The Siege: Part One

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There I was. Waiting. In the first large courtyard of Hungate Castle. This courtyard was the closest one to the Badlands, which is where the enemy loomed. Just outside our castle walls there was an army only distinguishable by the terrorising war-horns and the echoing drums from beyond. Trying to intimidate us. I stood proudly at the top of a column of soldiers; my soldiers; my garrison; I was in charge of roughly fifty men that held a sword in their right hands and a shield in their left. They looked so scared. Dressed in predominantly metal armour, but with flashes of red cloth from underneath they obeyed my every command without hesitation. Looking around I see identical columns of troops standing adjacent to mine, there’s at least twenty, all standing, waiting. Every single soldier had one word rattling through their mind like an unwanted pest scraping on the inside of their worried skull: Defend.

It was tense when the officer rode up on a large brown stallion; the officers’ name was Sir Pasco. Wiping sweat off of his brow with his gauntlet he boomed,

“The King has issued the order, do whatever necessary to defend your homes! Do whatever necessary to defend your family!  And do whatever necessary to defend your King!” to which every swordsman, archer and spearman exclaimed dedicated cheers, including me. “King Rulf has made a mistake by trespassing within our lands with his weak army!” continued Sir Pasco. “They will not be alive to make that mistake again! May the Gods prove this battle, short, easy and casualties a few. Best of luck my brave men!” He ended his speech and rode off back in the direction he came from, wading through loud cheers and war cries.

I turned to my men, gave them a long and trustful stare then shouted, “Onto the walls!” and with a point of my gleaming blade lead my fifty-few up a narrow staircase onto the first defensive barrier between us and the enemy. On the stone wall stood archers, each at their own crenel overlooking the fearsome Badlands. I stopped and shouted, “Take position along the wall and fend off any ladders that you encounter. Any enemy that makes it onto the wall, kill them!” I strode over to the crenel as an archer moved one step to the left and saluted me. Looking out was a sight I would never forget, an uncountable number of men stood about eight hundred metres from our castle walls, each garbed in a dirty green colour with cheap chain mail torso’s, sword in one hand, shield in another. Among the army were various contraptions including catapults, trebuchets, battering rams and ballistae that would tear down the walls we were stood on like it was scissors going through paper. The archer gave me a worried look when I patted him on the shoulder and wished him luck. Further along the wall I spotted one of our own ballista sitting upon a formidable looking square-shaped tower, it was basically a giant crossbow that sat and fired giant bolts over a great distance. Not far until the enemy will be in range for them to impale the dogs. I thought.

Giving my sturdy men a reassuring glance I sat and waited for a mere seventeen minutes before the enemy drums stopped, the war-horns creased and the emanating sound of ugly shrieking exploded from eight hundred meters away and drowned any possible sound from escaping anyone’s lips, every green dressed soldier ran at the feeble walls crying one single word and holding the note until it formed an uniformed scream: Attack.

>G

The Philosophical Passtimes of Penguin Phil

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Penguin Phil was a penguin. Obviously. Also, his name was Phil. Likewise obvious. Penguin Phil lived in the South Pole, for, as I’ve mentioned, he was a penguin. Called Phil. As David Attenborough has time and time again showed, the South Pole was not an overly pleasant place to live; it was indeed overtly cold. So, times weren’t always easy for a penguin. Especially ones called Phil. For Phil, who was, as I’ve laboriously stressed to you, a penguin, had asthma; asthma is trait rather unbecoming of a penguin. Such as Phil. As penguins need to waddle and swim and fish and whatnot, indeed, one could say, that the life of a penguin was a rather active one – not to say on par with that of an Olympian, but compared to a sloth for instance, they were practically Michael Phelps. So, as you can see, asthma was hardly a benefit to a penguin like Penguin Phil. Although Phil wasn’t in as poor a state as he might’ve been if he was something other than a penguin, a puffin for example. Although it was a great annoyance to penguins, particularly Phil – because he had a drink problem – that they remained perpetually grounded on terra-firma, whereas puffins could fly and glide and swoop as they wished, Phil couldn’t deny that he was hardly a prime candidate for that excess movement. For he had asthma. And was a penguin. Called Phil.

Life is rarely easy for penguins, including and especially Phil – because he was after all a penguin. Called Phil – especially when one lives in the South Pole. The snow is all consuming, the cold is all engulfing and, to be honest, there’s not really a lot to do. For penguins, of which Phil was one, don’t have electricity – as they have no means of building or inventing, as they have no hands, merely flippers, as they are, you must remember, penguins. So Phil, a penguin, couldn’t idle away his hours watching TV or playing on Assassin’s Creed (which was a shame, as, despite being a famed asthmatic, Phil was a fan of free-running) so he had to otherwise occupy himself. Phil was quite content to whittle away his hours, sitting in front of his igloo – for the very best penguins, like Penguin Phil, do of course live in igloos – contemplating many a thing: why is Pi such a long number? What colour does a Smurf go when you choke it? And what is the meaning of life? Phil was a contemplative penguin.

Yet, one day (Penguin Phil didn’t recall which, because penguins aren’t overly good with dates. And Penguin Phil was a penguin. Called Phil) contemplating was no longer enough for Penguin Phil. That day, of which Penguin Phil didn’t recall the date (because he was a penguin. Called Phil) was the day that he decided he was going to get a job. And that’s where this story ends, but the story of Penguin Phil goes on

Penguin Phil will return in the Perplexing Profession of Penguin Phil!


WJ

D - Deterrence

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“We require your help, 0.”

The words resounded around the unlit building like a metallic war drum, calling me to aid them. The relaxing cold darkness kept me from view as I inhaled, the acidic taste of rust prominent in my mouth. I would not have it any other way; I am obscure, the last thing they never see. I am the shadow of every room, with a thousand guises.

I raise my head to speak, “Why should I do this for you?” The suited blonde man tilted his head, a mirthless bitter laugh escaping his pale lips. His façade was unconvincing; I saw that his hands were pale and shaking.

“Why? Because if you don't, the entire world will fall into ruin,” his wrinkled, ice-blue eyes stared blankly into my cloak of umbra, as if he were trying to pinpoint me. I considered this point – the time was mine to spend.

“Tell me Mr Craynor, do you have a family?” It meant nothing to me on a personal level, but I believed there was more to the man.

Mr Craynor sighed and bowed his head, “Yes, a wife and two children.” Always an ulterior incentive.

“Surely you have been allocated a place in a shelter?” A glint of defiance scintillated in his callous eyes.

“Yes, but a post-apocalyptic wasteland is nowhere to raise a-”

“So, you would rather have me do this for you for your family, than in a professional sense for your superiors?” I had shaken his core.

Mr Craynor's gaunt face reddened in shame, even in the brumal conditions: “Yes.” He took a step towards me, “We will pay-” then froze as the click of a hammer being pulled back echoed harshly in the warehouse.

“Do not insult me, Mr Craynor.” I lowered the handgun which was pointed directly at his carotid artery, just south of his neck. “I am in no need of your money. Why, I could walk away right now. You would never track me down...”

“NO!” Craynor's loud voice had startled the bats, summoning an uproar of distress. “No...” he sank to his knees. This man put on a good show, but underneath, he was simply a cheap jack crying his wares.

“I told you to be truthful with me from the start, Mr Craynor.” I said quietly. “Stand up.” Craynor stood ramrod upright, using one leg to push the other. I gave him a moment to gather his thoughts in his sunken head, then asked a question.

“Mr Craynor, why should I do this for you?” His head snapped upwards to face me – unsure whether I was visible to him, he glared directly at me nonetheless. His face was a reflection of passionate desperation, fuelled by an engine powered by a nugget of hope.

“For my family,” he begged, his smooth voice wavering, “Do it for my family.” I glanced disinterestedly at the two jet black suitcases lying on the ground.

“Leave the money. I will contact you.” Mr Craynor's heartbeat was audible, pulsing like percussion. Soundlessly he about-turned and walked away.

>-S->

Winter Is Here.

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The morning frost sat on the grass, awaiting ruin.
A silent landscape of cool. Icicles graced to branches, unweilding to the weak attempts of the pallid winter sun.
"Winter."
Clouds of air followed my deep breathing. Inhaling hurt my lips, the cold like tiny needles poking at my flesh, searching for a weakspot. My hands, too, were suffering: mutilated ice cubes inside my deerskin mittens.
In my left hand I held a spear, hand-crafted, moulded to fit my grip. It shivered in my hand, finely attuned to my movements. It knew I was waiting. Waiting...

...A twig snapped to my left, shattering the icy perfection of the still winter world. Prey was comeabout. I moved panther-like towards the sound. My footfalls were quiet, my breathing shallow, my scent downwind, my hair tied back from my face in preparation.
A doe nipped at the frozen greenery. Her delicate bone structure was blatant to any observer, her quiet beauty as subtle as any mammal's. Deer were among my favourite animal to hunt. Their grace was uncompareable, their challenge worthwhile.
It was a game, the hunt. A game which I won more often than I lost.
She moved towards me a little, falling into a false lull of peace as she searched for an edible patch of grass. Her hooves left dainty imprints in the snow, nice to look at, but to be destroyed soon enough.
I bent forward, judging the distance between my spear and her flank. Doable.
I hefted my spear forward slowly, no sudden moves at to alert her.
And the spear was off, soaring through the air like a bird in flight, choosing its landing spot and sticking true to its course.
Another day, another meal.
A quiet prayer to send the doe into a better place, and I could return to my hearth to feed my sisters.
"Winter."
It still sounded the same, even after I'd killed her.
~H

My Kindgom.

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I wipe the blood of his cheek, skin like leather, rough, bruised. He snarls, eyes locked on mine, his face showing the fury of a thousand dead warriors. There's nothing more he can do. I spit on him, asserting my authority. Then kick his chest forcing him to the ground, my foot still atop him as he pants. The two guards stood behind him follow him with their blades as he falls, just another victim of our kingdoms immense power.
He splutters, "I remember, When there was freedom in this land" I push my foot down, "And I remember when the people used to deserve it" I spit on his face in disgust. I lean over him more now, my face less than 20 centimeters from his. My hand moves over his face, I shut his left eye with my index finger. Then, in a moment of rage at his doing my fingers lash down into his socket. A yelp of pain, thrashing, there's nothing he can do to stop us, we have the power to do anything we wish.
Lined up, one by one, I watch as he stands beside others of his kind. They're all scum, worthless. Then I wonder, am I truly any better. Thought like these are shaken off within seconds. I'm a man of power, power comes to those who earn it, I'm more than these could ever be. I stare content as each of them are hit in the gut with a club, bringing them to their knees where they'll be given their desert. I grin. Power crazed, knowing I can do what I like, no consequences. In my position I could take the world. I will take the world. I give each man a final stare as their heads are taken one my one.
One day they'll know who is truly in charge. Not their god, their father, their kingdom. Me.

~S