The gears cocked; the trebuchets loaded. The humidity was low but building, as storm clouds caressed the mountain range, making nervous jitters of Sir Tristan’s makeshift army. They were intent to capture the revered elementalist Draconian and pacify those who harbored the enemy of the crown within the walls of Pragian. It was a task easier said than done, as they found themselves on the shallow flood-prone planes that surrounded the hilltop fortress.
The risk of inundation was already accounted for, as Sir Tristan had flood-proofed his battlements with deep diverting ground works. Raised platforms were anchored firm into the ground. Their supplies were stacked high, under expectations that they could be cut off for months. The siege towers were weighed down and were without wheels. He entrenched his army in the most forward position to maximize his trebuchets’ destruction – the old take the walls and rain fire on the populous strategy. Yet as they looked on towards the dry hard clay soil of the non-existent moat, the itch on the back of their minds said that they were walking into an obvious trap.
For Sir Tristan, it was less a matter of time than certainty, as the icy blade of the executioner’s axe felt constant against his neck. Draconian or him, the queen would accept no other outcome. So, he spared no expense. Where the skilled knights were north, the skilled engineers followed him west, with top-dollar mercenaries to make up his core, and nearby militia to bolster his ranks.
Inside Pragian, the town was a sea of ants, ferrying the stockpiles of bricks, boiling oil, and arrows to their respective positions upon fortification walls. Every house, every family, anyone with a stake in this last gasp of pagan fortitude did their part. Each with their allotment of wall to which they would call their own. Mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. Three generations to a few square feet. All willing to offer their last.
They watched the foreign messenger approach, offering them the terms of surrender. He was a solo rider with a mule train stacked with gold and silver – in open display for all to see. ‘DRACONIAN. DRACONIAN, I offer clemency and riches to all who surrender the wizard Draconian to our custody,’ yelled the messenger from Sir Tristan’s army.
For all the messenger’s boasts, not one person budged. Draconian’s authority was too engrained. There would be no betrayal this day; the Grand Master Wizard walked down the main thoroughfare, the world moving in slow motion. The hopes and dreams of all honest pagans rested on his old, scrawny shoulders. His composure carried them as though immune to the intensity of the moment. His embrace felt through mere presence. A suit of armor that protected the courage of his people.
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‘I have terms,’ said the messenger, polite and direct in a manner befitting a king.
When Draconian didn’t reply, a lone stranger upon the wall called out. ‘So, do I. Your ass is more appealing than your mouth, so why don’t you bugger off before we combine the two?’
The dumbfounded messenger needed no further discourse as he turned his back and replied, ‘I’ll pray for your souls. For there will be nothing else worth saving come nightfall.’ He then made haste back to the safety of Sir Tristan’s battalions.
Though the pagans’ antics brought sporadic laughter among the mischievous, it quickly faded into a long, lingering silence as fathers comforted the fearful tears of their loved ones.
It was at this point that Maneesh came up beside Draconian and pulled out a thin, blackened vial from his robe. It was the elixir of a second life, which he then held out in front of Draconian as they conversed nonverbal respects before the former apprentice calmly relinquished the vial to his master.
Draconian raised the vial as a symbolism of his commitment to his people, one universally recognized, because the potion that brought the short-lived vigor of youth and the raw magical potential that accompanied it, ultimately accelerated the crash towards dilapidation and potential death. ‘I shall make my sacrifice, so you may make yours, and together we extend our lineages into the next generation,’ he said before ingesting the vial with one foul-tasting gulp, needing Maneesh to steady him as the cocktail brought decades of life back to the old veteran.
His second-coming was then announced via a crescendo of thunder from the outer storm cells, which were now bloated by the conjured precipitation from prime Draconian. Where Maneesh directed the lighting, Draconian unleashed the heavens.
The looming storms hastened Sir Tristan’s plans as he let loose the gears’ war. Their payloads began the battle with the crashing sounds of solid granite through the timber and stone masonry. Havoc ripped through the township as the consecutive rounds of trebuchets reduced their livelihoods to rubble.
Yet the pagan garrison held steady against the initial wave of mercenaries. Long enough for the rains to turn biblical, and the sweeping flood plains to turn into a rampart archipelago. The approaching swell of waters grew to make floating debris from the ladders and battling rams.
Whereupon Maneesh brought strands of heaven’s fury with surgeon-like precision. The combined magic of Draconian and Maneesh presented an overwhelming force that no army could withstand.
It was at that moment Sir Tristan found himself cut off while his stockpiles within the stationary siege towers ignited. The powder kegs of trebuchet incendiaries were incinerated. His expensive mercenaries retreated against the tidal flow that, in time, diverted earth and fauna in their direction. Until Sir Tristan and his gold met their watery grave, buried under a layer of silt and debris. No grave for the faithless.
Only the pre-emptive escape of the messenger would live to tell the tale. Not of triumph, but the history of defeat at the battle of the non-believers.