Sticks and Stones

The city of Charn, capital of the world of Charn, was living up to its namesake.

Such were Asam's thoughts as he led the led the pikemen in formation down the streets of the city that was crumbling as sure as the queen's rule. The catapults miles beyond had done their work well, their week-long bombardment having finally opened a gap in the city walls. Enough to distract the queen's loyalists long enough for his own contingent to focus on the gate, to blast apart its steel and wood with magics once deemed forbidden. Before long, the queen's loyalists were fighting at two breaches, and in turn, were given many more holes of their own. The bloodlines of the future flowed into the decaying carcass that was Charn. The blood of the foolhardy flowed outwards, consecrating steel and stone both. And in the midst of this, the catapults had launched burning pitch into the city, setting swathes of it ablaze, clogging the air with smoke.

Those loyal to the One True Queen were unencumbered. The siege of Charn had been planned months in advance. The intricacies of the siege had been down to breaching its gates and walls. Even with the False Queen on the throne, Charn had been built to withstand the hands of the Giant himself. Many an army had been flung against its walls, only to be returned to the earth which spawned them. As weak as the defenders were, cut off from food, water, and hope, Charn's walls were as strong as ever. Take away that advantage however, and the city became a pig waiting for the farmer's blade. The pig would squeal. The farmer would swing the knife. Blood would flow, and feast would follow the future.

There weren't many squeals here, he reflected, as the pikemen made their way down the street. Screams and shouts, certainly. They marched in formation, an impregnable wall of flesh, faith, and steel, for any of the city's defenders that still challenged them. Likewise for any of the city's peoples that were stupid enough to get in the way. The ones that had stayed behind with the False Queen – all of them potential traitors. Any man could swing a sword. Any woman could spawn a future soldier in her womb. Any child could grow up to be a monster. So if any neared them, a pike found flesh, blood found stone, and Charn, greatest city of the world, and perhaps all worlds, lived up to its namesake.

"Sticks and stones," he murmured, as the False Queen's soldiers charged the formation again. "Sticks and stones."

Sticks and stones could break bones…or at least they could if those bones weren't protected by chainmail armour. And granted, while these desperate men attacked them with steel, it was little different. In the lands of the south, warriors of Charn less armoured than he had faced natives who had not even mastered fire. Sticks and stones had been useless then. Heathens had been brought to the greatest city of the world to give themselves to its glory – sticks were cast aside, stone cast upon stone, and bones were put to work.

The False Queen had allowed the number of Charn's lessers to grow. The False Queen was eager to make peace with drink and sweeties, to play games with those of lesser stature and lesser blood. Small wonder that the True Queen had so soundly defeated her sister, utilizing the magics that one of weak heart and lesser blood had forsook. Charn lived up to the namesake that the False Queen had abandoned. Obsessed with ever deeper magic, but with no regard to the discontent growing all around her. This night, she would pay the price. As would those who gave their allegiance to the unworthy.

He heard the curses of the traitors before one of his men put a spear in the man's gut. Sticks and stones couldn't hurt them. Words were even more useless.

"Marshal Asam."

He held up a fist and brought the column to a halt. Ahead of him was an outrider, mounted upon his kwegath – a giant horned beast fit only for the most gifted of riders, with the blood of giants and jinn in tandem. Strength and magic alike, and indeed, no spear but staff was in his hand. Someday soon, after this was over, he expected to be bequeathed such a gift.

"Magus Deral," Asam said, bowing as best he could in the armour. "How goes the siege?"

"Well enough that the True Queen closes in on the False Queen." He smirked. "For whatever reason she resides within the Light of Lights."

"And yet you're here."

"Here to send your men to the secondary gate. If any of her loyalists seek to flee, that is the route they shall take."

"And if that happens?"

"Swords, spears, pikes and arrows," Deral said. "Do your work now, so that we will have less to worry about on the morrow."

"As you wish, Magus."

Deral grunted and rode off into the night, both steed and rider disappearing into the gloom like the Reaper of old. Fires were cast upon his shadow, reminding Asam of the world where none dared tread. A world of fire and brimstone, forever separate from all the worlds that were said to exist. The one world that even Charn could never take.

In time, all worlds would know the name of Charn. It was a time that would have come sooner if not for the False Queen. But it mattered not. Her time was at an end. A new dawn would come, shining as bright as the sun had in days of old. When Charn was not the greatest city of the world, and its people less deserving of such glory. No sun this night, but ever was there the moon, shining a deep red upon the children of the world.

With horn, the signal was given, and the sound of one-hundred feet filled the city of Charn, as the pikemen made their way to the secondary gate of the Light of Lights. The Moon Gate, as some called it, for what was secondary to the sun but the moon? The Sun Gate had long since fallen, and the One True Queen had marched through. Now, the moon had to be dealt with likewise.

It didn't take them long to reach the secondary gate. Through fire and fury, Asam could see its wooden doors, towering higher than most of the city's buildings in of themselves. Gates that, much to his joy, began to open.

"Hold," he said.

The column did so. The bridge that led to the secondary gate was over the River Shaol. In days of yore, the people of Charn had put the bodies of the dead in its waters, sending their souls to the Giant and whatever hereafter awaited. Some legends spoke of a land beyond seas and time, of a true kingdom beyond the minds of mortals. Others spoke of a world within a world, that a true Charn lay awaiting for those who kept faith with their soul. Asam didn't know. Nor did he care. The gates were opening. Before them was a mix of people, from highborn knights, to low-caste slaves. Those who had, for whatever reason, decided to flee as the One True Queen came to dethrone her false sister. He smiled, as he saw them falter. Frowned as he saw some turn to run, or even jump into the river below – long polluted, its waste being carried off into the Jewel Sea. But the smile returned as he saw some of them rush forward. From lance to axe, from armour to flesh, the followers of the False Queen sought one last battle.

"Ranks abreast, pikes ahead."

His men formed a shield wall, adjusting their formation so that their number filled the full width of the bridge. Ten men for each row, fifty in all. Half the number of those charging them, by Asam's reckoning. And therefore, far more than what would be needed.

Sticks and stones, the marshal thought to himself as he saw the knights near, their lances aimed for his breast. Sticks and stones.

The knight's spear actually penetrated his shield, even if its tip didn't reach his armour. Ignoring the pain in his arm, as the force of the impact spread through wood and muscle, Asam thrust his pike forward. It did not reach the knight, but it did reach his kwegath, which let out a groan as it fell to the ground, wounded, taking its rider with it. Dropping pike and shield, Asam drew out his sword, clutching it with both hands. With sword and shield of his own, the knight rose to meet his foe.

Long has it been since my sword has tasted blood. You would do well to please me.

No words, no oaths, no curses. Just the melee of combat. The pikemen had withstood the charge, but in such close quarters, it became a frenzy of swords and screams.

Before long, Asam had found his second foe. In much shorter a time than that, the second knight had followed the same path of the dead as his forebear. Before finding his third, he looked upon the Light of Lights, living up to its namesake as fire and lighting wove a cloak of death. The False Queen's magi, staying with their lady to the very end. How he wished he could be there at the side of the True Queen. But alas, he was in the ranks of mortals, dealing steel and justice to those who polluted this city. With a grunt, he separated the knight's head from his body. With name of the True Queen upon his lips, he turned his sword to his fourth foe…

…and then he heard it.

His men heard it. Their foes heard it. The entire world of Charn heard it. One word, that entered not through ears, but through mind and soul. One word that filled his mind for an instant – the same instant in which his soul was touched by its discordant tone. Sweat appeared upon his brow. Blood began to weep from his eyes. Slowly, sword arm limp, he looked up at the Light of Lights – dark clouds were forming, blocking out the light of moon and star. Dark clouds that spread across the face of the world.

Sticks and stones, he thought to himself. Sticks and stones.

Steel, stone, or stick would not hurt him. It had no need to. Because after that moment of respite, that one moment of mercy to allow every man, woman, and child of the greatest world of all worlds to make peace with Creation…it began. The word returned, and all that was left after was the last period of the world of Charn.

He saw it before he felt it. Saw men and women fall around him, screaming. Watching as flesh turned to ash. As blood flowed from eyes like water, as men clawed at their ears. As women clutched their sons and daughters tight, only for ash to fill their arms. Before long, he too was screaming. He screamed as he tore off his armour – anything to stop the burning. He screamed as he clawed away at his flesh, drawing no blood but ash. He screamed as loyalist and traitor alike fell, reaching out for each other…no longer screaming, for no tongue was left. One tongue had uttered one word, and so, none would speak in Charn again.

For a moment, he thought he heard a bell ring…

He stumbled aside, seeking to jump into the river below – anything to stop the burning. But no solace, no water to quench this fire, for before his disintegrating eyes, he could see the water steadily disappearing, as one might drain a bath. Stumbling, he fell upon the stone wall of the bridge that led to the gate of the moon – the body that he would never see again. He fell, his hollow eyes upward, at the tip of the Light of Lights.

Sticks and stones, he thought to himself. Sticks and stones.

He repeated the phrase over and over. For the word had been spoken. The one word that could do more damage than any stick, stone, or any other weapon created by the people of this world. The word that repeated over and over, pounding his head like a hammer.

Sticks and stones.

No stick, for thee were now no trees.

And in turn, his ash fell upon the stone.

Ashes of billions, returned to dust.

Consigned to return by the word, with none left to hear it.