Chapter 7: Chapter Seven

Gregory stepped back to admire their handywork. The logs made a sturdy wall, one that would keep out arrows and soldiers alike. His main concern was how long they would be stuck inside it. They had food and livestock, but even so, they could only last so long without access to the outside world. If the army decided to lay siege to them, he feared they would not be able to defend themselves well enough. None of the men were trained.

“Is that everyone?” he asked as Gillian returned from yet another ride to the neighboring farms.

“Three families won’t come,” he said. “Everyone else is packing.”

“Who? I will speak with them myself.”

“The Briers, Craigs, and Reynolds.”

“Have you been to the northern farms yet?” Greogry asked. That is where Earl and Marie lived, and after Armaila’s claims, he had a bad feeling about them.

“Not yet.”

“I’ll go. If I’m not back by noon, close the gate.”

“But—” Gillian began, but Gregory cut him off.

“Close the gate.”

Gregory stopped at the Craig’s farm first, since it was the closest. It was nestled in the bottom of the valley between the river and a small hill, a prime farming location that produced ample amounts of grain and mutton. To lose it would have a devastating impact on the local food supply.

“Bill,” Gregory said, smiling as he approached the older man.

“Mr. Smith.”

“Did Gillian inform you and Edith of the situation? I think it would be in your best interest to—”

“We’re staying right where we are.”

“I can’t force you to leave…”

“That’s right,” Bill said. “You can’t.”

Gregory sighed. “Good luck.”

He was met with similar responses from the next two farms. He felt bad for Gillian, who had talked to so many.

It was nearing eleven as he neared Earl and Marie’s farm, and it was an hour’s ride back to Greenfields. The smell of rotting flesh immediately reached his nose as he neared the front yard.

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“By the mountains, that’s awful,” Gregory said.

He pulled his tunic over his nose to keep from wretching—a decomposing body lay wedged between the front porch and a tree. Judging from the height and girth, it did not belong to Earl or Marie, and a gray cloak concealed the worst of the rot.

A low rumble overhead warned of an approaching storm, and Gregory nudged his horse forward as the first drops of rain began to fall. When he reached the hastily constructed wall around Greenfields, the gate was already closing.

He cursed softly and dug his heel into the animal, forcing it to give what remained of its strength. They slipped through the narrow gap just in time.

“Glad you made it,” Gillian shouted from his post above.

“Me too.”

Now, waiting was all the remained.

Hours drug by and Gregory found himself wishing for a taste of ale, but he could not. Not when so many relied on him. It filled him with a sense of pride and duty, but also anger—how dare his father leave him to face this alone?

Gregory knew nothing of battle. Will they attack during the storm? he wondered. The failing light and heavy rain made it nearly impossible to see. Women and children sought shelter in the buildings, but the men continued to stand guard, and every boom of thunder caused them to flinch.

Another brilliant flash forked its way across the sky and what it revealed shook him to his core. Hundreds of men in gray cloaks surrounded the wall, both mounted and foot soldiers, and all heavily armed.

Darkness swallowed them and thunder drowned out the first sounds of battle. Arrows flew through the dark, falling off their shields with the rain. Another flash lit the sky and Gregory saw Gillian beside him, drawing back a bow, rain running down his face. A spear pierced through his unprotected chest in an instant and the boy fell backward into the mud below.

We won’t win like this, Gregory realized.

He climbed down the ladder and was forced to step over Gillian’s body as he made his way to the supply shed. Inside were the women and children, and the provisions that would get them through a siege.

“Where is your lard?” he demanded.

It took three trips to get the barrels to the top of the wall. Next, he took a jug of fine whisky—caressing the bottle as if to apologize for what he was about to do—and tore splinters of wood from an old crate.

Gregory dipped a plank in oil and then poured alcohol onto it. Using a flint proved to be a difficult task in the rain, but eventually, a hot blue flame sprung to life. He threw it on the enemy below.

He repeated the process and other men joined him. They dealt several wounds to the soldiers below, singeing and burning limbs, until they began to retreat.

“Pull back, pull back,” someone shouted.

The storm broke sometime during the night but Gregory was too tired to notice, much less care. He stood watch with a handful of men, waiting, in case the Legion returned. Sleep finally came for him by late morning when the women took over the watch.

When Gregory woke, he saw his bed linens were smeared red—splatters of blood from the battle he had not yet washed off. He stumbled around the room, one of many at the Silver Crown, and found a wash basin.

The conversation with Gael replayed in his mind.

If you want to know more, find Arlic in Stonebrook.

And where was his father? Josef had left with few words, citing important business as a Baron in Stonebrook. Much of their gold was gone from the safe and he had not yet returned.

Gregory resolved to find answers.