5 - The Siege
Marok sluggishly climbed the battlements of Ista Hold, taking a spear from the small armory and walking up to his old friend. "How're you?" he asked him. "Oh, awesome as always. My wife just told me to get a real job or get lost." Urotok exclaimed, a sarcastic smile on his lips.
"She doesn't think guarding is a real job?" Marok smiled. His accent was distinct from Urotok's, his Nerati heritage seeping through every word.
"She doesn't think it's a well paid job." Urotok frowned. He was leaning over the battlements lazily, gazing right into the dawn, desperately trying to draw some energy from it. And failing.
"Well, of course! We're getting the well deserved payment for doing nothing the whole day." Marok laughed, patting the other guard on the back. He came over and gazed into the wide open fields in front of them. To the far right, he could almost see the docks. To his left and all in the front were nothing but farms and fields. Already, workers set out to their daily routines.
"I'd rather be sitting here than plowing those fields. We're lucky to have this job." Urotok grunted, displeased at how unfair life has been to him. Marok sighed, glaring into the sun as well. It was unusually bright this morning. It flickered more than usual, too. Hm, no, it wasn't the sun that flickered. Something large was walking down the road towards the hold. All around, the farmers were rising from their plots, gazing at it as if it were something never-before seen. Marok grabbed his friend's sleeve and pointed at that thing. "What's that, a watch-wher?" he squinted. But no, this was too large to be a watch-wher, Marok was lucky enough to know that. "No, it's a dragon." Marok growled. He never saw a bronze or a gold before, just a brown, though still much bigger than any watch-wher he's ever seen. That brown flew over the whole hold and landed right at the main hall, but left as quickly as he came. When that happened, Marok wondered what that foolish rider meant to achieve. Murder their Lord Holder? Pathetic attempt at that. Dragons haven't appeared in Ista Hold for a long time, this was the first many adults have seen one.
The bronze dragon slowly neared the hold. It's size turned out to be overwhelming. The head was the same height as the battlements, though he had it bolted upright like a human. The farmers around the beast were spitting in it's general direction, spewing insults. Neither the dragon nor his rider seemed to mind though. The guards on the other hand scrambled up and equipped themselves with all weapons, spears, daggers, shields, forming a line at the top of the battlements. They also closed the gate which until now remained open.
"What do you want, dragonrider?" the commander shouted, stressing the title as if it were an insult. The dragonrider took some time to answer, and his voice was full of pretended confidence and pride. "You will surrender your arms, leave the Hold and swear fealty to the dragonriders of Ista Weyr!" Was this the new Weyrleader? If so, he was a pretty poor one. Even his beast commanded little respect, as both farmers and guards answered his demands with laughter. An expression of appal and defeat spread across the rider's face, but he kept shouting some scripted demand. "Your Lord Holder will abdicate and you will work as laborers in the firestone mines and on the fields. Those pretty enough will become the misters and mistresses of dragonriders!" now, the laughter has gone out, replaced with furious shouts and more insults.
"We refuse!" the commander yelled back, his voice strong with confidence. Marok wasn't so sure. He hasn't heard of any firestone mines working for the Weyr, but even a dragon that breathed no fire was dangerous.
"Then," the bronze rider declared, trying his best to outshout the farmers and failing. His dragon had to roar so loudly it could be heard it all the way by the docks to silence them. "By the power given to him by the mating flight, T'rax, Weyrleader of Ista Weyr, declares war upon your hold!"
In a blink of an eye, the sun darkened, cold bit deep into the guards and strong winds swept away their arms. The sky was full of dragons. Blues were landing on the watchtowers everywhere, greens flew over the city and headed to the docks, roaring so loudly the stone beneath Marok's feet started vibrating. The bells sounding alarm were useless.
Once the shock has worn off, Marok scrambled to his feet and off the battlements, down into the city. He could hear the commander ordering the archers to shoot the blue dragons, but before any arrows could be launched, dreadful cries echoed from the walls as the holders were crushed, devoured, burnt alive, whatever deadly weapon the dragons used. Marok didn't want to know, he wanted to get away, he wanted to live.
Just before he could get out of the main garrison and into the streets, a roar of victory echoed from the battlements. He didn't want to turn around, but his muscles didn't listen. He had to see it. The walls he just escaped were painted in blood, blue and green dragons proudly sitting atop the corpses of his friends. And now, once more, the sun darkened. It gave him the much needed excuse to look away from the slaughter.
High above the hold, a large wing of dragons approached. A blue was in the lead, it was almost as large as the other browns that were accompanying it. The wing flew over the hold in a safe height and then descended at the main courtyard, already in the grasp of other blues and greens. Now they were out of sight, but at least Marok could pursue his goal of finding a dark corner to hide in and survive this battle. No, it wasn't a battle, there was no way the holders could resist the dragons. It was a simple slaughter.
The streets were full of startled and horrified people, running around headlessly. Some idiot ran into him and punched him in the face for no reason. Marok cried, scrambling off the main street and eventually finding some open cellar. He huddled in a corner, crying. Why did the dragons choose to attack right now, during his lifetime? What would they do to them all? Who was this mad T'rax? Dragons would never harm a human, the legends always told them! Yet now the hold ran crimson with the blood of it's people. How would the other holds react to this crime? The other Weyrs? Surely there were some who would fight this lunacy. But not him… No, Marok would stay here, hidden and hoping to wait out this storm.
