Throne Away - chapter one a fantasy in progress

THRONE AWAY

Battle.

The catapults were the key to victory in any siege.

Everyone knew that.

So when the Armies of the southern kingdom reached the edge of the field surrounding the castle and they were without catapults, the occupants of the city breathed a collective sigh of relief.

They held out hope that there was indeed enough grain in the towers to at least make bread to keep the citizens trapped within the thick granite walls from starving.

The army manning the walls had plenty of arrows and fletching to shoot across the open fields when the southern army decided to march.

They had stones to drop on top of their armored heads, and oil in cast iron kettles ready to drizzle and burn on top of any who made it past the rain of arrows to the cover of the wall.

To even make the wall they must navigate a series of trenches filled with axe sharpened stakes and covered with feces to poison the blood of anyone who so much as scraped the sharp edges.

The General of the SAXON kingdom advised the King that they were well set and safe, especially in light of the lack of catapults lining the edge of the thick forest like the border to a shadow world.

Their confidence lasted until morning when watchers on the Tower brought word of giants among the men in the woods.

The General, a dour man with a giant scar on his big bald head huffed to the top of the tallest tower because he had never seen a giant in his many years of travelling and battle.

He felt a small sense of satisfaction in his skepticism when the giants in the shadows turned out to be the catapults of their nightmares.

His satisfaction melted into a sense of dread and doom because even he could see how the men mistook them for giants.

They were monstrous constructions, larger than any he had every encountered before.

The General, whose name was Holt, called for the King’s wizard to join him on the tower.

Batrick rushed across the courtyard and smacked into the side of the horse.

“Watch your damn head,” the man astride the warhorse bellowed.

Batrick the wizard held a hand to the knot on his head and swiped at the trickle of blood that oozed from the scrape.

The Knight gave a booming laugh and yanked the reins of his horse to turn it toward the gate.

“I don’t know why you bother,” Batrick muttered as he staggered back into his rushed pace and headed for the stairs that led to the top of the tallest tower in the keep.

He did not know much of battle or tactics or strategies of war, but he knew that the gates were closed, barred and locked and would remain that way so long as the enemy was outside of their gates.

A knight on his mount could do little good in the closed confines of the courtyard within the walls.

Better to be on foot and ready to defend the gates should they be breached, he thought as he mounted the steps and chided himself.

The gates would hold.

He had seen to the spell himself.

Batrick reached the wide platform at the top of the tower and stood as far away from the edge as he was allowed without seeming to be too afraid.

“You called for me,” he bit back the Sir.

Technically, as an adviser to the King, he was the equal of the General, but Batrick was still new to the post, new to his position and years junior the man in charge of the Kingdom’s armies.

“Come,” Holt motioned the younger man to the edge of the shallow wall that topped the platform.

He pointed to the shadows moving in the woods.

“Catapults,” he uttered the dreaded words and Batrick couldn’t say which scared him more.

The drop to certain death or the feared instruments of destruction they were convinced the invading army did not have.

“Your spies,” he started to say, but Holt cut him off.

“Lied,” he spat. “Bought off or fooled, it makes no matter. Can you get the measure of them with your magic?”

Batrick didn’t bother to correct the older man. He wouldn’t need magic for this particular trick.

It was simple mathematics the man asked for, a calculation he performed quickly in his head. The length of the arm would determine how far the catapult could launch a rock or boulder, and with the size of the behemoths rolling through the woods.

“Dear gods,” he muttered.

“Exactly as I thought,” Holt spit over the edge of the platform. “Sons of dogs and whores.”

He spun around and marched down the stairs.

“Come along,” he growled and didn’t wait to see if the man in the billowing robes followed.

He was used to giving orders and being obeyed.

It never occurred to him that someone wouldn’t.