The storm gathered in the west and darkened the horizon until it seemed night had come early. The great gray thunder cloud billowed and charged the castle, a wall of rain at its front. Yarik stood on the battlements with his squad and watched the approaching wetness with annoyance.
“Those Dindran's better not try anything,” Hob said from beside him, flexing a heavy war bow. Yarik guessed his squad mate was proud of being one of the few students who could pull it back. “I'll drop them before they can get close.”
“How much have you actually practiced with that thing Hob?” Pyotr asked.
“Enough, Dmitri showed me how to use it, and we coated the arrow heads.”
Yarik rolled his eyes. He looked at the weapon he held and cursed the rain. The Blades did not keep their armory filled with many weapons useful in a siege, so the instructors had been forced to scour the castle for things that could be used against knights in full plate. Yarik was lucky enough to be given a fire lance, which sounded a lot more interesting than it was - a chamber of fire powder fixed to the end of a long pole. It wouldn't be enough to kill a knight, but it could keep them away from the inner gate. He hoped it would still work in the rain, then wished he wouldn't have to find out.
The swath of rain pelted the walls of the castle. He winced when it reached him and frowned at the end of his fire lance. He fingered the matches in his pocket.
“I think I see something!” Hob yelled.
Yarik looked where he was pointing. At first he thought Hob was just overexcited, but three knights emerged from the shadows beyond the gate and approached, rain pinging off their armor. The one at the lead took his helmet off.
“We wish to speak with the Prelate.”
“Here.” The Prelate said from beside Yarik.
“Release the Captain.”
“When the gate is completed.”
“His grace the Lord of Dindra will brook no violence against his ambassadors.”
“It was not I who initiated the conflict. Sir Douriff has been treated well and is in no distress.”
“Let us see him.”
Yarik looked at the Prelate's face and tried to guess what he was thinking. Mareth finally signaled to Dmitri after a long silence. The instructor descended the steps of the battlements and walked to the dungeon.
The knights seemed to be unarmed, but Yarik was far beyond letting his guard down after everything that had happened. He tightened his grip around the lance and felt a hand on his shoulder. The Prelate was looking down at him. Rain had darkened his black hair almost to the degree of his eyes, but his expression was… sad. His hand was a small comfort against the storm.
The instructor and the captain announced themselves with squishy, wet steps as they trudged across the small yard and climbed the stairs to the battlements. Dmitri brought Douriff, who aside from looking pale and frightened, was unharmed.
“I am well men. I order you to complete work on the gate.”
The soldier squinted and frowned. “Those of you who throw down their arms will be spared. You will surrender the castle Prelate, one way or another.”
Douriff squirmed. “What are you doing! Stop this, I order you!”
The soldier ignored him. “Do you surrender?” He asked Mareth.
The Prelate held Douriff with his left hand, and drew his sword with his right.
The soldier sighed at this. “Very well, as for you.” He addressed Douriff. “Article fifty three!” Then he stomped off.
“No, soldier! That doesn't apply! You cannot do this!” Douriff shouted after him, adding a few more expressive epithets that made Yarik raise his eyebrows.
Mareth grabbed the hysterical captain and forced him to look into his eyes. “What is article fifty three? What does it mean?”
Douriff panted and calmed himself. “Article fifty three: any captain deemed unfit to lead by a majority may be summarily removed from command.” He paused and looked around at the drenched students and instructors for sympathy. “I have been stripped of my…” A crossbow bolt grew from his throat. He staggered back a few steps as blood ran down the tree of Dindra on his breastplate. “Command.” His eyes faded and momentum carried him off the edge of the battlements. The captain's body landed with a squishy crunch.
“Down, everybody down!” Mareth and the instructors yelled.
Yarik ducked behind the battlements. “Hob! Get down!” Hob stared down in shock at Sir Douriff's lifeless body. He looked at Yarik and started to duck, but too late. Two bolts from a volley struck the large student in the chest and pierced his gambeson. Hob hit the ground. The war bow slipped from his grasp and clattered on the stones of the battlement.
“No!” Yarik yelled. He kept his head down and shuffled over to his squad mate. “Why don't you listen? Why don't you ever listen?!”
Hob clutched at the bolts and stared at his bloody hands. His vacant stare fixated on Yarik. “Sorry, mother.” He said, and died.
Yarik cursed and looked around for help. He found Pyotr looking at him with the same bewilderment. Mareth was gone. They stumbled when something smashed into the gate.
“Battering ram!” Dmitri boomed. “Throw lances!”
Yarik and Pyotr stared at each other. It was their queue. Yarik wiped the rain from his face and gripped the lance tighter. Should he just stay down? The captain had said they would take prisoners alive. He looked down at Hob, whose empty eyes were staring up into the rain. Yarik reached out and closed them, then folded the boy's arms.
“Dawn greet thee.” He spoke and looked at Pyotr. “Ready, friend?” Pyotr nodded.
Yarik's heart pounded against his rib cage. He fumbled with the match and struggled to light the fuse, bending over the end of the lance to shelter it. Once, twice, three times he lit a match only to have the damp fuse fizzle out. He took a deep breath, struck his last match, and the fuse burst into life. He stared at it for a moment, then realized if he kept staring he could kiss his regrown eyebrows goodbye. He jumped up and aimed at the group of soldiers winding up to ram the gate. He flinched as a bolt aimed for him struck low and bounced off the stone wall. That was close, he thought. His heart did its best to force its way out of his chest while he watched the fuse.
Wait until the flames are burning, Dmitri had said. If you throw it too soon it could go out, and then you're just throwing a piece of wood.
The fuse reached its end. Yarik waited for… nothing. He was about to let out every curse he knew to berate the rain when WHOOSH! The end burst into flame and sizzled against the deluge.
“DAWNNN!!!” He screamed, hurling the burning lance at the ram. Three other students did the same, far less than the amount of lances that had been given out.
The flaming spears struck just as the knights were surging forward to crash the gate. Two lances angled under the roof and hit some of them. Flame collided with plate, and the knights staggered back bewildered. The ram halted. Yarik's lance stuck in the roof and burned a hole. The fourth lance stuck in the mud and fizzled out. Yarik was about to duck behind the stone when he noticed an extra man appear among the knights.
The figure took advantage of the surprise that the fire lances had caused and pounced on one from behind. He plunged a small dagger into the weak spot where helmet met breastplate. The Dindran's mouth opened and closed and blood poured out of his neck before he fell face first in the mud, dead. Yarik barely recognized the assassin as the Prelate when he disappeared. Another man fell screaming, clutching at the back of his knees. Mareth stood over him and watched him squirm before lifting up the man's head and slitting his throat.
Lightning flashed and illuminated the mingling blood and rain flowing down the Prelate's blade. The following Thunder carried shouts and whinnies from beyond the darkness of the gate. The cavalry emerged, leveling their lances and charging. Mareth watched them without moving. The horses snorted and fought their riders, who whipped them on towards the black eyed menace. The Prelate waited until he was almost skewered, then he vanished.
The knights pulled up short, horses stamping in the mud and exhaling mist.
“That is enough for now.” Yarik jumped at the Prelate's voice from beside him. “Let us see if they do the wise thing.”
The Dindran's glared at the battlements, then a commander barked a few orders and they gathered the bodies - bearing the survivors back to safety.
“Good.” Mareth sighed and wiped his saber with a black cloth before sheathing it. “Let us hope that no more blood is spilled this moon.”
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