20

Just One Siege of Many

She loved the smell of fire.

Be it a campfire, candles, or even the blazing inferno of a city under siege.

Was it unnatural? Perhaps. Her affinity was for water. She opened some flasks strapped to her body. The water eased out as though gravity simply did not apply, and the airborne stream orbited her hand.

Garrison troops ran into the street, weapons brandished. They stopped when they saw her while they planned their next course of action.

They assumed they saw her before she saw them. They assumed wrong.

One ran in, his spear ready to impale her.

The water took on a much different shape. A shape that was better suited for impaling.

He only made it a few feet before an arm sized, translucent arrow impaled him through the centre of his chest.

The others stopped when their fallen ally fell. The embedded arrow split three ways and impaled the others. One in the eye, one in the neck, and one through the heart.

They fell together, sprawled throughout the street, and the arrow returned to their formless shape, and returned to their orbit about her.

The siege engines continued their assault on the city. Each strike of heavy stone crushing against the walls, shaking the very foundation of the city. A few made their way over, obliterating the buildings that were unfortunate enough to be in their way. She had been given specific instruction not to allow too much harm to befall the city itself, but there would always be collateral.

The walls would soon fall, although the real issue came from the mages stationed somewhere within. Their wards kept most of their attacks at bay. Sometimes their focus would waver and their strength would give out, but the assault was getting more drawn out than she would have liked.

A fight she liked. A prolonged siege like this gets boring.

The mages must be close. Somewhere high enough to get maximum citywide coverage. The castle watchtower seemed opportune for such a thing.

She walked out into what was once the market square, the chaos of commerce replaced with chaos of a much different kind.

The fruit stands fell; what left of their contents spilled and trampled. The stores trashed and broken; looted even before the siege began.

She stood at the central fountain, alight with the amber glow of the fires of war.

More soldiers ran in, surrounding her and the fountain. Around twenty in total.

An earnest attempt, yet ultimately futile.

She stepped onto the central pillar, where the fountainhead of a maiden pouring water from a jug had been crushed under stone from trebuchet fire.

One stepped up, readying his spear. He drew back his weapon, going in for a jab, when a tendril shot up from the fountain and engulfed his head. He fell back, trying to get the liquid from his mouth. A futile attempt. With a final struggle and a few desperate convulsions, he collapsed; drowning on dry land.

More tendrils formed and struck like a hungry octopus claiming its prey. They swiped, pierced, launched, and crushed the surrounding troops.

Those that were not dead had fled. She breathed heavy; a sheen of sweat forming over her pale blue skin. She may have overexerted herself a little.

She looked up from the head of the fountain at the distant watchtower. With a little concentration, she could see it. The way the light shimmered off it, forming a trail that grew upwards to the ward that protected the city, or at least the most important parts. Errant pieces would always fly through the cracks.

She made her way through the city, passing the blazing ruins and walking through stinging black smoke. She reached the base of the watchtower with relative ease. Most soldiers were busy with the main walls; what few were on patrol proved no match.

With little effort, the tower doors fell. Even locked and barred, they stood as much chance as a bundle of twigs against a storm.

The few guards not stationed at the main city walls fell quick. They didn’t even have the time to draw their blades from their sheaths.

Further up the tower, she found the more intricately tailored uniforms of the higher commanding officers far out of the way of battle. They gathered and discussed strategy in a place far from harm while the people fight and die for their safety.

Despite their elegant uniforms, their years of experience, and their ranks and titles, they fell as easy as anyone else.

She ignored the documents and now bloodstained maps laid out upon the central table. Of no use and interest to her at this point.

The final ascent brought her close to the summit, where the air distortions of magical wards became less of a subtle bend in the air, but instead rippling waves encased in a spectrum of colour.

The final floor. The mages must be on the roof.

Another sat cross-legged in the centre. Not in the armour of the city garrison, but in a robe lined with mysterious hieroglyphics.

A Saunich monk. Was he seeking death in a glorious battle, did the city pay him handsomely, or was he just at the wrong place at the wrong time?

Who knew? Who cares?

He rose, brandishing his staff.

He didn’t look like he would let her on the roof, where the mages were forming their wards.

They faced one another, nothing between them and the open, outside air but a few columns and a measly barrier. Beyond was the city under siege, the flames of war glowing beyond the high walls. Beyond that, the far country; barren, desolate. She knew how important this city was to the campaign, for there were no others until they reached the volcanic wastes of Malphass.

She smiled a violent smile, bearing a maw of teeth like sharpened daggers.

A real fight. How exciting.

She started small, just to test him a little. The water crept from her flask and formed a spear. She let it go at the speed of an arrow.

With a spin of his staff, it caught the spear and split it in two, harmlessly returning to its formless shape and splashing onto the floor.

A few more spears met the same fate.

He was good.

The water took the form of a spear in her hand. It looked like this wasn’t going to be a fight she could win from afar. That pleased her.

Neither decided to close the gap. The monk held his ground; she waited for his next move.

She dashed in and he reflexively brought up his staff. She lunged with her spear, trying to move around the staff, but he moved it upwards, pushing the spear out of the way.

He remained calm till her other hand moved and another spear formed in it. She jabbed it directly at his chest. He moved back in just enough time, spear catching and ripping his robe. A thin line of crimson formed on his chest.

He spun his staff and assumed a stance.

This time, he took the initiative.

She tried stepping back, only for her tail fin to be caught under his foot. He struck her in the side of her body; the sharp pain of a blunt strike pulsed from her hip to her below her chest. She jumped back, caressing the bruise.

Pain is good. Brings you back down. Reminds you of your mortality.

How exciting.

She went in to attack him directly, using her hydrospears to attack his flank, yet he spun around and used the base of his staff to split it apart.

He continued his pirouettes, keeping her at a distance.

‘Spin all you want, fucker. It won’t help you.’

She dashed in; her hydrospear pushing against his bo staff.

She saw something strapped to his side, swaying slightly with each movement. A pouch of watertight leather.

She understood why he forgot to remove it. In a fight, the last concern on one's mind would be how much water you're carrying. An understandable mistake, yet an ultimately fatal one.

It was a good fight, but she had a war to win.

She focused on the pouch. Magic was such an odd sensation; a kind of force, as though you’re being pushed, or more accurately, lifted.

He went in for another strike; she jumped backward, but not enough to be out of range. The monk froze mid swing, eyes widening. He clutched at his waist. The spear forced his way through to the other side.

Not the most satisfying of victories, yet a victory is a victory nonetheless.

All that’s left are those mages and the ward. Not a problem.

She sat on the throne of her newly acquired palace, enjoying a well-deserved rest. She watched the heavily armoured troops scour the palace in search of any remaining survivors.

One made a report. They had taken all who had not fled, and they faced no opposition. Easy not to, given the armour. Heavy blacksteel, with pointed, narrow eye slits, and horn like protrusions that pointed backwards.

They left to make a final sweep, leaving her to her throne. Not a glorious throne of iron, or sculpted from stone; mostly of wood and fine furs, but it would suffice till they found something better.

An icy chill ran along her spine. Something both familiar and most unwelcome had just appeared, and it was standing right behind her.

‘I see the siege went well,’ it said in a voice almost like a whisper.

‘Not without your assistance,’ she responded in obvious sarcasm, without turning to greet her guest.

‘Do you require it?’

‘Certainly not. You make battles much less fun. So what of you, phantom? What efforts are you going to in support of our campaign?’

‘General subterfuge, coercion, and confusion. Typical things for one such as I.’

‘I’m assuming you didn’t come here to brag of your own insignificant accomplishments and to exchange pleasantries.’

‘Now why would you assume such a thing. I’m perfectly capable of holding a conversation with my comrades. Anyway, you’re right. You have new orders.’ From behind, he handed her an envelope. She took it, glancing sideways to see his usual hat, both tall and wide, and his lack of a face hidden behind the leather and steel facade of a raven. ’You’re to venture east. Our “allies” require your assistance.’

He slunk back and was gone, as sudden as his arrival.

She relaxed, the chill now faded, and turned over the envelope, tearing at the red wax seal. A seal with the crest of wings enveloping a blade surrounded by fire.

She opened it and read the contents.

She smiled.

Things were going to get a lot more interesting.