Maribelle closed the door behind her. Her tea parlor was mostly emptied. Only one chair, a table with a tea set, and a telescope. She pulled a book from one of the four bookshelves. The bookshelf slid to the side. She slipped a key into a panel on the wall. It opened to reveal two levers. She moved the chair next to them. Within reach.
She walked to the window. The oncoming army stood, banners flying. Steel and black cloth. They were one hundred paces away from the flowerbeds ringing the city.
Calvary in the front. Foot soldiers. Siege equipment at the rear. So predictable.
A runner broke out from formation, carrying a white flag. He crossed through the flower beds. Trampling the red foliage.
At least it’s winter.
The Gallians were hidden. Placed in groups of four and five, they crept through the tunnels that pocked the undercity.
The messenger reached a group of engineers. She couldn’t make out their faces. Maribelle put her eye to the telescope. The runner was a child. Maybe fourteen. He was speaking fast.
Cowards.
She saw the engineer laugh and then pull a canister from his belt. He popped the pin on the canister and red smoke billowed into the air.
They are still promising safety in exchange for my arrest.
She focused the telescope back on the runner. A copper bolt struck him in the throat. The child fell to his knees, grabbing at the shaft in his neck.
She turned to the waiting calvary. Grim faces searched for orders.
That’s right, never think for yourselves.
She moved to the table and picked up the teapot and a cup. She poured the tea, watching the amber liquid tumble. She took a sip and looked back out the window.
Flags waving, men shouting, she waited for the next signal. One of the riders moved his horse to the front and waved his banner. The horses charged. Maribelle wrinkled her lips and moved back to the telescope. She focused on the flowerbeds.
The first horse entered the frame, and she began counting.
One, Two, Three.
She saw it before she heard it. Gas, sparks, a rushing flame erupted from the red leaves. The ground gave way beneath the horses.
These gardens are ruined now. Perhaps Cora will put up statues.
The horses fell into the pitch. Their high screams mingled with the roaring flame.
She turned the telescope to the top of the tower opposite her. She had put the children there, but now they were marching.
Have they crossed the bridge yet? They went first, of course they have.
She spared a moment at the window and saw the colorful drawings on the walls. Then to the roof. The long iron tubes of the cannons swiveled into sight. She could see the heavy chain between them.
She turned away from the telescope to look over the scene. The calvary was redirecting now, funneled into channels between the rows of pitch.
Perfect.
A thunderclap. The dual cannonballs arced across the sky, the heavy chain forcing them to orbit each other.
Maybe not so perfect. I thought they said they fixed the timing issue.
The pair of iron balls crashed through the calvary, ripping through horses and men. Effective, but not perfect.
Another explosion, another volley. She sipped her tea. This one flew straight, clotheslining smoothly against the flow of horses coming through the channel.
She looked back to the footmen. They were circling around, widely. Unable to cross the pitch, unable to move past the piling bodies in the narrow safe passage.
Your turn, Jacque.