Siege of Toure

Duke Reginald Fortrerre stood on the battlements of his keep. Before him lay the mottled, velvety blackness that was the sleeping city of Toure, his Ducal seat. Far in the distance, beyond the black city, the surrounding hills were dotted with tiny points of flickering light. It was growing cooler, and the besieging army lit fires now, far out of rage of the archers on the city walls.

It didn't matter how far they camped, the defenders had long ago been ordered to conserve their arrows for the defense of the walls. Probing, cautious attempts to breach the wall were thrown back on what seemed to be a weekly basis. While the defending soldiers celebrated such victories, the Duke himself knew that the attacks were only designed to test the will and strength of the city's defense at various points. Many times, the attackers were thrown back at the last moment. The Duke knew there was little hope they would survive the first major concerted attack. There were simply too few men inside the city.

Indeed, there were too few people inside the city. The women and children had fled into the hills with the old and infirm only two days before the first vanguard of the royal army had arrived on the east road. With the exception of a few scattered wives who refused to leave their husbands, the city was manned only by those who could bear arms in its defense.

Of course, his wife, Mariette, was one of those women who remained. It was her duty, after all. She would stay by his side to the bitter end that they all knew would come sooner or later. That end might be delayed if only the Duke's brother, the Count of Guille, would arrive with a relief force from Duke Josse of Sanche. Reginald had sent his brother asking for military aid over a month ago.

Would Josse answer the call? It looked doubtful. Josse and Reginald were rival claimants to the throne of Iradar, two of seven. But the letter he had sent Josse contained an impassioned plea for unity against the overwhelming size and resources of the House Rendor, who now occupied the throne. While not implicitly stating he would throw his support behind Josse, he did imply that he would be greatly indebted to him.

Would that be enough? Reginald knew Josse was an honorable man, espoused to his sense of duty and chivalry. But he was also a Duke, and with that title came all the baggage- the back-dealing, back-stabbing, and political maneuvering. On one hand, he could let Reginald be crushed by the Royal Army and do away with one rival. On another, he could recognize that each time a contender to the throne was eliminated, the royal position became stronger by default.

Reginald drew in a deep breath of air. Very soon, the sun would dawn over the western foothills and another day would arrive. Would this be another day of waiting? Would this be the day he was delivered from defeat? Or would this be the day he was finally and utterly ruined?

He felt soft hands on his shoulders and recognized the soft touch of his wife's embrace. She wrapped her slender arms about his chest from behind, and held him close, her chin pressing into the softness of his cloak.

He turned and returned the embrace. They said nothing at first, knowing that there was little to say anyway. Rather, they stood there in each other's arms, relishing the familiarity.

"Good morning, my husband," she said quietly. "It is early to be awake yet."