Siege at Castle Grey

Morning had long since dawned, but the notorious mists of Castle Grey had not yet lifted. They framed the fortress peacefully, so mysterious and mythic that artists from far provinces came to capture its cool fluidity and pilgrims would camp nearby to wake to its splendor.

Yet from the mist there rose another kind of grey; thick, impenetrable, and deadly. Fires from beneath the surface of the fog glowered like demons, their brilliant orange quickly burning away the tranquil scene. From out of the sea of grey, the demons leapt at the outer wall. The siege had begun.

Meria could smell the smoke emitting from the siege weapons below through the wisps of her long, ash blonde hair. Flaming boulders blazed well over her head, wrecking havoc between the great wall and the inner keep. Outwardly unfazed, she fitted another arrow to the string of her bow and shot an enemy soldier about to let loose a grappling hook. He fell, the arrow piercing through to his kidney. Another rogue sprang up and took the rope from his ally’s slack hands. Beside her, Meria heard a resounding twang and the second soldier fell also. She risked a glance at her brother, Petrov, the sweat pouring in rivulets down his young face. It was his first battle, but it certainly wasn’t his fault that things were going wrong.

She continued her rain of arrows upon the siege forces, hitting her targets with practiced precision. A flaming projectile flew at her head, but she ducked behind the parapet just in time. Straightening up, she noticed a similar arrow to her right and used her bow to miraculously knock it off course, saving a distracted Petrov, who had his back turned to remedy an arrow stuck in his quiver. “Eyes forward!,” she shouted. He snapped back to attention.

While they were otherwise occupied, however, neither of them noticed a grappling hook clatter to a safe grip on an unmanned part of the wall just a few feet away. Over the din of shouts and flames, the defenders could not hear the knave scuffle over the parapet.

The next thing Meria knew, she felt a rapacious grip on her shoulders and was shoved over the wall, forced to hang from the bulwarks, defenseless against the projectiles below. Petrov struggled with the invader above, jabbing his bow where it would do the most damage. Meria could hardly breathe, the air coming out in desperate gasps as she felt her grip on the stone wall slip. Finish him, Petrov, and come help me, she thought fleetingly at him. Her feet tried to find a hold to push herself up, but the outer wall had been smoothed over to prevent enemies to do the exact same. She slipped further when she was startled by an arrow bouncing off the wall dangerously close to her hip. As anyone would when one’s life is literally hanging, she gave a last, ear-splitting scream. Her sweaty hands slid and many of her long nails grazed the stone as they futilely dug into the unyielding rock.

But it didn’t matter anymore, because she was falling, falling forever and nothing could stop it…

Until a hand grabbed her wrist and, not having the strength to pull her up, swung her sideways. Meria was frantic, not comprehending… until the hanging rope brushed her shoulder and she whipped out her hands to clutch it. The rope burn was horrible as she stopped her descent, but she paused to take a few breaths, very grateful to be alive. She looked up at her brother’s anxious face peering over the top of the battlements. He beckoned wildly for her to climb back up to safety, blue eyes wide and terrified. Forcing hand over hand progress on the rope, Meria looked up again to see their adversary, bearing a long welt over his forehead from Petrov’s bow, as he appeared from behind and threw her brother after her.

“NO!,” she screeched, just managing to catch Petrov’s hand and sliding farther down the rope under his inertia. They were about halfway down the wall now, and Meria’s hand was bleeding. Another arrow deflected off of the wall just past her ear and a sudden, sharp pain in her left calf alerted her that one had hit its mark. As a final touch, they felt the tiniest jerk upward followed immediately by the sensation of falling, again and irrevocably…

They landed awkwardly in a heap below the castle wall. Although neither of them had broken bones, Meria felt the arrow in her leg wrenched to the side, causing explosions of pain. She groaned sharply.

“We’ve got to get you to the keep!” shouted Petrov.

“I can’t walk, you idiot, just go!”

“No!” his voice cracked and he half-dragged her around a corner of the wall where he knew a trap door lay hidden. Arrows, some ablaze, shot all around them, occasionally even grazing the skin. Suddenly Petrov cried out in pain; an arrow had pierced his lung. “It’s… it’s fatal,” he rasped, spitting blood. His breath came shallow. Meria couldn’t move, staring at her brother. His glazed eyes meeting hers, he croaked hoarsely, “Keep moving, you can make it.”

He started crawling towards their goal, insisting on keeping Meria between the wall and himself. She was in agony, watching her brother using his last drops of life to protect her, she! The one who had always looked after him…
The last six feet seemed to take a lifetime, Petrov stumbling in pain with every movement. Meria helped him as best she could, but her own injured limb dragged languidly behind her, leaving a trail of blood.

They reached the trap door, Meria wrenching it open and attempting to shove her brother down it. “No!” he protested. “You first, I’m not going to make it…” He turned his face away and coughed blood.

Meria slid into the shoulder-deep hole and held her arms up to him, to catch her baby brother. “I’m not going to let you die here!” she began sobbing.

Her brother’s eyes suddenly cleared to their vibrant blue and he somehow spoke with a new clarity he never before possessed. “You have to go on. Mother’s right; we’re a family of heroes…” He gasped painfully, his face contorted as his head reared up. Meria did not need to be told that he’d been struck in the back. She pulled frantically at him and he fell into the tunnel with her. She shut the door and bolted it behind her. Tears streaming down her face, she cradled her dying brother; her brother, who had just shielded her from a bolt that certainly would have hit her to the brain. His breath wheezed through his open mouth. “Meria! Meria!” he gasped in an unearthly voice that surely was not his own. “You have so much to do! I am finished, I am happy, dear Meria! Find your path… It’s important… They’ll need you!” He grasped her hand feebly. “I love you…”

He faded.

* * * * *

Here lies Petrov, well-loved boy
Who once filled darkling halls with joy.
His greatest wish was granted him
A hero to be, in Honor trim.
At fourteen he reached this goal.
His work is done, God rest his soul!

Meria stood over her brother’s grave, utterly lost. The castle healers had taken as many injured as they could through secret tunnels to a village where they could be treated with less trauma, as the houses and the hospice were burning. Meria was one of these. A healer’s attendant had carried her away from her brother, and all the easier, for she was in a state of shock. After a week of intensive care, she’d returned, claimed Petrov’s body and buried him solemnly with only the village priest to accompany her. The epitaph she’d written hung on his tombstone, graced with garlands of flowers from her native land.

The priest had left her to herself by then, and dark thoughts descended on her, the shroud of night also creeping over her like a hood and cloak. She set her crutch aside and knelt at the foot of the mound of fresh earth. It smelled fragrant and alive, but Meria did not care. The siege had succeeded, the Castle Grey ransacked and plundered; the village only escaped the same fate by paying a weighty tribute, leaving the survivors to curse the backs of the marauders as they moved on.

Meria’s bandaged hand reached out to a small clump of dirt beside the mound. Slowly, she sifted it through her fingers, watching the tiny rain of sand and silt and clay fall at the feet of her brother. She smoothed over its surface, thoughtfully. She did not see what was before her; that is, the freshly covered grave. To her, it was Petrov himself, lying on a sickbed in a comely cottage, cuts and bruises garnishing his face.

“You shouldn’t have picked a fight with those boys,” she admonished.

“They were throwing stones at a robin! I couldn’t let them do that.” The urgency in his eyes intensified, trying to get his sister to understand. “They were hurting her!”

“I know, Petrov, I know, but even though you have enough mettle for any seven year old boy, you’re no match for a gang of twelve year olds.” He inhaled his breath sharply as Meria applied more salve to the wounds. It stung.

“There were only three of them,” Petrov muttered. “And you, you fought them all by yourself!”

Meria sighed. “Petrov, though I am but a year superior to those boys, I am taller, I’ve trained all my life, and what it comes down to was that I was armed. The scared crows ran away when I brandished a kitchen knife.”

Petrov remained indignant. “It was still the right thing. Saving the robin, I mean.”

“Yeah, you’re right, just make sure you got me to rescue you next time.” Meria drew her legs up to her chest and hugged them to her. Why was it so cold? The sun should have been waxing warm that day. Staring down at her feet, she continued. “Remember, when you were younger and used to play in the field? Your little legs had a hard time in the tall grass; you tripped all the time, but I would always pick you up, always…”

He didn’t answer.

“Petrov?” Meria looked down again, surprised for a moment to see the grave and the closing darkness. The memories of their last hours at Castle Grey replayed themselves, repeatedly, like a dirge. “Petrov…” she whispered, wiping the salt streams from her eyes. “You never got to save your damsel in distress like you wanted to. Instead it was me, and I don’t deserve it. I live only for your sake, since you sacrificed for me.” Meria’s eyes rose to the epitaph, reading over what she had carved. “I’m a lousy carver,” she moaned. “And it’s not even good poetry. You deserve better than that." She looked down, tears falling at her brother’s feet. “Oh, and I guess you should know, we lost Castle Grey. Lord Grey was a stingy employer anyway, no proper trainers, no decent rations…” Stopping, she wiped more tears away. In her choked voice, she continued. “Yes, I know, I’m rambling again. Worrying about things I can’t control, need to start changing what I can. You were always good to talk to, you know. I just wish you could say a retort and get my head on straight again. Everything in life was always so simple for you; save what you could, mourn what you couldn’t, get a girl, be a hero… Sorry about the girl thing, some sweet lass would have loved you.” Her voice stuck in her throat at the thought of Petrov’s unrealized dreams. They could never be, now. “Well, I hope you’re happy now, maybe there’s someone up there your age waiting for you.” She smoothed the soil of the grave over again. “I never noticed how quickly it gets cold here.” Lifting her eyes, she scanned the field, searching for something else to say. She didn’t find anything. “I guess… have to go.”

She stood up, sniffing, but the meeting seemed so unfinished. She wanted some mysterious voice to come and whisper, “Farewell, my sister,” but it didn’t happen. Slowly, she turned away and trudged back to the village, pulling her cloak tighter around her and leaning heavily on her crutch.

The mists from the sacked Castle Grey began to gather together to fall in mourning for a hero.