Sieglinde

General's Log - Entry 23.

It's been sometime since I've last written in this damnable journal - the fact I'm doing so now more a desperate attempt at breaking up the monotony of this campaign more than any real desire to catalog my thoughts. I don't foresee myself rereading this account ever, with fondness, nostalgia, or otherwise. I've lived through enough of this hell for ten lifetimes, and the things I've seen and been through fester in my memories like open wounds. Still, if nothing else, perhaps putting ink to a page will help clear my head.

The siege that I had written hopefully of ending in my last entry is still ongoing, and looks as though it may stretch on for several more weeks - if not months. By the count of one of my men who is keeping track, this marks our forty-third day camped outside the towering walls of Ebbasta. The capital city is the hold out of the royal family, and the last bastion to capture before drawing this war to a close. But it's also a masterstroke of engineering, a near perfect fortress designed to be unassailable. Tall, thick walls are curved outwards to prevent their scaling by laddering techniques, making the city appear some what goblet-shaped. And although in theory this leaves a fatal blind spot against attacks from directly below, arrow slits and the dumping of flaming oil quickly dispel that strategy. The only move to make with a chance of victory is to cut of their food supply and starve them out with a prolonged siege. We would crush easily in a ground battle against the meager forces Ebbasta still possesses, and by camping outside the sole gate and sending scouts around the perimeter periodically to check for attempts at tunneling, we can cut anyone left inside off from food or escape.

And yet I appear to have badly underestimated their stockpiles, for I was not prepared for a siege of this length. None of us were. Our encampment is looking more and more little a permanent settlement every day, and it may well have to be. Forty-three days is plenty of time to sink in our heels. We've dug out trenches behind some boulders to protect ourselves from the worst of the arrow rain, and I've set up a supply chain to allow us to stall here indefinitely. But the weather is starting to turn for the worst, the first breaths of the northern winds carrying the first sprinkles of snow. I worry what will become of us as true cold sets in. Winter is likely to exhaust the last of Ebbasta's rations, but they'll certainly be safer and more comfortable than we are waiting out the cold in their fortress city.

Disease is another pressing matter, one that is more likely to kill more of us than their arrows ever could. Ebbasta knows this and has begun to employ pestilent tactics to thin our ranks. From around day ten and onwards, they've started dumping buckets of excrement over the sides of their walls, as well as any animal carcasses or rotting food that they can find. The castle is built on a hill, and toxic mixture flows towards us. Although we have dug channels to deflect it, the nearby earth has become a fetid swamp, and the air carries a foul thickness that scrapes at our lungs in even our trenches. Swarms of flies and mosquitos haunt us at every hour, and the first waves of dysentery are sweeping through the encampment. Nothing breaks a man's spirit like shitting blood. It will only get worse from here.

Ebbasta, ever underhanded, has lately adopted another tactic as well. In the dead of night, the gates to the city start to open as if they are preparing to launch a counter assault and break our siege. The night watchmen are forced to alert the entire encampment, and we all rise to prepare for battle, only for the gates to shut once again, leaving us with racing hearts high on adrenaline in the hours we most need rest. I've countered this strategy to some degree by cycling the entire squadrons sleep schedules, although this has deprived us of the usual chatter that aids morale. Still, I take heart in the false counter sieges, viewing them as a sign that Ebbasta is growing desperate. Perhaps they are running out of rations and the fake assaults are meant to make us grow complacent before the final strike. There will be blood in the end - this I know. A cornered animal is the most dangerous, and man is no different.

To conclude this account, I should record that morale has plummeted among me and my men. I have never seen a more downcast group of soldiers in my entire career. I am typically unaffected by the circulation of doom saying, but here and now, I find it to be more truth than fiction. Rumors are going around that the supply lines for Zornstadt will suddenly stop, and we'll all realize that we are meant to die weakening Ebbasta over the cold season before the real strike in the spring. True or false, I do question why they haven't sent more troops and real gate breakers. Where are the ballistae? Where are the other generals and the rest of our forces? I will admit that I have developed a bleak feeling that I am fated to die here unceremoniously. Even if this is not some insidious plot by the High General, then sickness will get me, or perhaps the cold. If those fail, I'll likely die in the final charge that I can feel building up. I've overheard some of the men talking about-

"No, let me not record that part." I mumble, scribbling out the last sentence and setting aside my quill. "It's best not to implicate anyone for treason. I do not know who might be reading this journal if I should fall. Besides, at this point I should hardly blame them. Defecting sounds... Well, it sounds appealing save for the part where our heads should roll after we're captured."

I stand up and shut the journal, stowing it away behind my breastplate. But my mind still lingers on defecting, not willing to dismiss the concept when it might be the only way to survive. Where would we even go though? Ebbasta would never welcome us, and we can hardly return to Zornstadt. Acquiring food for a platoon of hungry soldiers without the backing of a kingdom would be hard to impossible. I suppose we could turn our blades on innocents and become common bandits travelling across the countryside, but that's hardly how I'd like to be remembered. It's no use. I've thought through this before, several times actually, and I've always arrived at the same conclusion. We're fucked.

"Today marks another delivery of fresh food and troops." I remind myself, trying to change the subject to get my mind of things. "As the general, I need to set out to greet them. It's a bit early, but I think I'll leave now. It will be good to get away smell here at the very least."

I carefully unzip the front flap of my tent, staying close to wall of the trench and the boulders that give our encampment a modicum of cover from the archers. I never know when they might be searching for easy picks. My armor clanks and my boots squelch in the sloshy mixture of melted snow and mud, but I remain mostly quiet, aware large parts of my group are trying to sleep at any given hour. There isn't consistent enough snowfall to blanket anything yet, just enough to make things damp and miserable. As I settle into a crouched position behind the rocks, I spot out the handful of soldiers that are awake. A few watchmen are keeping their gazes trained on the enemy wall, while another group of soldiers are cooking some kind of soup. I can't smell the soup though, only the shit and the sweat in the air. I single out a soldier who looks unoccupied enough, and approach them. Gone are my days of inspiring speeches to a unified group, but I still have to let someone know where I am going.

"Hey. You." I address in a gravelly whisper. "Today's the day we get fresh supplies. I'm heading out to brief the new blood and prime them on what to expect. I shouldn't be gone for more than a couple hours."