Killer Ghost Monks And Marauding Knights!

[lilgamefreek]

Wow, nothing in this forum for a long time. Weel, this is a work in progress story that i've been working on. As you can see it's a lot better in grammatical sense than my Jurassic Park story some of you may remember. Oh yah.

WARNING: this story contains in explcite details events in which one or more people die. Reading from children seven or younger is not advised.

In other words: In these two stories there are alot of people dying. If you don't like people dying don't read. Okay?

A dull, grey carpet of fog covered the empty street. Andrew walked down the sidewalk, his brown boots landed with dull thuds on the concrete. He squinted ahead through the fog that hung like a curtain over his face. His hands were driven into his pockets in his large brown coat. He paused, lit a cigarette, and moved on, blowing out puffs of smoke that blended in with the grayness of the fog. Ahead of him, a dark tall figure began to materialize in the gloom. He trudged on, the details on the man becoming sharper by the second. The man was covered by a dark hooded cloak, leather wrapped around his feet. Andrew shoved the man out of his way, into the street. The dim lights of a speeding car glowed behind him, the roar of an engine rumbling in the distance. A shrill scream disturbed the silent night, a dull thud. The car swept by Andrew, in the headlights a smile was on his face.

Andrew continued to walk for an hour, his face heavy with sweat. He was coming to an intersection, he could tell by a faint glow of green ahead. He arrived at the empty intersection, the lights glowing rather than shining. To his right he saw a chain link fence, behind the faint image of an abandoned gas station. He could faintly make out boarded-up windows. A sudden breeze blasted at Andrew from behind. He raised his coat up to shield his face from the sudden stinging cold. Then he became vaguely aware of the dull thuds of leather on concrete. He turned around to see the hooded figure walking toward him slowly. The bottom of his face could be seen through the haze and darkness of the hood, a gleaming snarl. Andrew began to run; he ran and ran and ran! His breathing became harder, more rapid. He kept running, but still he heard the slow footsteps of the man behind him, becoming louder and louder and LOUDER! His mind began to be filled with a constant chant. A menacing voice rang out, “Death you have given, and now you must PAY!” The pupils of his eyes suddenly exploded, filling the great expanse of blue. Just as quickly as it expanded, it shrank. It shrank and shrank and shrank until it was nothing at all. His pupils were gone. His eyes were only white and blue.

Andrew was plunged into a world of darkness. He could see nothing, just the opaque blackness. “Where am I?” he thought hard, thinking about what his situation was. However, his mind was as grey and shrouded as the fog in the outer world. Suddenly a FLASH! A small white dot appeared. Then another, and another, FLASH, FLASH, FLASH!!!! More white dots were appearing, swimming about in front of him. FLASH, FLASH, FLASH!!!! More were appearing by the second, filling up his vision with constant squirming. FLASH, FLASH, FLASH!!!! They were everywhere, but now they were clustering, moving toward one another, setting themselves in place. All of a sudden they all froze. There floating in front of him was a glistening white bony hand. Wait! Not a bony hand, a bone hand. No flesh was on those bones, no skin, no blood. Just bone. It just floated in front of him. Moving not an inch of its bleached fingers. But then, the index finger twitched. Then the middle, the ring, the pinky, the thumb! IT BEGAN MAKING A GRASPING MOTION, AS IF DRAWING OUT HIS SOUL!!!! It advanced toward him. Andrew tried to run, but he couldn’t. With all his might he attempted to move his legs, but they would not budge. They were stiff, cold. The hand was advancing, coming closer and closer and closer! He once again heard the chanting. Huo muo te ka no so guo! Huo muo te ka no so guo! Huo muo te ka no so guo! He tried to scream, but he couldn’t! No air came from his lungs, just a dark coldness. Then nothing. No sight. No smell. No hearing. No feeling. Nothing.



“So let me get this straight! We have two victims, Andrew Hoppkins and Maria Hoppkins. Both had seemingly died naturally except they had ‘Death you have given, and now you must PAY!’ scrawled onto both of their chests. This sounds like a homicide.” Detective Argouth paced in front of the white board. Detective Hewgon stood before next to the board. His hands were stuck deep in his trouser pockets as he sat on an oak bench.
“It does, but no a piece of evidence was found at the site, not a single wound, cut, or scratch. They were in perfect health. It seemed as if they randomly just dropped dead!” At that moment, a short man rushed in panting. He had a yellow folder in his hand, which he handed to Detective Argouth. “What’s that?”
“It’s a poison test. Standard procedure for potential homicide victims who seemed to have died from natural causes.” Argouth began to flip quickly through the papers, scanning each one. “Negative on all poisons.” Argouth scratched his head, covered with a mop of red curly hair. He threw the folder on his desk.
“Are you sure? I doubt they tested for all possible poisons,” Hewgon’s hair shown in the fluorescent lighting on the sealing. He was a just as puzzled as his partner. They have solved every case they had ever gotten and he wasn’t about to let it end.
“Many poisons corrupt body organs, scarring your innards or you skin. CAT scan showed nothing at all. It looks just like a normal body. Very few poisons will actually leave a body as it was found, mostly natural poisons from snakes and such fill that category. All known poisons that fall into that category were tested ending up with nothing!”


“I am truly sorry for your loss Mr. Hoppkins. The police are trying to find the murderer who did this to your wife and son.” Detective Romero patted Mr. Hoppkins on the back, the man was sobbing uncontrollably.
“I LOVED THEM SO MUCH!!! I WAS JUST GETTING TO GET TOGETHER WITH MY SON, AND HE DIES!!!” Mr. Hoppkins lifted his tissue to his nose and blew, creating a loud trumpeting noise as drops of mucus landed on the coffee table in front of them.
“Mr. Hoppkins, I know you are going through a hard time, but in order for us to find the murderer you’ll need to let us to look around your house.” Mr. Hoppkins looked up with sad watery eyes and gave a slight nod. “First, we need to ask you a few questions. Have your wife or son been feeling sick these past few days?”
“No, my wife was feeling fine, she exercised as usual, ate a healthy diet. My son seemed fine, though he was a bit edgy so to speak.”
“Has your wife or son been taking any medications, pills, or even…drugs?”
“No! My wife would never take drugs! And she wasn’t taking anything else, or at least not in front of me. My son I have truly no idea! I don’t spend time with him very often.”
“Thank you.” With that Detective Romero rose from the couch. Mr. Hoppkins watching the detective walk into his dining room, followed. The detective turned around and asked, “Where’s your bathroom?”
“It’s upstairs. Third room to the right.” Mr. Hoppkins looked up to see Romero in time to put on a pair of elastic gloves. Mr. Hoppkins turned to a table a picked up a family picture of him, Andrew, and Maria at Disneyland. A single tear drop fell onto the smooth glass. A sudden chanting began all of a sudden. He looked about at went to the window. He opened it about to shout at the neighbors, to see them outside playing baseball with their younger cousin. Suddenly his pupil exploded.
Romero came down the stairs taking and shouted, “Mr. Hoppkins! Where’s your kitchen?” No answer. Romero ran down stairs to see the pale body of Mr. Hoppkins, a shattered picture frame in his hand.


“We have Andrew, Maria, and Stephan Hoppkins all dead,” Detective Argouth was flipping through a forensics analysis. Crowded around him were Romero, Hewgon, and Thystencil. “Their bodies seemed to be functioning normally. No signs of sickness, poison, or any sort of physical wounds.” He continued flipping through the papers till his eyes rested on a single page. “Now get this. They had no pupils at all!” An eerie silence swept across the room, broken only by the papers landing on Argouth’s desk. Argouth had turned to the whiteboard, “Now the only connection to the victims is family. Hmm. I want a cop guarding every aunt, uncle, grandparents, even second cousins! Someone’s doing this and I want him! Thystencil! I want you to search the Hoppkins house hold. Find anything that may be causing this. Romero, find where Andrew, Maria, and Stephan have been this past week. Hewgon and I, we’ll interview anyone close to the family.” The room was empty a few minutes later.


“Andrew? Yah, we were real tight,” Argouth and Hewgon walked through the apartment with Jacques. “We were only roommates for a while, then we turned to best buds. Dudes, watch out!” Argouth suddenly tripped and landed in a pile of dirty laundry. He rose with a sock on top of his head.
“That’s all very nice, but we’re here to ask about Andrew’s habits. Has he been taking any pills, medication, or drugs?” Hewgon helped Argouth from the pile of clothes. They took two chairs up to the bunk bed where Jacques was sitting. Jacques merely gave a nod
“He’s been drinking at nights. Goes to a bar called, I forget, Oh yeah! It’s called The Drunken Leprechaun. That’s about all I know.”
“Has he been feeling sick at all? Anything?”
“Now that you mention it, he has been getting a bit like a loose cannon ever since his girlfriend dumped him. But no, seemed fine to me.”
“This girlfriend is?”
“Sharon Hutch.”
“Thanks, can we see his restroom?” Argouth quickly jotted down Sharon Hutch on a notepad, swiftly closing it and stuffing it in his shirt pocket, began to wade through the dirty laundry of the apartment. They both went into the restroom, each putting on a pair of gloves. They opened up a silvery mirror and looked at the various lines of medication.
“The worse thing in this cabinet is only a box of cough drops!” Hewgon picked up a box of Riccola cough drops and put it back in its place.
All of a sudden, Jacque’s pupils disappeared. He fell down onto the floor with a soft thud making slight wheezing sounds. His eyes were wide open, but only brown filled their great expanses. His breathing was becoming harsher by the second. His face read only fear. The black t-shirt he wore rose up and down in quick successions. Hewgon was dialing 911 while Argouth was backed against a wall, staring at the dieing man. Jacque was now shaking, drool seeping from the corners of his mouth. Dirty clothes were flying across the room as Jacques flailed about. The sound of a siren was heard in the distance, but it was too late. A few moments later, Jacques lay down stone dead.


“I’ve seen many strange things in my life, but that was the strangest.” Hewgon walked among the bustling cops, cars, and sirens. He ducked under a string of yellow tape, Argouth followed. “You think you see everything when you’re a detective, you know Artie? But something new always comes up.” They both walked up to Hewgon’s car, a black Mercedes. Hewgon fingers for his keys, fishing the out finally. He unlocks the car, flings the door open. Getting in, he gives an exasperated sigh. Argouth follows him in. Flashing red and blue lights shine through the windshield. Police officers are shouting at residents to return to their apartments.
“Hey, who’s that?” Argouth points at a hooded figure, black in the shadows of an alley.
“Just leave him alone, probably just another homeless person. Let’s go, they’ll need us at the station.”
“No,” Argouth stepped swiftly out of the car. Walking rapidly toward the man, he pulled out his badge. The hooded figure seemingly drifts into the alley. Argouth begins to run at the man, pulling out his badge and yelling “Stop! Police!” He quickly enters the alleyway to find nothing. He walks slowly down with his gun raised, he swung nearly madly about. His shoes slosh in the puddles. He kicks open a trashcan lid to find nothing. He takes out a flashlight, holding his pistol with on hand. He aims the flash light up a fire escape. Again nothing. The ally ended in a dead end. Argouth sighed and returned to his car.


“Yes! I am sure about what I saw!” The truck driver pounded his great fists onto the metal table. Through a one way window, Argouth and Romero and Thystencil were looking as Hewgon interviewed a witness. Hewgon’s head was bent down and he gave a long sigh. His long stick like arms supported his body as he leaned on the table.
“Okay, you may leave.” Hewgon waved his hand as if shooing the truck driver away. He too stood up and walked out a second door where he was met by the others. Argouth had a smirk on his face. He began jeering at Hewgon.
“I told you that the hooded figure had something to do with it!” He spoke happily, freely.
“So a mysterious hooded figure was seen entering the building. So what!”
“And seen walking up to the second floor, and the third, and the fourth, and seen looking through the window at Jacques chanting some odd phrase as that women with the laundry bin walked by.”
“So?”
“I hate to break up the party, but there’s a killer out there we need to find. Supposedly it’s that hooded man, but as the old saying goes ‘innocent until proven guilty.’” Thystencil had his usual serious air around him. His face was long, with the skin seemingly stretched over it. His chin jutted out and his white old hair was nearly gone. He was still tall and walked with broad easy steps.

I also have a completed story based on the last Joan of Arc campaign mission in AoK (Age of Kings/ Age of Empires II) Here it is.

“July 14, Bordeaux

“No Joan of Arc, a rich world made empty and poor! The English put her on trial as a heretic. Joan’s mind was as sharp as her sword, and she avoided all the cunning verbal traps of her prosecutors. In the end, Joan would not renounce her mission. The English found her guilty. . .
. . . and burned her at the stake.

“But her death is not in vain. ‘La Pucelle’ is rallying a cry as peasant and nobleman alike take arms. My army is an army of the people, and even without the king we are poised to strike the English stronghold of Castillon. A victory at Castillon would crush English pretensions in France forever.

“Should I die in this battle, I die for the Maid of Orleans. I die as a patriot of France.”
- Sir Jossylene

The war between the two empires continued to rage; castles were captured, burned down, and rebuilt. The war has reached its peak in which both empires have turned to conscription turning regular peasants to loyal footman. The French army continued to fight against the invading English men. The Hundred Years’ War was nearing its end however, in the favor of the Franks. There was at last one more major battle to be fought, the siege of Castillon.
Sir Jossylene Rides along side of a meager trade cart as an equal. Within the trading cart is a single item, a French flag. They pass through great forests and grassy plains filled with singing birds oblivious of the bloodshed around them. A babbling brook sings merrily cutting through the meadows and flowers, being disturbed by the splash of hooves and wheels. Fire rose to the west. They rendezvoused with the French army, a large army, filled with hundreds of archers, cavalry, foot soldiers, and a dozen packed trebuchets. The French Artillery Division was there too with three clunky bombard cannons. A scout cavalry had been previously sent to explore the surrounding lands ahead. An hour past before it reported back.
“I have ridden far and wide but much of the land is forest, so thick the trebuchets may not cross. There is however a fortified Burgundian town to the west which has several soldiers and a clear path leading to it. Perhaps, they may be of some use. Surrounding the town is mostly forest; behind it is a pass that leads through several British outposts. I have found no way around them and they are heavily guarded with towers. To the north is another town. They too have soldiers, but have a stronger defense than the Burgundians.”
Jossylene consulted with Constable Richemont and Jean Bureau. At long last a decision was made, “We shall all besiege the Burgundian town. We shall take all who surrender as captives, and all buildings that survive, for defense. That shall be are main base in which we shall attack the Britons,” Sir Jossylene pointed his sword toward the setting sun, “There is our destination, and our path to victory!”
“FOR THE MAID OF ORLEANS! FOR JOAN OF ARC!” the entire army lifted up their weaponry and fists in a rousing cry. At this they began to march off into the west, a slow steady march, with mighty trebuchets rolling along in the back. They marched on for some hours, seeing nothing but forest on either side of them and nothing but paved road underneath them. At long last the mighty stonewalls and gate loomed ahead of them.
The archer sat in the tower unaware of the advancing army. Rocking back and forth he slept, his bow to his side. He was suddenly aroused by the clanging of bells, falling down on his face. Looking up he could now see all the other towers ringing their bells. He looked toward the east and saw the advancing French Army. “Oh, no,” he muttered and sprang to his feet and reached for the rope underneath the bell. Swinging his arm back and forth, the bell emitted a terrifying noise. All of the villagers ran for the castle and soldiers stormed out. Archers took their positions in the defensive towers and in the castle. The archer sent an arrow flying out of the tower seeing how far the arrow could strike, disappointed to see it land a mere one hundred yards, two hundred yards shorter than how far a trebuchet could fire.
The army separated into teams surrounding the town on all sides. Ready if a relief force should come. Several craftsmen set to work unpacking the trebuchets, cutting the various ropes and removing the various parts. Other craftsman went to set up makeshift tents for the soldiers and workers to rest in. A foolish soldier walked into range of one of the towers however and was killed by and arrow to his head. It was eight long hours before the trebuchets were finally completed. They were immense slingshots composed of an arm, a counterweight and a sling. The arm rotates on an axle, with the sling filled with whatever objects the attackers wished. When fired, the counterweight swung the arm, releasing the sling, thus sending the target flying at the castle. They stood like giant juggernaughts, poised to kill at anytime they wished. A soldier appeared carrying only a horn. The archers did not fire knowing if they did the siege would instantly commence. The soldier gave various cries through the horn, systematic cries. A return cry was heard from the castle, long and slow. The Burgundians would not surrender. Then it was the time of dread, the arms of the trebuchets were lowered. The slings were stretched away, and filled with a mixture of boulders and ceraunia, or “Thunderbolt Stone”, mixed with resin. The mixture was ignited and was unleashed; the mixture seemed to fuse together creating a demon flaming toward the target. It smashes against one tower igniting the roof and crumbling the wall, archers could be seen diving out in a desperate attempt to escape. A second trebuchet was fired, hitting the stonewall of the city. The bombard cannons were now positioned and sending cannonballs at the towers behind the stone barricades. Towers fell day by day. It was the sixteenth day however when something happened. Smoke rose from the top of the castle.
Sir Oliver sat in a wooden chair drinking from a golden goblet. He thought, with Joan of Arc dead, the Franks would certainly surrender. He was feeling pleasant with a smile on his young face. He was in his mid thirties and wore a red and blue robe, lined with gold, a golden collar, and a fur hat. He wore a large amount of gems on his body, his fingers full of rings with many precious stones embedded in gold. A large clunky necklace was around his neck with gold and silver links and a great number of turquoise stones sitting upon it. He was in his own fantasy thinking of the king himself praising him for his work in France. The golden goblet went up to his lips again, when the door slammed open. Water flew onto his uniform, ruining the dye. He stood up with an angry scowl at the intruder saber released from its sheath and raised.
The servant stood there stammering, “I…I…I’m s…s…s…s…sorry sir! I just c…c..c..c…c..c,” the saber was raised to his throat, “c…c…came to…to…to… tell you that…the Burgundians have…uhh…raised their alarm!”
“My lad, have you ever heard of KNOCKING!” Oliver was red in his face partially because had had just soiled his favorite uniform, the other because of the annoyance he felt toward the attendant. “I can order your throat to be slit this very instant, or do it myself,” Oliver raised the saber even closer to the attendant. He truly hated that small Burgundian town, they were always asking for help, in one-way or the other. He finally calmed down and lowered his saber from the boy’s throat, “Remember next time to knock.”
“I w…will.”
The boy had told Oliver everything he knew, which was really just that the town was being besieged. Oliver had commanded that thirty soldiers to go to the town and be accompanied by a scout cavalry, insisting that the scout survive to tell the tale.
The siege had now continued for twenty-one days. All the towers were now destroyed and it was only a matter of starving the Burgundians out. Many of the peasants had been driven out of the castle to conserve food; all were captured by the French. Supply carts continuously came in and out giving food, clothes, and other needs to the army. They had now battled against three relief forces, each resulting in only a small amount of casualties. The castle itself had been attacked only a few times in an attempt to spook the lord into surrendering.
It had now been three months; the only action that occurred was the small battles against a relief force. Casualties of French soldiers were now about one hundred sixteen. Jossylene, Richemont, and Jean were in high spirits in the way the campaign had started. Casualties have been at a minimum, mainly because the Britons saw no importance in the small town to send a large relief force.
The lord of the castle was stressed to make a decision. He could surrender and forever be a servant to the Franks, who he dearly hated, or to continue to fight. Food was running low, extremely low. He had not foreseen a siege, or a retaliation of this proportion. If he did he would have prepared and would have had four times the amount of food than he had at the beginning of the siege. “One more day, and perhaps a relief force will come.” He sat there continuing to eat a small ration of jerky.
The relief force did come the other day. Hearing the scout’s findings, the general realized the strategic advantage the Franks would have if they captured the town. He had sent every man he could afford to try to attack the enemy only leaving a few to defend the English stronghold. The men were almost at the town, just over the hill.
A foot soldier was eating some dry turkey, resting his head against a cannon. He looked at the hill to the east with relaxed eyes, which at that instant turned into eyes of a man who had seen death. Several other soldiers had seen it too, some running to the tents of Sir Jossylene, Constable Richemont, and Jean Bureau. Other soldiers began to draw arms and mounting their horses. Jossylene and Richemont were soon seen riding along the many soldiers surrounding the town commanding them to bring all weapons to the east side of town and prepare for battle. Troops were gathering to fight the English, who were now about two miles away. It would be the first major battle since the start of the campaign. Many arbalests lined in the back along with lesser crossbowman and normal archers of varying skill. In the mid section were foot soldiers, Peasants, noblemen, and war veterans stood side by side, all with fear in their eyes. In the front were the cavalry, glistening with armor that shown red with the rising sun. Lances were out and swords sitting at their sides. They all looked onward at the advancing English army. The English were the first to charge running down the hill toward the Franks, the Franks returned with a volley of crossbow bolts and arrows. At impact several soldiers fell to the ground or from their steeds, and several steeds toppled over their passengers. As the English men advanced closer, a second barrage of arrows flew from the archers, whizzing toward the army. The archers had all reloaded and on command another volley of arrows flew slaying many in some cluster of Britons. The Franks now charged, running as fast as they could at the oncoming army. Lances were pointed at the enemy. In a rousing scream, the two armies met, lines of knights falling to enemy lances. Lances broke and both sides received blows as knights fell and splinters filled the air. Surviving knights drew their swords and began to attack other knights and foot soldiers. Men lay wounded or dead on the ground as horses galloped about and foot soldiers clashed swords. A knight slashed at foot soldiers below him when one smart man-at-arms slashed at the horse’s legs. The knight fell down and was attacked by several soldiers. Many peasants were now dead, unskilled with a sword, other veterans and elites were holding well slaying almost everyman around him. Many soldiers were crimson with blood on their armor as they hacked and severed their enemies, blood spraying from wounds. It was chaos, as a small amount of flaming arrows were launched. Some hitting their targets, some killing friends, others landing on the morning grass. Soldiers were being decapitated, burned alive, or trampled, throughout the battle field great shrieks of terror and pain rang out. An inexperienced peasant was hacking his sword against the armor of a near-dead soldier, to have a knight ride by and cut through his neck with a broadsword. An experienced archer sent his crossbow bolt flying at a knight, striking him in the horizontal slit on his helmet. With a gurgling moan, the knight collapsed to the ground. Then an archer collapsed with an arrow striking through his abdomen, then a second. The archers looked in bewilderment when they saw English longbow men in the neighboring forests. They attempted to shoot at them killing a few, but there skill was hardly equal to that of the disciplined archers of the Britons. Though skilled, it was still a daunting task to attempt to shoot at the scurrying knights and soldiers. The archers were now waging a mini war, archers verse archers. Arrows flew around as some archers ran to seek cover, seeing none but the enemy lined forests. Knights galloped to and fro around the battlefield, slashing their swords at the necks of armored men, attacking enemy knights in melee battle. Archers were now useless with both friend and foe swarming among one another. The Britons were fairing equally well as the Franks, but the Franks, with more men and a greater will overwhelmed the British force. They retreated after an hour of fighting, fleeing for their lives, the Franks giving a rousing cry of victory. The ground’s grassy fields now were flattened and dead. Blood wet and dry, stained the ground different hues of reds and browns. Broken swords, crossbow bolts, and splintered lances were strewn across the desolate ground. Smoke rose from other parts, grass charred or burning. Dead soldiers lay everywhere, many with bodies turned into hamburger from the trampling horses, or having no body parts at all. Wounded French soldiers were carried to camp and treated in tents. The day had been a sad day for the Franks, totaling seven hundred casualties. Seeing this battle from the top of the castle however, the lord instantly surrendered having all the town populace turn into loyal soldiers of the Franks. The remaining cavalry had been sent to track down the fleeing attack force, being instructed to flee if knowingly over powered.
Upon news of the surrender the soldiers gladly moved into the town, invading houses for rest and protection. Though it was a custom to slaughter all residents in the castle, the French wanted to use the soldiers, only killing them if they proved disloyal. The remaining cavalry had no such luck, being attacked by a British outpost. They retreated losing about three soldiers; luckily the archers garrisoned in the towers were unskilled. The remaining Britons had arrived to Castillon, and instantly reported their news to a castle guard.
Sir Oliver sat there scowling. His forehead was wrinkled and bushy eyebrows protruded outward in deep concentration. His hands rested underneath his chin. The loss at the town was a sad loss indeed, not only had they lost many soldiers, nearly one thousand to be exact, but the Franks now had an outpost, a rest stop so to say, close to Castillon. Troops could now gather in relative safety for siege weapons would take months to build and weeks to import from England. However, the general knew he would need to get the town back in some way.
It was the best night since the start of the campaign. The Franks at last had control of an area close to Castillon. Not only that but at last they had a secure shelter. The castle had been repaired and provided adequate protection from the Britons; the stonewalls were repaired and fortified with and extra three feet of stone. French troops gathered in the garrison, numbers rising everyday. It was now three weeks and the numbers of the French battalion had been restored and more were coming every day. During this time however, the English had not been inactive. A messenger had been sent to the king to ask for reinforcements and siege weapons. The king had received the news and siege weapon parts were being loaded up onto ships. The shipment would arrive in two weeks and the construction would take a week or two. In the mean time the Britons were leveling forests and using the lumber for more siege weapons. They also have been gaining more soldiers, but at a slower rate.
The town had changed dramatically since the French invasion. There were five new blacksmiths, homes were disorganized and in chaos, the ground smelt of horse feces, the air smelt of smoke, and some buildings were lined with crossbow bolts with a big red circle on the wall. There were still many tents for there was not enough housing for all the soldiers. Several towers were rebuilt and guarded the landscape, each with five crossbowman and ten archers stationed within. Everywhere was the sound of chaos, hammers, horses, swords, even an occasional scream. The castle stood above it all, and within its many corridors, rooms, and chambers the sounds of merriment rang out as soldiers spoke and laughed, speaking of their many deeds. In a secret chamber however, Jossylene, Richemont, and Jean were discussing their next move. Of the many weapons in the French arsenal, one of these were spies. Eight women, men, and children were sent to spy on Castillon disguised as Fleeing Burgundian peasants. They stayed in Castillon until they had retrieved a map. If they succeeded, they would return and give the map to one of the three officials. At long last a well drawn map has been taken and this was what the men were pouring over now. The room was damp and stuffy; the only light were from six torches lying on the wall.
“Oliver is no buffoon. He knows he needs to retake the town and had probably already sent a letter requesting siege weapons already,” Jean sat twiddling his fingers. He looked at the two others, his bald head clearly glistening in the torch light. His head lacked any form of hair, but he was not old as his clear blue eyes showed. His clothing was much plainer than Jossylene’s or Richemont’s, who wore elaborate robes and armor at the time strangely. His clothing was a plain, much like a peasant’s garment only covered with many geometric designs.
“You speak sooth (truth) my friend. We need to attempt to take Castillon before Oliver can obtain enough power to retake the town. The castle is surrounded by two walls,” Jossylene’s hand went down to the map and traced out two clear circles around the drawing of a castle. He wore much more elaborate clothing. A blue robe with silver lining was wrapped around him. He had a feathered cap and a single ring on his finger. A large ruby set into the strip of gold. “There are garrisons located in the wall for archers to fire from. Then there is a moat,” His hand traced yet another line revolving around the castle. “It shall prove difficult to storm the castle with that in place. There are five drawbridges, and two gates. They shall certainly be closed when we approach. Outside of the castle are mostly markets, shops, and houses. They are all enclosed within a wall also. There are four entrance gates,” he pointed to four points on the map, one in the north, one to the North West, another to the east, and the last to the south west. “Behind the outer walls are guard towers. The gate to the north has the least amount of towers guarding it, but it is extremely close to Shrewberry. They will certainly help the Britons fight against us if we are to close. However, in the towers seem to be in higher concentration as you move farther south. At the very south however, the towers begin to lessen again. Directly south of us currently is a second Burgundian town. If we conquer that town, it will relieve a great deal of hardship from our army.”
“Yes indeed, however I feel that it may be a waste of resources to attempt to take the second Burgundian town. It will add much time to this campaign and that will give the Britons themselves a chance to fight back. If we wish to storm the Britons, it will take a smaller force so that we just break down the walls and towers and storm Castillon,” Richemont was clad in chain-mail surprisingly. The small tiny links seemed to glow in the dim torch light. His eyes were blue and appeared to glimmer with an unseen fire that was fueled by the thoughts of hate and revenge. He was only a boy of the age of seven when English soldiers burned his village. The town was completely massacred, but he escaped for he hid in the neighboring forest. He was now at the age of twenty-four, yet his hot temper and unstable attitude, though made him unfavorable to his subjects, allowed him to climb the ranks of the army in a mere four years.
“Do not speak so soon for it may be harder than it seems. The might of the Briton’s lie in their archers. Longbow men can easily eliminate an advancing army let alone an unmoving army. Once we are in range of the castle itself, then things get complicated. If we enter the town without destroying all of the towers, the troops within the towers and buildings around them could form a large enough force of archers to attack us in the middle of the siege. But if we attempt to destroy the towers, it will buy enough time to let the neighboring towns to establish a relief force. If we destroy both towns and then besiege Castillon, it will most certainly allow the Britons to attack us at the same time. In my opinion, destroying all towers would be a much better idea. Are forces are strong enough to handle a moderately large attack. However, if the two towns are able to join, then our forces will be diminished to such an extent, the Britons could easily overpower us,” Jean looked at both Jossylene and Richemont with a hard displeased look.
“So in all cases it’s a losing scenario. We could attack all three towns at once!”
“Too little men.”
“I have had enough of your criticism Jean! Why can’t you just stick to one strategy and hope for the best!”
“Because it could cost us the WAR!”
“In all wars you must take chances and this war is no exception! We all took a chance to serve under Joan and look what has happened! She has given the chance all of France needs to drive the Britons away at last! If god was with her, god should be with us and that gives us the power to at last achieve victory and freedom. Why must you be so perfect? War is not a cannon you can calculate where the iron shot will land! War is an instrument that requires guess work, chances, and sacrifices. So WHY must you be so stubborn and need a perfect strategy to continue on with this campaign!”
“Because I’m SCARED!” A long silence fell on the men. Both Jean and Richemont were red with anger, chests heaving up and down. Jossylene just stared at both of them, looking back and forth at the two men.
The men emerged into the castle hall and seated themselves at the long tables. They ate in silence; the only sounds were the tinkering of plates and the scurrying of cooks. Jean and Richemont were constantly staring up from their food at each other. When dinner was at long last over, the three men went their separate ways.
Jossylene wandered up to the highest tower, looking in all directions. To the west he could see Castillon. Its walls high and castle a mere silhouette in the setting sun. To the south sat a second Burgundian town. To the north was the town of Shrewberry. He surveyed the town beneath him, seeing all the chaos. He sighed a sad sigh and left the tower.
Jean sat on his bed thinking. He was scared, really scared. He was thinking, searching for an answer. How could they attack Castillon? He thought of every battle strategy and found a major flaw with each one. He had become almost obsessive in finding a perfect battle strategy over the past weeks. He was afraid of losing the war, of losing all France had fought so hard for, but most of all he was scared of death. He thought and he thought, but no plan was ever perfect. No plan held any possibility. He nearly burst into tears when the door slowly creaked open.
Richemont walked slowly through the chaotic streets of the Burgundian town. He saw a sickly old man lying against a wall as a young boy begged for food. He passed them with disgust. A dog slept in the middle of street. Richemont kicked it out of his way, the dog landed with a yelp and moan. A smile crept across Richemont’s face. He continued down the street and entered a bar. He sat down next to a hooded figure, covered in a dirty brown robe. In the corner a party of soldiers was drunk, bragging about their many deeds, singing songs with drunken voices. The hooded figure spoke, “I have given them one too many rounds of beer. They will know nothing once are conversation ends.” The bartender gave Richemont a mug of beer.
“What about him?” Richemont pointed at the working bartender.
“Do not worry. He is loyal to the Britons. He will not speak a word.” The hooded figure spoke with a hiss. A single eye could be seen in the darkness of the hood, a long scar crossing over it.
“Very well. I hope you speak truth, for you have been known around the countryside as Harone the False.” Richemont took a sip of his beer. He madly threw the mug at the bartender, screaming, “This beer is too warm!” The soldiers in the corner continued to sing.
All of the trebuchets were packed in a clearing. A guard slept soundly against the spokes of a wheel. A slow whistling could be heard as his head bobbed up and down. In the bushes a shadow stirred. The guard slept on. A black figure dashed from the bushes and hid behind one of the trebuchets. It speedily untied the rope and took out a saw. Hurriedly he sawed a slit in one of the beams of wood. It moved on to another and another and another, repeating the process each time. On the seventh one, the guard awoke. Looking at the figure, he shouted at it and drew his sword. The figure dashed away toward the gate. The blasting sound of a horn was heard. The archers garrisoned in the towers saw the running figure, and hearing the horn blast, they fired at the figure, sending seven arrows into its body. A soft groan was heard as the figure fell with a soft thump. Soldiers ran to the body and removed its hood. A pale face with sullen eyes looked up at them. He all of a sudden vomited blood, covering many of the onlookers. His robe and face bloody, his head fell to the ground. With a soft moan, the sad eyes rolled into their sockets.
Sir Jossylene walked along the city streets. As he passed a butcher, he crashed in to a drunken man. Both men fell to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. Standing up sputtering, Jossylene was surprised to see the dusty face of Richemont. He helped Richemont up to his feet, finding his body surprisingly heavy. Richemont stood awkwardly, wobbling back and forth on his two legs. He had obviously been drinking, for he spoke in a high pitched giddy way.
“My friend! What have you been doing on this grave evening?” Jossylene looked at Richemont in a concerned manner.
“*hic* I have gone of to the *hic, hic* land of the fairies. Hee, he, he,*hic* hee. What a pleasant *hic* place it is, with *hic* pretty flowees and little uni-*hic*-corns prancing along lovely smelling meadows. What have you been doing purple *hic* elf?”
“I need to get you to the castle!” Jossylene snatched Richemont roughly by the collar. Richemont tried to protest shrieking about not wanting to go back and to be ruled by the elfish kings. They made quite a seen, drawing numerous peasants to see two nobles fighting, one dragging the other along the ground, and the second seemingly possessed by some odd witch. At last Jossylene reached over to a plank of wood and hit the poor man upon the crown. Richemont being unconscious at last, Jossylene scooped him up and placed him upon a cart, paying the good farmer to bring him to the castle. He then continued along his way.
Arrows whizzed through the air landing upon a myriad of targets. A group of longbow men some two hundred yards away, sent a second volley of arrows just five seconds later. Achieving their targets, they took a step back and fired again. Overhead loomed the great castle of Castillon. Sir Oliver looked out of the window, momentarily distracted by the competing archers. He sighed and returned to a map sprawled about his desk. Across town, where the only barrier was a dense forest, lumberjacks were bringing down great trees. Craftsmen were shaping these trees into beams and various parts. Three battering rams had been completed, even with a metal cap covering a pointed end. Men were on top of it covering the roof with animal hide and several metal plates. Other beams were being packed together, with distinctive parts to that of trebuchets. The eight blacksmith shops were working at full force fashioning armor, swords, and arrow points. Hundreds of men lined up side by side, being taught basics of swordsmanship. Women were in the fields packing bags full of vegetables and meat to give to the army. Alchemists were creating explosive mixtures, while sacks of gunpowder were being stored in the armory along side of various cannons. It was all preparations for war, for survival, and there sat Sir Oliver alone in his little room.
Wild eyes flew about the room. The small boy ran about, putting his ear to all the walls of Jean Bureau’s room. He wore only peasant garments, and had brown unruly hair. His blue eyes seemed pale, as if they had been suppressed by long years of sadness. The boy went about the room with surprising speed. He shut all the windows, and at last closed the door. The young boy turned to Jean. “I must speak with you. This is very urgent.”
“Who are you?”
“That is not important at the moment. What is important is how I got into the castle.”
This puzzled Jean for a moment. This young boy surely could not have entered the castle directly. Either he has been in the castle since the siege, or he had sneaked in.
“I will tell. As you know, many castles have secret passages. This castle is no exception. There is even a passage that leads to the outside. The Britons know about this passage, and they will use it soon. They are massing an army to enter the passage and attack the castle’s interior.”
“Tell me, boy, where is this passage!” Jean was wild with excitement and fear.
“In the armory, there is a statue of a knight. Behind his right arm, you will see a discolored brick. Press on it, and a large door will swing open. Inside is a path that follows that of a natural cave. The path has been well defined with cut stone on the ground where the path leads. At last you come to a stair case to the side. At the top of the stairs is a large trap door that will bring you into a second cave, one with an opening into the neighboring forests.”
“How do you know of this passage? And why do you tell me this?”
“Long have I served in the castle, and I know nearly all secret ways. I am a squire of restless nature. I cannot help explore. I also hate the Britons. I have long resented their ways, their customs. They killed their king with an Iron Poker! I just hope this information may be useful to you and that you believe me.” With that the boy flew out of the door and across the hall toward the armory.
Jean entered the armory through a great set of double doors. His footsteps echoed in the cavernous room as he searched for the statue the boy spoke of. All he saw were bags of gunpowder and piles of iron shot. He then realized there was someone else in the room. Spinning around, he saw Richemont, still drunk but mind being cleared enough to remember the hate he had, with a sword in his hand advancing toward him. He suddenly lunged at him, Jean dodged yet part of his sleeve was cut off by the blow. Looking at Richemont again, he ran as fast as he could to find no door at the other end. Richemont, still drunk, grumbled something incomprehensible and advanced steadily. Jean ran and hid behind a statue. He waited and prayed, but Richemont continued to advance. His shadow stretched in front of Jean. Richemont turned to Jean and gave a rousing cry. Lifting his sword, he screamed, “DIE ENGLISH FILTH!” He swung the sword down and opened his eyes to see that Jean was gone.
Jean tumbled down a series of stairs, and came to a stop at the bottom, finding only darkness. The floor was wet as water dripped slowly from the roof. Jean gave a slight groan which echoed through the lonely cave. He lifted his hands to his face, to see only blackness. The dripping of water continued. The air was stale and rank with bat guano. He began to feel his way across the ground, touching the cleanly cut stone. All of a sudden, his hands left the path. Moving back He turned to the right to feel earthen ground again. He turned to the left and felt only dirt. He moved in a complete circle, at last finding the path taking a sharp bend to the left. He continued only to be halted by another bend. “This is going to be a long trek,” he thought.
Jossylene walked into Richemont’s room. There he found Richemont, sitting in a wooden chair looking out the window. He walked toward Richemont, seating himself in a second wooden chair. “I see you are feeling better.”
Richemont sighed a sad sigh and looked at Jossylene, “I attacked Jean while I was drunk.”
“YOU WHAT!”
“I just did. I cornered him behind a statue, but when I swung the sword he wasn’t there anymore. He had just disappeared.”
“Oh dear. Where did you attack him?”
“In the armory. Or at least I think. I can’t remember.”
“Let us hope we can still find him.” They both went out the door to the armory. When they got there, they saw no sine of Jean. “Do you know which statue?”
“I was drunk. Do you expect me to know where I tried to kill someone?”
“Okay, okay.” They passed by statue after statue, until they came across the statue of a knight. They saw the broken remains of a sword. “This looks like the spot.”
Both pondered where Jean could go, as they wondered, Jossylene looked behind the statue, placing his hand on the wall for support. Suddenly the wall swung inward, and Jossylene went tumbling inside. The wall then shut behind him. Richemont screamed in alarm and ran off to get a torch.
All of a sudden Jean came across a Y-bend. He couldn’t decide where to go. He had been walking for three hours, making very little progress. He decided to take a rest, and sat where he was, his head in his hand. Then a faint glow began to come in his direction. In the torch light was the boy Jean had seen earlier. He beckoned Jean toward him, to come through the tunnel he had just come through. Jean gladly followed, feeling relieved to finally have light. The cavern walls were surprisingly smooth, not one of the limestone caves. The rock walls were brown, with specks of white and black. On the ground was various amounts of bat guano and puddles of water, but he could see clearly the blocks of stone. He continued on until to the side he noticed a small staircase. The boy, instructing him to climb the stairs, went up and out of site. Jean hurriedly followed for the welcoming light of the torch was fading quickly. At last, he found the boy underneath a trap door. Jean eagerly opened the door and popped into a room, filled with British soldiers. Jean attempted to escape, running back through the trap door, but halfway down the stairs, he suddenly went into total darkness. He could hear screams and shouts of the pursuing soldiers. He attempted to run, but crashed into a wall. The glow of pursuing torches allowed him to run a little, but every time the darkness returned. He did this for several minutes, yet suddenly, he saw a second glow ahead of him. Baffled and scared, he stood in place believing he was cornered. In an instant Jossylene and Richemont came running around the corner. Jean ran to his companions in relief. Quickly mentioning British soldiers in pursuit, all three quickly ran down the tunnel. In only a matter of minutes, they were running upward to the door Jean had once come through. Jean realized how short the passage really was, able to be traveled across in some ten minutes. They could still hear the shouts behind them and the constant rhythm of footsteps. Pulling on a metal ring, the door swung open and blazing light shone through. They quickly ran through and slammed the door shut. Jossylene ran off to retrieve a group of soldiers to attack the Britons. The Britons broke in, suddenly and Jean and Richemont were all by themselves. Richemont drew his sword; Jean was reluctant seeing five soldiers. He pulled out his sword also, but he was not as skilled with a sword as Richemont. They charged, Richemont with full enthusiasm, Jean hesitant. Richemont killed three of them already and was battling the fourth, when the five sprung at Jean. Jean screamed and swung his sword blindly at the attacker slick his neck. Jean was amazed. Jossylene arrived with a group of ten soldiers and some masons to see all the soldiers dead on the ground. After things settled, orders for a stonewall were immediately made and several masons went off to construct a sturdy wall across the tunnel. Jean sat in a chair with an unseen fire in his eyes. When Jossylene and Richemont came to check on him, he leapt up and said, “Let us begin the siege tomorrow!” Richemont and Jossylene were stunned by this remark. Their once conservative friend had all of a sudden turned into a blood thirsty commander. Jean continued to eagerly talk about plans and strategies.
A servant came in telling the group, “Seven of the trebuchets are defective with slits running through several of the beams!”
Jean’s reply was only, “Bah! We can do a siege with only five trebuchets!”
Richemont entered Jean’s state of eagerness joining his babble of combat. Jossylene merely stood there shaking his head. He wanted to get on with the campaign too, but to start the very next morning was a bit overwhelming. Seeing his companions in there state of eagerness and seeing no true harm or consequences in starting early, he decided to comply with the wishes of his fellow men.
The following morning, all the troops were rallied, being instructed to come together at this point when the four horn blasts from the castle sounded and the great bells rung. Seeing that they did, Jossylene went off to see if repairing the trebuchets had been started. Wooden beams from a local storage area had been found and was being used to replace the beams that had slits sawed into them. The odd hooded man, not being identified, was merely discarded. Richemont and Jean were taken up creating plans of attack. An odd friendship was beginning to kindle between the two as they vigorously talked. Laughing, arguing, giving moans of realization, none of these signs lasted long, but none the less enforced this friendship. Some three days later, having agreed on a plan, the bells of the castle rang loud and clear.
The army was grand indeed, some twenty thousand men. Jossylene and Richemont rode at the front, with great plates of glistening armor strapped on their bodies. Jean was inclined to ride next to his cannons. The trebuchets had been repaired, or at least most of them. Some had been left behind. They had now been marching for eight days, setting up camp and eating their meals. Outposts had been defeated every here and there, the French army showing mercy to no man. At last, they had arrived at the outer walls of Castillon.
Destroying the surrounding towers, the army quickly stormed in, killing anyone they met. They were attacked, of course, by groups of soldiers, but they could not defend themselves from the waves of soldiers that were coming in. Now ten days after the initial attack, the siege weapons had been placed at the sides of the castle wall. Everything was set up, all the trebuchets were in place, the cannons were loaded, and the soldiers were gathered. A sudden whoosh and a fiery arc ran across the sky. It was night and the fiery mass blotted out the stars. The mass smashed into the ground showing a dead horse, fat bubbling through the skin. Another trebuchet launched and another, sending over dead horses and others, as if taunting the Britons. This was not just random hurling. They were trying to hit the armory. They knew, where it was from the map, and they knew that it was filled with powder. There would be a huge fire, and men will come off from the garrisons and walls to put it out. This means with the walls vacant, they could attempt to scale the walls and enter the castles. Three cannons had been loaded with heated shot, and fired. They all fell close to the armory, but not close enough. In the courtyard, men were already running around, trying to put out the fires. The trebuchets had now moved on from taunting to destruction, sending flaming stones at the walls and courtyard. Inside the courtyard, there were screams of pain and death as hundreds of soldiers ran about fleeing from falling rocks. Archers were firing flaming arrows into the courtyard below, setting soldiers aflame. Archers in the battlements continued to fire at the enemy hitting some, but hardly any to effect the battle. Small cannons in the battlements were being loaded with metal arrows. A flaming ball landed in front of a soldier’s foot. It was a human head, flesh burning, and fat popping. It was kicked away like a ball. Another barrage of iron shot flew into the air, smashing into the roof of the armory. All of a sudden, a flash of light, a blast of heat, a powerful roar. The entire armory burst into a giant fireball. The entire courtyard was on fire, the battered and torn remains of soldiers flew into the air and landed on the ground burning. Screams were heard as men everywhere ran off to put out the fire. Taking this chance, Jossylene, Richemont, and Jean ordered hundreds of ladders be placed at the walls. Soldiers stormed in screaming as they invaded the courtyard. One by one, French soldiers began lowering the draw bridges and opening the gates. The wooden panels fell with a thump, and knights began to flood in. Jossylene and Richemont charged through with the knights. The entire courtyard was on fire as soldiers battled in the scorching heat. Sparks flew as swords clashed, and men fell with bloody wounds.
Richemont and Jossylene ran about amid the flames dodging battling soldiers. Getting to the castle, they flung open the doors and ran inside with a swarm of soldiers. The waves of soldiers ran around sweeping through the castle grounds, killing all in their path. Women and children hid in a corner behind a pile of pots watching hundreds of feet run by them. Jossylene grabbed a soldier roughly and screamed at him, “Oliver! Tell me where Oliver is or I shall slit your gut!” The soldier, terrified pointed to a spiral stair leading off into a tower. He threw the soldier down, to hear him scream as other French soldiers descended upon him, swords drawn. Jossylene ran up the stairs to find only a wooden door. He kicked it open with all his might to find Oliver looking through a window. He turned around and gave a snarl.
“I can see that I cannot win. This battle is lost, the entire war is lost, but at least I may die happy to see your head for once separated from your body!”
“Long have your country men tormented my people. Slaying our villagers, burning are crops, claiming what is not rightfully yours! I may die in this battle, in this castle, in your very room, but at least I know I died for my country, as a patriot!” At this Oliver drew his sword and Jossylene readied his. Oliver lunged at Jossylene, but Jossylene dodged easily. Oliver lunged again, but Jossylene blocked with his sword sending a shower of sparks. Another clash of swords and another as Oliver continuously lunged and Jossylene continuously blocked. So fast were the clashes, the striking, the fighting. Jossylene took his chance and sent an attack at Oliver, who blocked it with equal ease. Both paced about the room in a dance of death. They slowly made there way out on a balcony, still clashing swords. A bundle of stones flew into the tower twenty feet from them, but it was ignored. The swords went back and forth, being swung and jabbed. Another group of rocks crashed into a wall next to them. Stone blasted from the wall flying in all directions down to the courtyard below, smashing battling soldiers. The swords continued to clash. Yet at long last, the sword was flung from Oliver’s hands down to the courtyard below. Oliver backed away from Jossylene to be stopped against the balcony rail. Jossylene pointed his sword at Oliver’s chest and spoke in a calm, nearly demented voice, “Long have my people suffered. Your men killed my family, burned my village, and now you will pay. I at last have my revenge!”
“Please! Have mercy upon my soul. Do not kill me and I shall for ever be in your debt!”
“You will not die,” Oliver gave a slight sigh of relief. At that Jossylene pushed Oliver off the railing. Oliver fell, his body facing Jossylene screaming! His arms clutched at air and his legs flailed about. His body landed with a thump on a roof, it continued to roll about and fell again upon the dirt ground of the courtyard. Jossylene gave a sigh and walked back into the room.
The rising sun showed a blood bath. The courtyard was charred and bloody, small licking tongues of flame arose from the burnt ashes. Dead bodies lay everywhere, on the ground and in the castle. Many of the bodies were only burnt skeletons, some crumbled from the weight of the armor around them. Others had been dead for only a short time after the fire had devastated the area. Heads and bodies lay about with various parts hacked off. Horses lay on the ground also, once trustworthy steeds of brave knights. Shattered swords, bows, and arrows were spread across the courtyard. Jossylene walked amongst the bodies through the courtyard. He looked down at a head; pale as snow, but with the fear glued upon his face. Jossylene walked on with Richemont and Jean, to ward the castle wall. They came across a body, still with color in his body. Turning him over with a foot, Jossylene looked into the eyes of Oliver. Oliver gave a slight groan. He looked miserable. Clotted blood was spread all over his face, his shoulder appeared dislocated. His leg looked hardly attached to his body, much of it was bleeding and his knee appeared to have been trample. A piece of metal had stabbed through his other leg. Jossylene raised his sword and lunged it into Oliver’s heart. A quick gasp, and then Oliver passed on. Jossylene moved back to his army, a bittersweet happiness in his heart. The same trade cart at the start of the campaign passes by him. The driver hopped out of the cart and reached for the French flag, hurrying into the castle. In a few minutes, he rose at the top of the highest tower and raised the French flag. A rousing cry came from the surrounding grounds below as the flag waved majestically above the army.

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