It was not the smell of rotting flesh or stinking piss that awoke from Bastu from his sleep as it had been before. No, there was something different about the night. The floor above him jolted like the sound of thunder. New cracks appeared in the ceiling above him as fearful eyes glanced overhead. He sneezed as sand and dirt drifted down from above as cracks began to split open across the ceiling like the breaking of ice.

His hands clasped the worn bars of his cell. He had tried thousands of times to slip his body through the gap between the bars, and never succeeded. And yet, he tried again. He glanced up again, fully convinced the ceiling was soon to give way. A few distant shouts accompanied the next jolt, shaking the entire lair.

His hands slid hopelessly down the bars as he slumped onto his knees. The gate always gave that deception. They were spaced just enough to give a man hope. But it had always seemed just too small to fit his slender torso through. He had tried getting his lower half through first before, but that had only laid siege to immense panic when he had himself fooled into thinking he was stuck, and then came the feeling of lost breath, and nervous sweats. If the guards would chance to be doing the rounds and even so much as glance his head peeking through, it would be his head escaping to the other side of the cell, and not the rest of his body. That one he knew for sure.

The floor shook this time. The water in his pail in the corner of his cell sloshed over the side. He eyed it warily, wishing it weren’t sea water. The king’s men were cruel like that. He couldn’t afford to throw it all up again. He amazed himself every time he wretched his innards out, as he was convinced there was nothing left to wretch. The yellow bile would splatter on the blue, icy floor. The convulsions would rattle his ribcage and the cold blowing in from the window outside his cell would make his shivers worse.

The sound of a woman’s scream was the first distinct scream that made it through the thick barrier of the rock flooring above him. He glanced to the cell across from him and One-Eyed Aaron had his eye wide open, returning Bastu’s intrigue.

Could it be? The siege was successful? It had been long enough, or it had not been long at all. There was no way to tell, the day seemed to last right through the night in his cell. The only way he could tell when night had arrived was the chilling wisps of cold air that accompanied the night like a friend who would refuse to be parted from his other. Bastu desired a friend like that. No, he thought, not even a friend, just a voice. A voice that has a calmness to it.

All he had heard since he had known the blue of his cell was the whimpering of the Bottle-Neck Barry beside him, and the childish giggle of One-Eyed Aaron across from him. Aaron did not have the teeth to speak well, and his tongue seemed to move around on its own accord when he tried to talk—ultimately resulting in gibberish that was far from the Proper Tongue.

Bastu fell hard. He fell onto his rear-side and slammed his head on the rim of the bucket. His back was wet with his own piss and his face soaked in saltwater from his water pail. The noise accompanied with the jolt had sent Bottle-Neck Barry into a loud whimpering, cradling his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth.

The door to the dank cellar was kicked down wildly from the other end of the long hall. Men with heads drawn against their prison doors yanked themselves back instinctively, crawling like a wanton animal to the back of their cells. Bastu’s lip was quivering anxiously as he couldn’t help but raise his bright blue eyes to the edge of his cell.

The sounds from upstairs were bursting from the door to the cellar that had just been kicked down. The sounds of boasting men and shrieks of death accompanied each other all the same. The siege thought Bastu. He began to laugh incredulously. It began low and assured, but as the footsteps edged closer his laughter rose into hysterics.

The boots scuffed along the rigged flooring. Those aren’t the boots of no guardsman. It was too slow. Bottle-Neck Barry had his giraffe neck jutted out the cell bars with his tongue out like the fool he was, beaming from ear to ear. His smile soon found the ground as the knife of the emerging figure dashed the head of its shoulders. Bastu found himself surprised what the sound of a head hitting the ground actually sounded like. A lot softer than I had imagined.

The brown cape of the decapitator dragged along the ground, Bastu could make out the unmistakable bronze and silver plated armour of House Rainblood. Scars spread themselves on either side of the corners of his mouth to expand his smirk into a wide smile. One could not tell if he went to smile, but his scars did that much for him anyways. Bastu did not withhold his own joy, it was plain to see upon his face.

“How did you do it?” Bastu staggered to his feet, his legs were nearly cramping from how little he had actually been on his feet.

“Siege engines work, contrary to the opinions of seasoned knights. Fools, the lot of them.”

Bastu smirked, “I never doubted you, brother.”

His brother chuckled, “King Norwend is a fool and a coward. We took his men out that stood along the ramparts with arrows. I sent my best men up to siege the walls with grapnels. Took out of all their lookouts and guards. We rolled the siege engines in which made quite a bit of noise. By then it was too late.” He shook the rusty manacles that hung loosely at Bastu’s wrists.

“Yeah, these manacles must’ve been the oldest they had; my wrists are forever red from the rust. Unchain me now, I don’t mean to miss all of the fighting.”

“Fair enough,” Torval’s eyes glimmered excitedly, “I brought you this.”

Bastu held out his hand and stared blankly at the finger that was placed in it.

“What’s this?”

“Look at the ring.”

“You bloody butcher, you took the King’s hand?”

“Yeah, count yourself lucky, I had to slay Old Ben for it, the old crook. I never liked the man, and he gave me all the reason to slit him neck to crotch. I had my squire take the head. He should be in the kitchens right now; I mean to freeze it in ice, and have it displayed in my bed chambers once I have made my home where King Norwend takes his women.” Torval became rather sidetracked as a body was flung from the top of the stairs above and slammed crudely against the back wall of the cellar.

“You look like hell. You’d better get upstairs before the King’s fool has been slayed. It’s like to be your own chance you get your hands dirty.”

Bastu smirked, doubling over as he coughed up phlegm and splattered it onto the dirt floor. He hurried along, following his brother down the hall to join the skirmish. Bastu approached the body that had been flung down the cellar’s stairs, still intact but bathed in blood. Bastu wrenched a crude blade of sorts from the chest of the corpse, inspecting the blade. He pursed his lips, shrugged, and ascended towards the screams of death.

Within an hour King Norwend had bent the knee and lost both of his hands. He was given a milky substance by his own potions master under orders of the new lord in charge, Torval. It was more a punishment than a mercy, keeping the King awake to face the agony of his dismemberment. He was still staring incredulously at the stumps where his hands should have been. He was long in shock now, his mouth hung open and his face shuttering. No words came forth from his mouth except gagging noises.

His royal hand hung from a stake to the King’s right upon the executioner’s platform, and the King’s justice now stood under oath to Torval, having just said the words a moment prior. Torval had forced him to prove his loyalty by having him put an innocent king’s guard to the sword, swiping his head clean off despite the cries of an old friend begging for mercy and a fair trial. The king’s justice had shown cold blood and taken off his head without hesitation, cementing his place at the side of the new usurper, Torval Rainblood—the first of his name.

Some of the skirmishes at the other end of the castle had not yet finished and Bastu ran through alleys and small passageways to make sure he caught the back end of the siege. A small resistance of King’s men had not yet bent the knee like the king’s guard had.

Bastu turned a corner and swung before he even saw the man. His stolen steel rattled flatly against the sternum of an unsuspecting foe, stunning him. Bastu finished the job with the butt of his blade. Meanwhile, a high priest was sent screaming overhead from the top floor of the castle’s high temple, flailing his arms like a crazy man as flames had engulfed his whole body. His body splattered flat against the ground in front of Bastu, a merciful ending to his suffering as the flames licked away at his robes, and soon his flesh.

Bastu rubbed his wrists together trying to ignore the chafed skin that sat like an open sore from the rusted manacles. The alleyway he found himself in soon became a blood bathe as a hoard of men including a lord, his squire, and a multitude of innocent priests and priestesses came charging around the corner. They soon found themselves surrounded at both ends of the alley by men in brown capes and bronze plated armor. Men upon the rooftops overhead spoiled the fun for the blood-hungry knights in bronze when hot tar was poured down onto the innocents, leaving them in a frenzy of high pitch squealing and death. The knights in the alleyway cursed the men who dumped the tar from above and moved beyond the hoard of suffering priests and priestesses to find every last person who did not bear the sigil of House Rainblood.

Bastu had begun to follow the floor of brown capes when his wrist was grabbed by a burning corpse who had not yet seen the doors of hell and he recoiled and instinctively slid his blade into the corpses throat. He looked at his wrist and winced as he ran. The priest had gotten tar on his open wound. Bastu’s wincing was replaced with laughter, nothing took a worry of a blood-hungry mind like the bloodiest siege in recent history. It was a complete slaughter, and Bastu meant to be remembered this day for his part. He later came to rue his decision to slay the Main Keep’s historian, not daring to prevent the men in brown capes from ransacking the entire library full of scrolls and parchment. It is the price you pay when you disregard the rules of war. Anything goes.

Bastu had not been able to withhold his curiosity of the place. The kingdom of Raideth, known for its intellect and righteous ruler of state. The castle was enriched with great healers and scholars, Bastu had known. He entered in door after door, often finding men who had already been slain and left for dead. Bastu stepped over a scribe with a mound of white chest hair that protruded from his blood-stained tunic. He knelt down and touched his fingers to his neck, no pulse. He had learned that trick from a necromancer many years ago. Strange phenomenon, is there a second heart in the neck? Bastu had ventured deep into the main keep, finding himself rummaging through a room that had remained well in-tact despite the ransacking of the majority of the castle.

The corner of the room had a shape huddling under a blanket, shaking with fear. Bastu lifted the blanket and held his blade inches from the face of the ma—no, it was a child. No older than thirteen.

“What are you? Tell me truly and I may spare you.”

The boy trembeled, “I am Janros, m’lord. I, I, I am an apprentice to the, the, potions master of the keep, lord.”

“I am no lord. Call me Bastu. Where is your master?”

“I don’t know, m’lord. I mean, ser. Erm, he was chased by a swordsman and he ran out the window screaming.” Tears welled in his eyes and Bastu felt pity, lowering his blade. He eyed his wrists which were so raw the slightest of drafts breezing his arms would bring a sting so painful he hoped his own eyes would not well with tears.

“Help me, and I may spare you.”

“Anything, anything at all,” the boy Janros’ eyes lit up.

Bastu went for his pocket, revealing a severed hand. Janros gagged.

“I need a favor,” Bastu glanced down at his own rotting wrist, “How trained are you in amputation?”

“I’ve never, erm, I have seen it done, ser.”

“Well…you had better hope you saw it done right, because I need a new hand.”

“I’m not sure that would work serve, ser, to replace it. That hand is already rotting—”

“Oh, this hand will not do, boy. It is your hand I mean to replace. You will be my new servant. What better way to prove your loyalty, then to replace your own hand with that of royalty?” Bastu smirked as he admired the hand of King Norwend. All that blood had already drained from it, it appeared pale and cold as ice.

Janros threatened to cry. Bastu tossed the hand at Janros.

The boy stood Bastu slammed him down onto a table, the boy screaming.

“I’m going to help you start because it looks like you need some help.” Bastu slammed his blade down on the boy’s arm, but the hand remained intact by the bone, and Bastu worked to saw it off. The boy’s voice screeched into the emerging night. By nightfall, Bastu had forced the boy to sow the King’s hand as his own, pouring every pain killing potion he could find into the boy’s mouth as he went.

Bastu admired the final product, ignoring the boy’s cries, as he compared his own hand to that of the boy’s. Better he learns now, because it may soon be mine own that needs replacing.

The boy tried to flex the hand, but it didn’t move.

Janos whimpered, “it doesn’t move. It doesn’t work.”

“Then you’d better become skilled with your left, because you are bound to my service until I decided otherwise. You have a king’s hand, and I mean to make you the king’s hand. Come with me, boy.” The boy followed Bastu back through the maze of doorways and stairs out to the courtyard in the middle of the castle where Torval Rainblood had rounded up the King and his closest advisors.

Torval returned his blade to its scabbard and took his place atop the ramparts above so that he would be heard over the various noises filling the air.

The sounds of flames engulfing wagons and stacks of hay cackled loudly. In other places the whimpering’s and shouts of anguish were put to death by men who jutted their swords through the throats of the weak. Some of Torval’s men were finishing up their orders to scare off women and children. Men with maces ushered women and children across the moat, some being forced off the side only to land in the dirty waters of the moat, where they would drift amongst the slime, mold, and excrement that floated on its surface. Most knew not how to swim, so mothers began diving after their children only to drown along with them.

Bastu was busy laughing and yanking the collar chain on the new prisoner he had fashioned for himself. Janros sobbed openly, his lip quivering like a baby. Bastu yanked harshly, laughing and causing a bout of coughing. His coarse cough filled the yard as just another sound blended in with cries for mercy.

Torval began, “King Norwend enjoyed himself a fine few years in the comforts of this keep. You have brought shame and despair to House Rainblood. You shamed my father, treating him like your dog. You let him suffer the fate of the Storming Cough, even though this is the capital of potions and medicines. And now, here we are, and you lack the two hands you used to strangle my father. It fills me with great joy to know those hands will never see the day of vengeance, and now your castle is mine. And thus, it begins, the great new age! The age of Torval Rainblood, the first of his name, the King of Raideth, and conqueror of lands!” Men raised maces and spears, exchanging cheers and lifting their weapons to the sky.

“I have returned from banishment as I vowed that I would, and now I mean to take back the land I promised to myself. Our campaign begins—to take back what is ours! The lords and ladies of these lands shall bend the knee or die resisting!” applause and passionate cries had replaced the whimpering of the dying.

“This land we call Raideth will be more than a cog in the system. The throne will be running by the company, and a free company! We are the knights of the realm! The knights of no titles, and no lordship. We give no oath to no king, give no vows to some Order. We pledge to fight for freedom. And starting this day, we shall chase that freedom, and that land.”

Cheers rang out and chants of Torval Rainblood, the first of his name began to sound across the yard. Bastu smiled and yanked the slave girl into his arms and she winced as his hot breath came close to her face. On the other side of the yard the gates closed, and the drawbridge was pulled up.

“Execute the king’s hand and all his conspirators. Leave the King, I mean for to him to suffer a little while longer.” The king’s justice went about his business without a word, cold as ice. He did not hesitate for a moment, raising his great sword high above his head and sweeping down upon the heads of men who would never live to see another day.

Blood splatterd upon the bronze breast plate of Torval Rainblood as he watched on before his men. His scars smiled for him, sparing him the effort.

The siege had worked, and Torval Rainblood had only just begun.