Upon the height of the dune most of us sat, waiting and looking down slope. A single horse came from two parted sides of the army. It walked ginger-like down the sand, dragging little behind its feet. A well armored man rode it, a pouch hanging by a sling around his shoulders. Behind this individual, four more horses each taking up a corner around the Messenger.

The Messenger rode, stroking his braided beard as he came up to the edge of the lake. Kal took a knee to my rear, eating an apple and throwing the core down sand.

“Don’t just litter.” Obrick said behind us. He nudged Kal.

“This is war.” Kal said, still chewing.

“It doesn’t mean your manners go to shit.”

“Shut up.” I said.

They both straighted up. The core rolled down the sand.

A wind blew sand up, covering us in a thin sheet. The messengers rode up to the edge of the lake, their horses prodding the surface of the water. Upon the edge the messenger removed a scroll from his pouch. He reached down to pockets on the sides of his horses and took out a small horn, or what seemed like a horn. A tusk of some sort, that he put to his lips. Vincent watched. Red beady eyes, hawk-focused. They kept still upon the Messenger. Vincent had both arms crossed, one finger tapping along his bicep plate. Silence had taken hold of the long line. The (now) thousands of soldiers we had waited still, stiff, silent.

“Vincent Volarus of the Crows has sent us to parlay a proposition.” The Messenger said. “You are hereby to open the gates and surrender your arms. You are to raise your white flag. You are to surrender your leader so he may be tried for war crimes against King Xanthus-”

The men along the top of walls scooted over. Someone approached the edge of the castle. The Messenger continued, staring down at his paper, following lines with his broken reading.

“Fuck. Just call them back, Vincent.” I said. Vincent sucked on his teeth and spat and gestured at men to his sides.

The men sounded a horn. The five turned and looked at us. Out from the top of the castle walls, a spear came out chucked fast. It broke through the neck of the Messenger and pinned him against the sand. The horse turned and ran. The four did so as well, one of them getting a spear through his horse. He fell and scrambled, broken armed back up the hill. The Messenger remained there in the sand, both of his bloody hands slipping along the grip of the spear through him. His body contorted. He spun, anchored by the neck. And there he died, making donuts in the sand as the blood washed down onto the desert floor.

“It wasn’t going to happen any other way.” Vincent said. “But I had to try.”

We all walked down the sand. Vincent raised his arms, we all turned to hear his words.

“You have seen how they have treated our messengers. You have seen how they spit at peace.” Vincent said. “These savages are no different than the Kavilians. Aye, they are the ones employing them. And it makes sense, no? Savages employing savages.”

“When do we kill them?” Captain of the Fourth said.

“Soon. You are you to set up along the river, seize any ship that passes through. The Fifth, the Sixth, the Seventh and the Eighth will start camp opposite side. We will surround them completely.”

Vincent turned his gaze forward, to men arming trebuchet’s along the floor. Turning wheels and making the sling-rope taut. Others rolled the machines to formation, pushing them with horses down the soft sands.

“We will test their will. Tomorrow, begin the bombardment.” Vincent said.

The trebuchet’s were locked and loaded. The fibrous rope pulled to its absolute limit, creaking at the slightest turn of the handle. Bundles of tar covered boulders were loaded by half a dozen men at a time, each grinding just to live it over into the spoon of the launchers. Men with torches waited by the sides, their sticks dripping hot tar onto the floor. Vincent stood a top the edge of the dune. He ate a small pastry, sipped on his tea and observed the city proper.

A dark night. You could not see the stars, you could not see yourself without a light. I stepped over, careful in plotting my path up to the edge of the dune where he was. Him, Vincent, eating slow, hunched over and settled on one of his thighs.

He observed the castle, tracing the shape with his red eyes. There was a fire too him. Something piercing about his maroon eyes, neon blood in the dark.

“They’re ready on your cue.” I said.

“That’s good.” Vincent said. “Have them wait a bit longer.”

“For what?”

“They haven’t gone to bed yet.” Vincent said. “I want to wait for them to go to sleep.”

“You really want to break them, don’t you?” I looked over, arms deep behind my cape.

“Would you prefer I kill them all?” Vincent stood. “We could invade them, roll them over in a couple days of battle. How many crows would I lose though? How many civilians would get caught in the frenzy?”

“How many civilians are we going to kill in the assault.”

“Fewer than otherwise.”

“And in the starvation that comes afterward?”

Vincent chewed and finished. He raised both hands and walked back down, towards his men standing by their launchers.

“That’s not up to me, Virgil.” Vincent pointed toward the castle keep. “Ask them that.”

He walked down the line, eyes set on the soldiers and on the weapons. There was admiration there, and I could not blame them. Massive things, creaking in the want to fling. Wood bent back to an aching tightness. Chains gripping hard on the frames of wood. On them, a heavy burdened stone, being washed over and painted with tar. Buckets of it were behind the men. Crows were lined up with stones and linen covers and tar and brushes, each like a child with their toy. And here came Vincent, testing the weight of his weapons with the heel of his foot. He pressed down on one of them. It did not budge. Vincent rolled his tongue inside his mouth and came close to the torch bearers.

“Get the horn ready.” I said. A young man came running down to Vincent’s side.

Vincent stood, both arms behind his back, his gaze running across the horizon and beyond.

“Deliver them our pain.” He raised one hand.

The men ignited the stones, each a little sun. The horn bearer braced his lips against the wind-pipe and his chest expanded with air.

Vincent brought his arm down. The war sounded off. The balls rose high above the dune. I chased after them, trying to catch them as they rifled through in an arc. I went up the dune again. Kal walked up. Obrick too. The Silverfangs. Even Sylas. More men came up, more men went to work and re-arming their trebuchet’s.

Most of us were watching though. Watching balls of fire reach an apex at the top of gravity’s rainbow. And watched them fall down into exploding molten pops. Pockets of fire, scattered and trailing sparks from their impacts. Men scrambled. Some jumped away from the explosions that struck the crystal and the walls. I saw one such man, on fire, running across the edge of the castle. He padded himself and spun in circles and went over to the edge and jumped. His body went limp before he even touched the water. The fire followed his corpse until the dark waters consumed him completely. Bricks exploded. I saw a guard catch one such unfortunate stone, his head exploded from his torso, his legs kept on running his headless body through and through.

It was hell.

Some guards tried their hardest, grabbing bows and arrows. You could see their little bodies and their little shadows even from the distance, the fires had spread across the walls such that all of the enemy was visible and present to my naked eye. Sylas turned and walked away.

“It never changes.” He said. “Never.”

Guards shot back at us. The arrows only made it halfway.

“On my mark.” Vincent screamed, behind me. He had his arm back in the air.

I took a heavy breath and put both fingers in my ears again. It did not help in containing the noise. Chains snapping and whipping against the sand. The slam of wood. Flaming stones cutting into the air. Nothing helped the noise. Nothing helped the smell. A burning scent of rubber, of gasoline almost. One of the Crows legs caught on fire. Another pushed him to the floor and patted him with a blanket.

“Someone get his armor off him.” I nodded. They couldn’t hear me. I walked closer to the line, screaming now.

“Get. His. Armor. Off. Him.” I said.

Two green soldiers from the Fourth looked up to me, they had brushes on, they were painting a throwing-stone. They dropped their brushes and went for the fool burning his foot off.

It was a messy. A screaming mess. And it went all throughout the night. Men took shifts, after a while even Vincent left. Half of us slept through the explosions. Half of us were committed to seeing them through. And like that we all managed to get some sleep. And like that, the enemy didn’t get a single chance to rest.

That’s what it took to win wars.