Forthcoming

It is unfinished and only the introduction, but give me your hardest blows. I want the input.

The wheatfield’s battered, smoldering ground. The sky a hellish orange, peppered with glowing ashes sizzling the floor as they drop – scorching the withering, remaining wheat, desperately gripping their last seconds. Only 30 minutes from, had the jolly, yellow sun beamed down on a heavenly farmscape. Now, only a few miles away, an ungodly cracking of arquebuses splintered the wind. 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’s sloshing, 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 shredded, 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 shredded. 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, hiding in alleys and shattered buildings, watch children yanked along by their parents, scurrying down the streets and once lovely park in overwhelming lament. The sounds of hackling, arrows, and arquebuses form a hailstorm. A droplet on a table edge, 

Drop – The mom… Drop – The Dad… Drop, drop, drop…

    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 falls. -Lead advisor general, Olsiner Gyte,” he attaches the two letters, rises from his tent, and walks to his messenger, “Here. For the king. Leave tonight.”

“Yes sir.”

    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. Gyte paces back and forth simply waiting for... anything. The smoke rushes from the city. The sky is a muddy, brownish scarlet color with the smell of burnt plastic toxifying the air. 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 leader 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.

(Story continues, but is under revision/not written. You are not expected to know yet what has happened as it is explained in the next paragraphs.)