It was not yet two hours since sunrise, yet already the horizon had disappeared into the heat haze. As they emerged from the shadow of the North-West Tower, Hargay flinched: the glare was like a punch in the face.
Sergeant Ostwuld observed this, of course. And perhaps laughed, Hargay thought, but no humour showed on the Sergeant’s sun-dried features. All leather and iron was Ostwuld, and if he had emotions he didn’t show them to green young Lieutenants. Green young lieutenants who insisted on riding out to inspect the walls in person.
“The North Wall, sir,” said Ostwuld.
Hargay imagined that the Sergeant added to himself ‘Just like the West Wall, and the South Wall.’ And presumably the East Wall, when they got to it.
Which, of course, it was – great blocks of granite, scoured by a hundred years of wind-driven sand but barely worn. More than could be said for the mortar, which badly needed re-pointing. Hargay’s predecessor had been negligent.
Their mail was the lightest possible, over thin gambesons, but still the sweat poured off Hargay, stinging his eyes though he wiped them constantly. Not that there was much to see. Brown-yellow walls merged into yellow-brown sand, the blending so seamless that they might have grown there. Hard to see details in the intense light. Even harder in the ink-dark shadows.
All reasons why he did not see the incongruity at first. They had almost past it by when it caught at the edge of his vision. A tiny splash of colour that had no reason to be there.
He came to a halt, twisting in the saddle and shading his eyes for a better look, and he had not been mistaken. Tight against the wall, huddled into the corner of the North Tower, was a fleck of iridescent blue.
He urged his horse round, rode closer.
A flower. Small, delicate. Thin stalk poking up from the sand, petals opened to the sky, seeking some pollinating insect. Of which there was probably none within a hundred miles: but the flower still flaunted its colour, waved its small brilliance back at the brilliant sun.
“What is that doing there?” Hargay asked. Not realising that he’d spoken aloud until Ostwuld answered.
“I’ll be rid of it, sir.” The Sergeant was already climbing from his horse.
“No!”
Sergeant Ostwuld paused, one foot on the sand.
“Sir?”
‘No,’ thought Hargay. ‘That’s the first thing of colour and beauty I’ve seen since I came to this desolate place. Let it live, let it grow, let it remind me of a world beyond, a world where life flourishes.’
But he could not say that. He could already imagine the conversation Ostwuld would have back in his mess. “New Lieutenant’s soft as manure. Wanted to let the pretty flower grow!”
So instead he posed the question again. “What’s that doing here, Sergeant?” And receiving no answer beyond a shrug, he continued. “Nothing grows without water, Sergeant. And where is the nearest water?”
Ostwuld looked at the castle walls. “Inside, sir. The cisterns.”
“Yes. The cisterns. Just the other side of this wall. So how did water get out here?”
“We could have a leak, sir?”
“Indeed. A crack in the cistern, a crack in the wall – it wouldn’t take much, but if it’s a crack now, what might it become in time? And without the cisterns, without that water, this place is no longer a fortress. Just a huge marker for our graves.” He nodded at the flower. “Leave that. It will serve as a marker. Back to the gate, Sergeant. We need to check this now.”
*
Hargay’s last duty of the day was to do rounds of the guard posts. It was late by the time he got to it, but he was glad to be out in the cool night air. Especially after spending most of the day in a painstaking examination of the cisterns. He had found much to be concerned about – maintenance had been as indifferent there as in the rest of the castle – but no actual leaks were evident.
Which was a good thing, of course, but it left unsolved the mystery of the flower. How did it grow without moisture of any sort? And where had the seed come from? A passing bird might have dropped it, but the only birds here were desert hawks, seen far off hunting their prey.
He walked along the North Wall, paralleling his route of the morning, and thought of the tiny scrap of life below. He found the idea of its existence comforting, and wondered how long it might survive.
His arrival at the North Tower caused a minor disturbance. As he reached the top of the stairs the guard became aware of his presence and sprang hastily to attention, dropping something as he did so.
“Report!” Hargay ordered.
“North Tower all quiet sir!” The guard replied. Clearly, he had not expected Hargay to do the rounds (another duty his predecessor had let slip). But the reply was in order, and the man was properly equipped, with mail, helmet and his spear in hand.
There was the matter of what had been dropped, though.
“Name?”
“Conold, sir.”
“Step aside, Conold.”
Reluctantly, the man did so. As he vacated the spot, Hargay bent down and recovered the dropped item. A cup.
“It’s just tea, sir!” Conold explained hastily. “To keep out the cold.”
Hargay sniffed at it.
Alcohol on duty was his great concern. Not a surprise in this place, with its boredom and lax discipline, but one which he would have to stamp on hard if it happened. He was relieved to smell no more than a spicy residue. Some sort of herbal concoction. There were still seeds and bits of chaff in the dregs.
Dregs which would no doubt be tossed out from the battlements, out onto the sands. A few seeds, a little moisture. That’s all it took for life.
He smiled in the darkness, knowing that the flower would survive, and might even be joined by others.
“Carry on,” he told the guard, handing the cup back, and continued on his way.
Sergeant Ostwuld observed this, of course. And perhaps laughed, Hargay thought, but no humour showed on the Sergeant’s sun-dried features. All leather and iron was Ostwuld, and if he had emotions he didn’t show them to green young Lieutenants. Green young lieutenants who insisted on riding out to inspect the walls in person.
“The North Wall, sir,” said Ostwuld.
Hargay imagined that the Sergeant added to himself ‘Just like the West Wall, and the South Wall.’ And presumably the East Wall, when they got to it.
Which, of course, it was – great blocks of granite, scoured by a hundred years of wind-driven sand but barely worn. More than could be said for the mortar, which badly needed re-pointing. Hargay’s predecessor had been negligent.
Their mail was the lightest possible, over thin gambesons, but still the sweat poured off Hargay, stinging his eyes though he wiped them constantly. Not that there was much to see. Brown-yellow walls merged into yellow-brown sand, the blending so seamless that they might have grown there. Hard to see details in the intense light. Even harder in the ink-dark shadows.
All reasons why he did not see the incongruity at first. They had almost past it by when it caught at the edge of his vision. A tiny splash of colour that had no reason to be there.
He came to a halt, twisting in the saddle and shading his eyes for a better look, and he had not been mistaken. Tight against the wall, huddled into the corner of the North Tower, was a fleck of iridescent blue.
He urged his horse round, rode closer.
A flower. Small, delicate. Thin stalk poking up from the sand, petals opened to the sky, seeking some pollinating insect. Of which there was probably none within a hundred miles: but the flower still flaunted its colour, waved its small brilliance back at the brilliant sun.
“What is that doing there?” Hargay asked. Not realising that he’d spoken aloud until Ostwuld answered.
“I’ll be rid of it, sir.” The Sergeant was already climbing from his horse.
“No!”
Sergeant Ostwuld paused, one foot on the sand.
“Sir?”
‘No,’ thought Hargay. ‘That’s the first thing of colour and beauty I’ve seen since I came to this desolate place. Let it live, let it grow, let it remind me of a world beyond, a world where life flourishes.’
But he could not say that. He could already imagine the conversation Ostwuld would have back in his mess. “New Lieutenant’s soft as manure. Wanted to let the pretty flower grow!”
So instead he posed the question again. “What’s that doing here, Sergeant?” And receiving no answer beyond a shrug, he continued. “Nothing grows without water, Sergeant. And where is the nearest water?”
Ostwuld looked at the castle walls. “Inside, sir. The cisterns.”
“Yes. The cisterns. Just the other side of this wall. So how did water get out here?”
“We could have a leak, sir?”
“Indeed. A crack in the cistern, a crack in the wall – it wouldn’t take much, but if it’s a crack now, what might it become in time? And without the cisterns, without that water, this place is no longer a fortress. Just a huge marker for our graves.” He nodded at the flower. “Leave that. It will serve as a marker. Back to the gate, Sergeant. We need to check this now.”
*
Hargay’s last duty of the day was to do rounds of the guard posts. It was late by the time he got to it, but he was glad to be out in the cool night air. Especially after spending most of the day in a painstaking examination of the cisterns. He had found much to be concerned about – maintenance had been as indifferent there as in the rest of the castle – but no actual leaks were evident.
Which was a good thing, of course, but it left unsolved the mystery of the flower. How did it grow without moisture of any sort? And where had the seed come from? A passing bird might have dropped it, but the only birds here were desert hawks, seen far off hunting their prey.
He walked along the North Wall, paralleling his route of the morning, and thought of the tiny scrap of life below. He found the idea of its existence comforting, and wondered how long it might survive.
His arrival at the North Tower caused a minor disturbance. As he reached the top of the stairs the guard became aware of his presence and sprang hastily to attention, dropping something as he did so.
“Report!” Hargay ordered.
“North Tower all quiet sir!” The guard replied. Clearly, he had not expected Hargay to do the rounds (another duty his predecessor had let slip). But the reply was in order, and the man was properly equipped, with mail, helmet and his spear in hand.
There was the matter of what had been dropped, though.
“Name?”
“Conold, sir.”
“Step aside, Conold.”
Reluctantly, the man did so. As he vacated the spot, Hargay bent down and recovered the dropped item. A cup.
“It’s just tea, sir!” Conold explained hastily. “To keep out the cold.”
Hargay sniffed at it.
Alcohol on duty was his great concern. Not a surprise in this place, with its boredom and lax discipline, but one which he would have to stamp on hard if it happened. He was relieved to smell no more than a spicy residue. Some sort of herbal concoction. There were still seeds and bits of chaff in the dregs.
Dregs which would no doubt be tossed out from the battlements, out onto the sands. A few seeds, a little moisture. That’s all it took for life.
He smiled in the darkness, knowing that the flower would survive, and might even be joined by others.
“Carry on,” he told the guard, handing the cup back, and continued on his way.
Images by Dal-E 2