheads. Another man was picking his teeth with an enormous dagger, so his gums ran with blood and painted his mouth a sticky red. Yet another was playing with a nest of gigantic spiders, tickling their bellies and kissing their hairy legs - all the other soldiers gave that man a lot of room when they walked by.

A few other soldiers, standing in a pit, were experimenting with mixed compounds, stirring them in pots, and setting them aflame. One of these pots sizzled for a moment without catching fire, causing many of the soldiers to laugh at the one who had created the compound. But it then exploded loudly, sending spirals of flames and a foul-smelling cloud into the air. One man tried to douse the wildfire with a bucket of water. But the liquid only seemed to make the fire stronger, and the men all screamed in terror.

“We need to pee on it!” someone shouted, pulling down his breeches. “C’mon! Everyone, all together!”

Lucky for the soldiers, their bladders must all have been full in anticipation of such an emergency, and the fire was quickly drowned. To Stephen’s surprise and consternation, they all then cheered and began building pots with the same, dangerous compounds.

“To explode underneath the city walls,” Lyle explained. “They must be preparing for an assault.”

As Lyle spoke, Stephen noticed a strange sight directly below them. A soldier was leading a raggedy sheep with one, drooping eye and an obvious flea problem toward an impressive line of trebuchets. To Stephen’s horror, the soldiers then loaded the sheep up, strapping it into the machine’s loading arm.

“I thought we already used up all the diseased sheep!” one of the soldiers asked, his voice loud and boisterous with laughter.

“I know! This one’s just ugly. It’ll scare ‘em to death!”

Peals of laughter followed. For a moment, Stephen thought the sheep might be spared. But then, one of the soldiers dropped the weight, and the animal was flung - flailing in terror - over the city’s walls.

“Why would they do such a thing?” Grey whispered, his eyes glittering with tears.

“Usually, they fling diseased animals over the wall to try and sicken the population,” Lyle said, his voice hard with disapproval. “Disgusting.”

“Now they are bringing over a basket,” Grey observed. “Is that basket going to go over the wall too?”

Stephen suddenly had a premonition of what the basket contained. “Don’t watch,” he commanded Grey, shielding the younger boy’s eyes. Grey squirmed for a moment, but did not look.

With a gleeful war-cry, the soldiers lobbed the basket’s contents at the city. Hands and feet, random appendages, boil-studded torsos and even an eyeball sailed at the city.

“Yikes,” was all Stephen could think to say.

“Can I look now?” Grey asked.

“I guess,” Stephen replied, hearing the disgusted howls coming from the city’s unseen residents. “I can’t imagine how it could get any worse.”

At that very moment, another basket was brought and strapped into the trebuchet. Grey closed his eyes without being asked. This time, the package burst open above the city, raining down brown slop and handfuls of brown nuggets.

Lyle started to explain: “I think that was - ”

“Thank you Lyle,” Stephen muttered, putting his hand in front of his mouth and trying not to gag. “I think we all know what that was.”

Stephen, Grey, and Lyle continued watching for several minutes, without speaking. The only sound came from Dismal Donkey, who they had left behind them on the road. The pack animal was chewing loudly on the rubbery blades of grass sticking out of the sandy terrain, and farting as his sagging stomach tried vainly to digest them.

“We’d better get on through,” Lyle said, glancing at Dismal. “There’s nothing to eat here. Dismal’s stomach is about to explode. Also, Gertrude needs her corn vittles.”

“Bak,” agreed Gertrude.

“But it seems easy enough!” Stephen exclaimed in a whisper. “What a bunch of thugs. I bet we can slip right past them, all the way to the city. And they would be too busy with their wickedness to notice us.”

“Look a little closer,” Lyle suggested. “When it comes to the Knights of Oblivion, I think there’s a one-to-ten smart-to-stupid ratio. They’ve got their best men by the front gates of the city, which is exactly where we need to pass.”

Stephen’s eyes followed Lyle’s directive, scanning the maze of tents and soldiers until he was staring at the front of the besieging force. It was difficult to see that far, but Stephen could tell that the tents were orderly and the siege engines were actually being used for their described purpose.

“Bloody Jim’s personal army,” Lyle muttered. “The rest are just a bunch of ruffians, used for intimidation purposes, but basically worthless.”

“So how do we get through?” Grey asked. “We need to warn all those people in the city that the storm is coming.”

Stephen considered this carefully. The route through the army was at least two miles long. How could they sneak through without being spotted? All of the soldiers were armed to the teeth, with veterans’ battle-scars and vicious appearances. There was no chance that Grey - with his latent masculinity hidden beneath baby fat and chubby cheeks - would fit in. And Lyle was too skinny - and worse, he always looked ready to give someone a friendly pat on the back.

“We would be killed before we reached the gates,” Stephen surmised. “We’ve got to come up with a plan.”

He was just thinking about this, when he heard the sound of hoofbeats on the road behind them.

Stephen whispered: “Quick! Hide!”

But the dusty road afforded little in the way of hiding places. Stephen tried to huddle down beside a rock, ignoring Gertrude, who was attempting to snuggle down underneath him. Grey raced around in a panic for a few moments, before simply laying down flat and putting his hands over his head. Lyle was much calmer: he walked over to a prickly-bush, picked it up, and held it in front of his face.

“What are you doing? That is a terrible hiding-place!” Stephen whispered, his admonition intended for both of them.

“They will think I am only a tree,” Lyle whispered back. “Only - what do you suppose is going to happen to Dismal if the Knights of Oblivion find him? Chuck him over the wall, I expect! Poor beast!”

Dismal was still wandering on the road just below them, slowly chewing at clumps of grass. His ears were flat. He had not noticed the sound of the approaching rider. Instead of trying to hide, he just kept chewing.

“Why does he not run away?” Stephen asked.

“He’s sort of deaf in both ears,” Lyle explained, before a hand gesture from Stephen cut him off.

The hoofbeats were growing closer. Stephen took a deep breath and felt for a stone. His fingers curled around a big, jagged rock, which he held to his heart. If the rider discovered them, Stephen intended to fight until his last breath. Stephen had a sneaking suspicion that Lyle and Grey would not be very much help in a fight. When he looked over at Lyle, the man was still trying to draw his sword, which was pasted in the scabbard with a layer of rusty crud.

“We’re all going to die,” Stephen muttered.

“Buk-buk-buk,” agreed Gertrude.

But to his surprise and relief, it was not a Knight of Oblivion who came careening down the road. Instead, the rider was a young man in a long black tunic and a crushed velvet cap, haphazardly perched on an energetic, butter-colored charger.

“Well, I don’t believe it,” Stephen said. “Grey, you can get up now.”

Grey looked up. “Lander! Oh, our beautiful horse has returned! Lander, Lander!” he cried, before adding: “And Raeffe!”

“Yes, and Raeffe. I’ll try not to be offended that you seem more excited about the horse.”

Stephen climbed to his knees and put a finger to his lips. “The army of the Knights of Oblivion is just down that - ”

But Raeffe ignored him. “I have come to the conclusion,” he said, “that no-one ‘out-heros’ a d’Piers! I’m here to assist you in your - ”

“Fine, fine,” Stephen said. “Just be quiet. Dismount and get up here.”

Raeffe said something like “harumph” and dismounted, lifting up the long train of his tunic like a dainty damsel as he climbed the steep hill. Meanwhile, Grey crawled over to Stephen and said, with a big smile on his face: “See? Isn’t this wonderful? Told you he’d be back.”

“Yes, wonderful,” Stephen muttered, looking at Raeffe just in time to see the young nobleman trip on his train and fall, face-down, into the dirt. “Do you need some help with your dress, Raeffe?”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Raeffe muttered. “And as I was saying! Stephen Marshall, you might think you’re a big hero - with those big muscles - but if we are on the subject of heroism, it must be said that no one ‘out-heros’ - ”

“So Lyle,” Stephen said, interrupting Raeffe’s rant. “I take it you have been to this city before?”

“Yes,” Lyle said, crawling down with them to survey the valley below. “I know it pretty well.”

“And what can you tell us?”

Lyle smiled. “You see that white tower in the center of the city?” He put both of his hands over his heart. “That is where my love resides.”

“How is that applicable?” Grey snapped. “Stephen meant militaristically, what can you tell us? We don’t care about your silly lady.”

“Actually,” Raeffe whispered to Stephen, “I wager you two gold coins that Lyle’s ‘love’ is actually a chicken.”

“It’s a wager,” said Stephen. “Although I think you might be right.”

As they spoke, Lyle was stroking his chin and looking out over the army, the city, and the sea. “I might have a cunning plan,” he said. “But it will be very risky.”

“What is risk to a true hero?” Raeffe declared. “As I have been saying, no-one - and I mean no one - ‘out-heros’ - ”

“A d’Piers. Yes, we got it, thank you,” said Stephen. He then turned to Lyle. “What else can you tell us about this cunning plan? It will be risky?”

“Aye,” Lyle said. “And very smelly.”

“Smelly?” But before Stephen could interrogate Lyle further, a commanding shout suddenly made them all freeze.

The voice was not a yard away. Stephen felt his skin crawl at once, and his breath stop short. There was no time to hide. A creak of bowstrings crescendoed into a chorus all around them.

They were surrounded. The shadows of a dozen men fell over them. They had crept up from behind.

“Surrender all of your weapons,” commanded a deep voice.

Without thinking, Stephen screamed out a war-cry, and swung about with the jagged rock in his clenched fist. He made contact, and felt the heaviness in his hand connect with something.

But in an instant, he felt a searing pain in his thigh and he crumpled to the ground.

Someone screamed. But Stephen was blind with pain, and couldn’t tell who it was. His own voice was stuck somewhere in his gut, and his throat was sore.

The searing pain made Stephen dumb, but even through the grey veil, he could make out the circle of archers moving in closer. His eyes were assaulted with the reflection from steel greaves. And as the colors of the world began to blend together, all Stephen could tell was that there was a lot of blue everywhere, until it was like he was floating in the sea.