THE SIEGE OF MARKETHAVEN:
A TALE OF OLD
by
Andy Livingstone
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY
Andy Livingstone on Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Andy Livingstone
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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The
Siege of Markethaven:
A Tale of Old
Now
gather around those who fear
To miss a tale, among your forebears,
told
And retold, loved and much requested,
For, where the deeds
recounted in other legends brought together
A crowd moderate in
size,
This tale would, e’en in its retelling and
retelling,
Bring, running, all around and there, in rapt
silence,
Would they sit, hanging on the teller’s words,
Drowning his voice only to roar the lines most favoured
And
most, with childlike glee, anticipated.
And
now, by your leave and with apologies heartfelt
For a poor
recounting that would see the bards of old
Hang their heads in
shame and horror,
Will I make my attempt at giving life once again
to those names of yore,
Making them flesh for a new generation
and preserving their
Immortality.
If it is your will, I will
begin.
Our
story is born in a time much as is our own
With peace that, for
many years, had reigned,
Though an age of harmony brings with it,
as well as bounty obvious to all,
Weakness, with its roots in
complacence,
Opportunity for evil to gain foothold,
Unopposed,
un-noticed for none is watchful,
Un-noticed until it is too
late,
The serpent has grown
And the chance to stamp on the
infant snake has passed.
Fair
Markethaven sat, suffused in prosperous fortune,
Harbour deep and
still, a favoured port for traders near and far,
And more water on
its inland aspect: three rivers, seeking the sea, join as
one,
Feeding bounteous fields, feeding mouths eager for
refreshment clear and pure,
Feeding the moat, deep and wide,
draped around high city walls,
And more, three trade routes
converging at that spot, brought
Merchants from all corners of the
land
Keen to fight battles with guileful words
Keen to taste
victory and count their spoils.
A city
of many markets,
A city of many merchants,
A city of riches and
the sating of avaricious ambition
Only for ambition to grow
anew,
But one where ambition turned docile eyes inward to
opportunity,
Not outward, where the hungry eyes and sharp teeth of
the predator
Were drawn to markets, and merchants, and riches,
For
such predators were of the past, and had not preyed
On
Markethaven in living memory,
And words of war were only
that:
Words,
Whispers on the wind.
Yes,
whispers heard of a savage host, but distant,
Countless hills and
valleys and plains away,
Where the King, in his capital, would
raise his mighty army
And, glittering and noble, they would drive
the host before them,
Scattering them to the very winds that had
borne news of their coming.
A city
far from danger,
Ruled by a cycle of self-enrichment
Measured
not in happiness, but in gold,
Though happiness did learn to sit
alongside material gain,
For peace and prosperity make fertile
ground
For the seeds of contentment to grow and flourish:
Children
playing and learning,
Wives appreciated, husbands self-confident,
couples close in heart,
Ear and eye accustomed to
merriment,
Content
And complacent.
Complacency
can be shattered.
Complacency was shattered.
The
savage host,
The savage host sure to have been destroyed by the
King and his shining legions,
The savage host consigned to
alehouse talk,
The savage host of distant parts:
The savage
host
Filled the horizon.
The
dawn was like any other dawn,
The morn was like any other
morn,
But by mid-day, naught was like any other,
The savage
host filled the horizon.
A
farmer, old horses dragging his cart at terror-driven gallop,
Grain
spraying from sacks burst and bouncing,
Brought the news in voice
hoarse and ragged
Before dozing watchmen on tower above had
seen,
And then started the screams,
Then started the fear,
Then
the children were gathered,
Then the windows were shuttered,
Then
the guard was roused,
Then drawbridges were raised,
Then gates
were barred,
Then the question was asked:
How could such a host
have approached, unchecked?
Complacency.
The
host approached, a dark mass
Spilling over the shallow
hilltop
With clamour to chill the heart and turn the stomach,
With
numbers to stop the heart and weaken legs,
Onto the empty plain
before the South Gate they spilled,
A dark mass, a never-ending
mass,
Watched by faces drained of colour
Topping the South
Wall, crammed so tightly,
All intent on casting sight upon the
unimaginable,
That, even on so wide a parapet, some still fell to
their doom
Towards the thousands more gathered below, awaiting
word of what was seen by those above;
The enemy, unknown to them,
had taken first blood
Without a blow yet struck in anger.
The
horde stopped.
The length of two bowshots from the city walls,
they stopped.
How could they have known the city had long
neglected her defences?
How could they have known there was
nothing within the walls
Capable of hurling a missile further
than a longbow?
But they knew. For they stopped where,
unassailable, they could stay,
They stopped and, menacing and
glowering and growling,
They stayed.
Atop
the gate tower, arrived the guard captain,
A grizzled
Bear,
Awkward in movement through the passage of years and the
wounds gathered throughout them,
But one of few within the walls
who, though near a generation past,
Had faced foe toe-to-toe in
battle,
He looked outwards and, as swiftly,
Looked inwards.
The
first order of the day, his growl calm and soft and strong:
“Clear
the walls.”
To officers who, their spirits turned to
stone
Through fear of the savage horde filling their sight, still
hesitated,
He urged action.
“How can we prepare to defend the
people
If we are to be tripping over their bodies?”
With the
first order, so first came order to the masses,
As the sight of
soldiers in control, breastplates and helmets shining,
Plumes
waving and spearpoints sparkling,
Gave reassurance that all was as
it should be,
That all within the walls was as it should
be,
For why build walls never to be used?
Why arm troops never
to fight?
Why would ordered civilisation fail against untamed
savagery?
Though the captain knew the truth,
The truth about
the city’s state of readiness,
The truth about the city’s
ability to fight,
But also the truth that thought, reasoned and
realistic,
Was their only chance of success.
For the
greatest truth was that capitulation brought likely death;
Resistance
brought possible death
But also possible survival,
For with
violence comes unpredictability,
And, sometimes, the circumstances
align
For the ram to triumph o’er the lion.
Sometimes.
Once
in a multitude of lifetimes.
But
still
They must cling to the hope,
Forlorn yet still
existing,
The hope that this would be the once,
For to abandon
that hope
Would render the one chance extinct
And them with it.
So the
image of order brought by the guards brought reassurance,
And with
reassurance came reasoned speech where had been panic,
And of most
import was the discussion amongst city elders.
The foe
was assessed:
A horde, huge in number, yes,
But ill-disciplined
and disorderly,
Borne on foot, and not on steed,
As were the
city soldiers,
So with no advantage in speed over the
defenders
(And, in any case, they laughed, horses cannot scale
battlements),
And with no engines of war, fit for a siege on
strong stone walls,
No mighty catapults, or rams, or
towers,
Nothing to bring fear to those inside.
The
city was assessed:
Strong stone walls, facing no engines of
war,
Plentiful stores of food and supplies of water,
A harbour
with free passage to open sea,
Into which supplies could be
brought,
From which word could be sent
To summon the King to
their aid.
Their
forces were assessed:
Well-armed with bright armour and shining
swords,
Burnished shields and long pikes,
All forged fresh for
the visit of the King
Just three summers past,
Held by men
drilled to perfection in the formations of battle
First in
anticipation of that same royal visit,
And continued thereafter,
for it pleased the council of elders
To have a force whose image
reflected the prosperity of the city.
Escape
was assessed:
Mighty merchant galleys lay in the harbour,
Owned
by the council of elders and senior merchants,
Sufficient to carry
forth the families and fortunes of the owners
Should the need
arise,
But also capable of being swamped by hysterical
populace
Should panic ensue,
So, were panic to arise on the
streets, that option of flight would be publicly dismissed,
Deemed
un-necessary,
And the moment of escape for the privileged few
would be judged with care.
But,
meantime, secretly and gradually,
Gold was moved from strong rooms
to mighty vessels’ holds.
And so
the sentries were doubled and frequently relieved,
Watching the
host to the south with keen eyes,
And a small fast sloop was
prepared
To leave on the morning tide
With messages for the
royal court,
And, secretly and gradually,
Gold was moved from
strong rooms to mighty vessels’ holds.
Now, to
each side of the harbour, the land reached out to sea,
Arms
embracing the bay, protecting safe waters,
Curving and, at their
ends, fists facing one another,
And, on those fists, the first
rulers of the city,
Before even foundations for city walls were
laid,
Had master masons erect forts of stone,
With walls thick
and high,
Serving as a pair of unassailable platforms for mighty
mangonels,
Three to each fist, facing the world outside,
Keeping
the harbour within the power
Of those already there.
And so
the forts, and their hurlers of doom,
For generations had warned
away those with ill intentions,
And so the forts, and their
hurlers of doom,
For generations, while city walls were neglected,
had been maintained in prime condition;
The rulers knew where the
source of their prosperity lay,
And guarded it with care.
So it
was with surprise that, in dawn’s light,
As the messenger sloop
cast off,
Well-wishers noticed with growing curiosity the mighty
mangonels
Had, by the garrisons, been turned to face
Not
outward, their perennial bearing,
But inwards,
Towards the
passage of vessels from the harbour.
And
then, the unthinkable:
With a hideous report, the first rock was
hurled;
It missed, as did second,
As did third, fourth and
sixth,
But fifth,
Whether by luck or design, not one watching
in horror knew,
Nor did it matter,
The fifth struck the sloop
square on the mast,
Solid oak snapping like a stick in the hands
of an idle boy,
Leaving the vessel stricken,
Leaving the vessel
at the mercy of the tide.
At
first, the tide looked to be kind,
Carrying the sloop toward open
water’s haven,
For should they exceed the mangonels’
reach
Still they could fix a mast,
Makeshift, but sufficient
for the task,
Sufficient to bring word to the King,
Sufficient
to bring relief from the King.
Already
they worked aboard, dragging rigging from the waves,
Pulling close
shattered timber,
But as they worked, so too did the sea,
Cruel
current altering the course, setting a heading to the south,
Cruel
irony, for to the south lay the King,
And to the south they would
head by choice
But only if they cleared the harbour’s arm;
The
harbour’s arm:
All other days protecting,
This day, deadly.
As the
current worked them ever closer to rock, and not clear water,
So
too did they work, ever more feverish,
Frantic hands clawing at
wreckage,
Would desperate endeavour win, and bring
salvation?
Those ashore, watching with breath caught and hands
o’er mouths in horror,
Knew not,
And nor did those afloat,
though desperate lust for life
Saw them not abandon their
efforts, but redouble them.
To no
avail.
As those ashore soon knew, as those afloat soon knew,
And,
in deadly fact, as those above could see they would,
They soon, on
jagged rock, ran hard,
Cruel teeth of rock bit into timber
Holding
the stricken vessel,
Unmoving
Helpless,
Unprotected
Below
the cliff, sheer and dark,
Below the fist,
Below the
fort,
Below the foe.
High
above, figures spewed from the fort, swarmed forth,
Howls of glee
clear even to those ashore,
Chilling their blood, chilling more
the blood of the sloop’s small crew
Who, in life’s inexorable
will to be,
Dived headlong, the long swim to the city in their
thoughts,
But the current, already their enemy,
Now attached
its deadly grip to men where, just moments since,
It had grasped
their ship,
To the rocky shore, again, they were pulled,
Water
frothing amid desperate thrashing, ever more despairing and
forlorn,
To the shore, to be met with hail of rocks,
Cast with
howls of delight exceeded only by the joy exhibited
When they
found a target,
Rocks, none smaller than the head of a
man,
Dropping with ferocious power,
Dropping on wood and
flesh,
Crushing, smashing,
Long past death had come,
Crushing,
smashing wood and flesh,
Until the two could not, by naked eye, be
told apart.
One
sailor, only, thought diff’rent from the rest,
Headed, not
towards city, but open sea,
Seeking not to battle tide
But ride
it,
Over rocks he scrambled while eyes above were drawn to
desperate others,
Over rocks he scrambled and, reaching headland,
dived.
Too
late, those above saw, and
Now it was they who scrambled,
With
such alacrity that two of their own number
Fell to their doom,
though none with them appeared to notice
Or care,
They reached
the seaward edge and once more
Hurled rocks anew,
But howls of
joy turned soon to fury
As strong strokes and the pull of the sea
combined
To snatch their prey from out their grasp,
And howls
of fury in turn brought cheers from ashore
For, even as they saw a
pack detach from the rest atop the cliff
And start to track the
swimmer’s progress
To wait for him to once more make for
land,
For even as those ashore knew he would never reach the
King,
Still, every heartbeat that he escaped evil clutches
Was
a victory.