Forthcoming-Cont

(This is a revision of the first post [Still not my satisfied complete])

This is an excerpt of a story in my works. Please give your harshest/strictist criticisms you can -- I love the input!

 

 

The wheatfield’s battered, smoldering ground. Sky’s hellish orange peppered with glowing ashes sizzling the floor as they drop. Every ash its own history. One may have been the battle of two swords, the slamming of the cold irons to form a droplet of light. Another the intense recoil of an arquebus, releasing a few grains of gunpowder soon to be sparked.  Their glows and the ashes' history soon to fade to meaninglessness. Each ash scorching the withering, remaining wheat, desperately gripping their last seconds until they join the frey. Only a few miles away, an ungodly cracking of arquebuses splinters the wind as a fireball march tramples a poor town.

 

“Push the grounds my men, for all theirs gamble on that puny hill!”

 

 “They’re in shambles, cavalry of our left, push!” 

 

The battalion of disarray mowed down by the waves of the cavalry, grinding the ill-fated infantry to flower. General Gyte barks, “They are nothing. Knock down their rock they call a wall, and we will be close enough to hear the voices of their capital ‘Kunteer’.” Some infantry arm themselves with their mini fireworks – Wall? What wall?

 

    Gyte’s army leisurely strolls through the inner city as buildings are ransacked of their pastries and tools. The citadel’s wall smashed, and army hordes around the keep, where the remaining untrained archers cower. Few of the archers muster even the slightest confidence to open the firing peepholes, leading to certain death the audacious few. Gyte orders, “It is just that door that protects them! Give that door all you have!” The defenders frantically barricade the door with anything they have – A chair, weapons, themselves – to vain as the barricade is blasted through. Most of the archers choreographically drop to the floor and play dead – Which, ironically, worked rather well –  the last standing defenders no more. 

 

The castellan makes a miserable stand before his family, and is knocked out. The children cower... shot. The castellan and his wife are taken prisoner.

 

    The now refugees hide in alleys and shattered buildings, watching children yanked along by their parents, scurrying down the streets and the lovely park in overwhelming lament. The sounds of hackling, arrows, and arquebuses form a hailstorm. The frantic tears, 

drop – The mom… Drop – The dad… Drop, drop, drop… Each to dry up from thought evermore.

 

    As the infantry loot and burn the city, Gyte falls to the nearby camp, waits for estimates, and starts the report. For King Mehst of Jorkseren, “ Fortress cleared swiftly. 

Allied: 27,000 troops. Estimated casualties: 4,000

Enemy: 52,000. Estimated casualties: 46,900 

Gains: Full fortress seizure, 320,000 acres, 212 cannons, and a city’s worth of supplies.”    

 

Continuing with a personal letter, Gyte authors, “I expect an army of a hundred-fifty thousand or so guarding capital Kunteer. I request you to rally some ninety thousand soldiers, with perhaps some 200 arquebusiers. Cannons wouldn’t be needed as we have been helpfully provided with a surplus of cannons from this recent battle. I will expect a swift fall of Lauerenta when their Kunteer drops. -Lead advisor general, Olsiner Gyte,” he attaches the two letters, rises from his tent, and walks to his messenger, “Here. For the king. Leave this dawn.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

(Past this point has yet been revised/reviewed. Expect inferior writing)

 

    Gyte’s men are a swarm of bees on a flower patch as they stream in and out of the city, gathering mounds of tools, food, weapons. He paces back and forth simply waiting for anything.  Gyte’s secretary approaches him.

 

Gyte asks, “The peasants?” “Enslaved.”

 

 

“Supplies used?” “As if the battle never happened.”

 

    

“Supplies gained?” “Triple our current supplies.”

 

 

“Castellan?” “On his way.”

 

“Great. Ready the men for a feast.” “Yes sir.”

 

Gyte leisurely lies in his tent in wait for the enemy castellan to arrive. The tent is in perfect condition. The drawer containing his documents sorted in perfect A-Z fashion. His miniature workbench was organized and clear of any crumbs. Olsiner plucks two poppies off his desk, pulls off a handful of seeds, eats them, and rests on his bed. Two soldiers approach his tent, “Sir. We have the leader captured,” Gyte rises and slowly approaches the soldiers. The soldiers are grasping chains that wrap around the leader, “Greetings, sir. I don’t think we’ve met before this. You are?” Gyte exclaims. The castellan looks at the general. The castellan eyes are teary and he expresses a face of an awful lemon. “Olsiner. I…” he mumbles. 

Gyte steps toward the captive and responds, “Olsiner? That is my name, Olsiner Gyte. What is yours?” The castellan stares in disgust and cannot muster any words. Gyte repeatedly searches for a slip up, unable due to the castellan’s panic beyond comprehension.

“Quite the leader,” Gyte thinks.

 

“Very well. I suspect he wouldn’t be of much use to us. How about his wife?”

 

 “Bring out his wife… As soon as possible.” 

 

She is forced over and shoved to her knees. “Now… tell me, Mrs. We hear of a battalion you individually convinced Lauerenta  to attack a Jorkeseren shipping bay just west of here. Is this true?” She confidently stares at Gyte, refusing to answer. He squints at her, and slowly steps to her. 

 

“Why aren’t you the leader? I see the potential in contrast to your husband. Confidence, prepared… because of the mere happenstance you are a woman?” Gyte asks. She snaps back, “Don’t play that on me. They’ve seen my value.”

 

    “Oh have they? How do you think they will react to this defeat?” 

He mimics “Damn it! That castellan made a fool of us! We shouldn’t have trusted those imbeciles to guard us.”

 

    “That is what they will say. All the time and love you’ve put in that city is all a subcategory of your man’s work to them.” 

Her confidence visibly fading as Gyte follows, “If I were to have you killed, all that would change for your kingdom of Lauerenta is one more number on their casualty report. Everything you’ve done for them is summarized to a single one… effectively forgotten. Where was I? Oh, the attack on the Jorkseren shipping port. If that battle were to commence, we would see tens of thousands of more 1s, each resembling a full life just as yours. How easily this could be avoided…”

 

“Ergh, very well, you’ve got your way. 3 weeks from now – from the northwest. Now let me go.”

 

Gyte thanks the lady, faces the two men detaining her and says, “Send them to the king. Mehst always loves presents.”

He writes down the learnings for King Mehst and hands it to the messenger. “Sir, you ought to give some update for the civilians… on how the war is going.” the messenger proposes.

 

“True, true. I’m not an expert at propaganda, though. You do journalism, right? If you could write it.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

The journalist pulls out a pen and paper, “Whenever you are ready, sir.”

 

    “Ok… Our battles on the east have gained tremendous success. After Lauerenta’s forces managed to send a sweeping army hundreds of miles down our east, I was ordered to regain the land. We completed with such success that we were given green to push as far as thought fit. We have now managed to shoot over 175 miles past the border and are pointed towards Lauerenta’s heart. Enemy casualties have been roughly 10 to 9 times greater than ours in most battles.”

 

The journalist follows, “Last time I traveled to the capital, people were asking about your         opinion on the battles of the west.”

 

Gyte scoffs and replies, “Their attempts, though in vain, have managed to pull enemy troops to their invaluable west, clearing my path.”