Usually, one of the most difficult parts of a siege was figuring out what you were going to do with the place after. Any hilltop castle or valley citadel can be a strategic location, but if there's holes in the walls or leftover siege equipment awaiting tear-down, there really wasn't much to stop the enemy from just marching a new army in. Indeed, crumbling fortifications and beleaguered defenders made for an easy siege, especially if said defenders had only just begun to recover from the long march and even longer battle they'd just won.
It was a puzzling situation, and Jordan would've happily stepped in to provide a solution had General Mordeth not taken the incredibly practical route of just... burning it down. Jordan could never claim to be one of the more.... invested combatants in this war, but after a long, freezing march and nearly a week of constant battling, watching that makeshift wooden fort burn sparked some embers of rage in Jordan.
Brutal winter approaching, and the madmen had decided to torch the only shelter for days.
But, like all good engineers, Jordan focused more on the solution than dwelling on the problem. There was equipment to repair, and two of the company's ballistas had misfired during the siege. But again, more perplexing orders from the top. Not even from the general himself, but his battle-mad lackeys.
The same lackeys that had taken it upon themselves to make sure that a week's worth of frantic ammo-running and arrow dodging were completely wasted. They buried a third of their company the day after the fighting finally stopped, and for what?
Why was he even here?
"Hey, Jord. You're looking glum there," came a woman's voice from beside him, followed by a rough slap to his shoulder. Jordan startled, nearly dropping his firelock from the neat marching position on his shoulder. Jordan glared at Delphin, who had a grin smeared on her face. Jordan looked away with an exasperated sigh, taking in the column of soldiers and horsemen stretching on ahead. At least the engineers marched in the back, with the wagon train.
Not that the company had many left. Most of the ones on fire support duty were gone, leaving only their leftover armor and firearms to clutter up the supply wagons.
"Nice to see your morale's as good as ever," Jord answered, and the fiery-haired woman laughed before speaking back up. "Y'ever seen a sad musketeer? A frown ruins the image a bit, I'd think. So perk up! 'Less you wanna kill a mage with your sad looks, and not the shiny new hand-cannon the crown gave ya."
"It's not new. Trust me. Sure as shit isn't shiny," Jordan answered, and he shifted the unfamiliar weight of the large firearm around on his shoulder. Just holding it made him feel sick. He didn't know what was worse, the fact that he was going to be taken off of the battlefield detail or that the sergeants were going to force him to stand in a line with no cover and...
Jordan shook himself.
"This is Dav's gun."
Delphine's face fell a little at that, but then walked ahead.
"Aye, and he ain't around anymore to keep rebels off your back when you're scurrying about. You're going to be on the line with me," she said. It seemed as though there might have been more words in her head, but suddenly she cut off, and looked around.
The icy breeze had stopped dead, and Jordan struggled to hear anything else over the marching and chattering soldiers, it was only after a few moments of tense walking did Delphine meet his eyes. Gone was her usual aloofness, something was wrong.
Just how wrong?
Suddenly, a freak blizzard blew in through the trees that flanked their marching route. Normally, the usual order would be to press on, but just as everyone had finished startling and had begun to pull their scarves up, Jordan caught sight of a figure.
Obscured by the blizzard, the figure sprinted straight towards the marching column, and Jordan had a quick enough wit to suddenly break march and pull Delphine behind one of the supply carts. A large burst of blistering wind and ice shards erupted from the lone figure, and after the impact the rest of the rebel ambushers made their presence known.
"Take their guns! Take their lives! Take everything!" Came a voice from the forest.
Spells and arrows rained upon the company as rebels armed with swords and spears rose from the snow. Jordan and Delphine knelt down behind the wooden wagon, even as the thing lurched over, the horse pulling it having caught an ice spike to the head.
Just as soon as they were down, Delphine had risen up and fired, meanwhile Jordan struggled to light his firing rod. She knelt back down and started yelling something at him, but the blizzard somehow got worse. Chaos and fear reigned supreme as the defenders were robbed of their warmth and eyesight.
Even worse, the wind had killed the small fire he'd managed to light, and he was in the process of trying to light it again when one of the ice mages made themselves known. Sliding in on the snow like it was the easiest thing in the world, she blew away a grouping of spearmen before noticing Jordan and Delphine. She balled a hand and her magic started to swirl, and Jordan was quick with his handgun, maybe the quickest he'd ever been.
He whipped it out and fired a wild shot that caught the mage in the leg. With a stumble and a curse, she clutched at the wound with one hand while she finished the spell with the other.
A powerful gust shattered the wagon and scattered Jordan and Delphine away. The moments after that were a blur.
He remembered hitting the snow, holding his musket so tightly that it made his fingers ache. He landed side-first onto the hard ground and looked around desperately in the blizzard. All he heard were gunshots and he clashing of steel, all he saw were the fuzzy silhouettes of the fighting. The sounds... were closing in!
No, no, he had to get out of here! Where was Delphine?
Another burst of wind and ice shards erupted in the fighting and all it took to snap the last of his bravery was a spike landing on the ground near him.
Jordan didn't know how far he'd run before he stopped. He nearly fell to his knees but he managed to use his musket as support as he gasped and fought to breathe. Cold burned his lungs and he managed to make it a few steps before he half-collapsed against a tree.
"Oh God, Oh God oh God oh God, please..."
Finally, he was able to take a proper breath, and he looked around.
No battle in sight, not even the sound of gunshots to let him know where he'd come from. Then, with an unexpected twinge of guilt, he straightened up and leaned against the tree properly to catch his breath.
He was a deserter now, he was pretty sure. Stranded in rebel territory, wearing the Grand Duke's colors, in the dead of winter with no supplies. Even if he had the nerve to go back, what was he going to find? Officers ready to behead him, or rebels prepared to kill him much more slowly?
What was he going to do?
The panic and terror set in and he sank down, sitting at the base of the tree in abject, silent horror. Then, the tears started coming, and didn't stop, no matter how much he tried to steady himself, no matter how tightly he gripped the gun of a dead man, he could find no comfort.
