by Jason Malone
“And? What did he see?”
“They were drinking and talking, and the boy was drinking and eating too, but not with the men. They seemed unhappy, apparently. They said it was dishonourable to take a child and could not wait to hand him over to their lord once they reached Mudhill.”
“Mudhill?”
“The farmer said it is an old wooden fort about a day’s ride from here. It is occupied by outlaws. They call the man in charge the ‘Muddy Earl.’ These lands belong to some old thane, but their true ruler is the man in Mudhill.”
We wasted no time in riding east. I thought if we hurried we might be able to catch them before they arrived at Mudhill.
It was a difficult journey that day, however. Our horses struggled through the mud, and even though we travelled along what the locals called a road — it was barely that — there were points on our journey where we had to dismount and walk so the horses would not sink. The mist was thicker that day, so we could barely see more than a few yards ahead of us. Matilda hated it. She complained that she had never seen mud like this before, and all the while Dughlas and Cubert teased her mercilessly. The leather pants Dughlas had found for her were made for travelling, but she nevertheless rolled them up above her knees so they would not get too dirty. She took her boots off too and hung them from her horse.
“It feels so disgusting,” she moaned as we waded through a layer of thick sludge. “It is oozing between my toes.”
I laughed. “Put your boots back on then.”
“They will get dirty. Why can they not just build a proper bloody road?”
“You’re a snob, Tilly.” Dughlas chuckled. “Did you not get dirty searching for bugs in Oldford’s woods?”
Matilda scowled at him. “I do not mind dirt if I know I will be able to wash soon afterwards. Edward, can you carry me?”
“You’re joking…”
“Please?”
“Fine, come on then.” I crouched down so Matilda could hop on my back. She squelched over, put her hands on my shoulders, jumped up and then wrapped her arms and legs around me while I held on to her thighs. Cubert and Dughlas were hysterical.
“Take note of this, men,” I said. “This is heroism.”
“I’ve heard many stories of gods and heroes, but none of them carry women on their backs through the mud,” Cubert said.
“That’s because a real hero would never bring a lady to a place like this,” Dughlas said. I glared at both of them, and they soon calmed down.
We carried on, treading through the mud until our horses could carry us again. It seemed as if it would take us days to reach Mudhill at the rate we were travelling, and I hoped the farmer Matilda spoke to took into account the mud when he said it was a day’s ride from Greensted. It did not help that we could barely see ahead of us. We had to keep getting down from our horses every hour or so, and each time I had to carry Matilda on my back. She was very light, but she made it hard to wade through the mud, which at some points almost went up as far as my knees. Eventually, I lost my balance and slipped, sending me and Matilda tumbling down into the sludge.
Matilda screamed and sat up, caked in mud. It was all through her hair and all over her clothes and stained half her face. She was horrified. She flicked her head to the side and, for a second, I thought she was going to kill me. Instead, she threw herself on top of me and pinned me to the muddy ground. I could feel it seeping through my clothes.
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” Matilda snarled. Her hair was dripping wet, and brown water trickled down her face. I could not help but laugh. She clenched her teeth together and sucked air in and out, but then she started giggling too, and that turned into laughter.
Soon we were both laughing, and I threw her off me and down into the mud. Matilda gasped, then scooped up a large chunk of it and threw it at me. I flicked some mud back at her, then she lunged forward, laughing, and tackled me. She sat on top of me, her breath heavy.
“You two all right?” Cubert asked. He and Dughlas were grinning over us now.
“No. Edward dropped me,” Matilda said.
“There’s a hillfort just up ahead,” Cubert said.
“Is it Mudhill?” I asked. I sat up, and Matilda climbed to her feet.
“Well, it’s a wooden fort on a hill surrounded by mud,” Dughlas said. “I’d say so.”
And so it was. Though the trek there was hard and messy, we had made it to Mudhill at last. But would Philip be here? Would Hakon? Or were we too late?
As evening drew near, the four of us sat on our horses before Mudhill’s gate. The fort stood atop a hill that rose up out of the flat, muddy countryside. The base of the hill was surrounded by a shallow, empty moat, but there was no palisade protecting the thatched huts of the men and their families who lived here. We rode across the narrow bridge over the moat without trouble and then rode up the hill past dishevelled villagers with dirty faces and tattered clothes.
Behind the palisade walls I could just make out the roof of what I assumed to be the keep of the leader of these outlaws, the Muddy Earl. Two men sat on the ramparts above the gate, watching us. They looked tired and miserable. Night was drawing near, and a sullen drizzle fell. I would have hated to live in this country. Even when it was not raining, the sky was always grey and the ground was always wet. We waited outside the gate while one of the guards informed their leader of his guests.
“Where’re you folk from?” a guard called down.
“Oldford,” I called back.
“Gods, you’ve come a long way, haven’t you?”
“We have.”
The guard turned around, spoke to someone behind him, then nodded. “What’s your business in the Mireland?”
“We wish to pledge service to your lord.”
“Now what in the world happened that would lead you to make that choice?”
I made no response. Shortly after, the gate opened up for us, scraping against the mud behind it. “Come on through,” the guard said.
Another guard approached with a large box. “Your weapons,” he commanded. Dughlas and I glanced at each other. We were hesitant. “You’ll get ’em back. If we wanted to kill you, we would’ve done it already.”
I supposed that was true, so we reluctantly placed our weapons in the box.
“How much for the lass?” one of the men asked. He ogled Matilda.
“She’s not for sale,” I snapped.
“All right, all right. I was only asking.”
The guard who had greeted us led us through the courtyard, past a smithy and a stable and what appeared to be a barracks. Some warriors were training outside while others were drinking and laughing and placing bets on two cocks fighting in a ring. The keep itself sat at the back of the courtyard and was made out of wood and brick. It was shoddy and ill-maintained — the perfect home for outlaws and outcasts. We were led to a large wooden door, and the guard pushed it open and welcomed us inside.
We entered and found ourselves in what looked to be a games room. It was large and had numerous tables for playing draughts, cards, or various other games. At one side of the room was a large fireplace with two long benches and an armchair. In that armchair sat a huge, muscled man with a belly that hung over his belt, a bushy red beard with streaks of grey, and a shaved head. He had a pot of ale in his hand, and he burped as we came in. The guard gestured for us to take a seat at the benches by the fire.
“Welcome to Mudhill, the Mountain of the Gods,” the big man said. “I am told you wish to die for me.” His voice was gruff and slurred, but he spoke like a nobleman. He had clearly not always been an outlaw. The four of us sat down opposite him, with the fire to our left.
“Yes, that’s right,” I said.
“Tell me your names then,” the man said. He waved his guard away. “Leave us.”
“My name is Edmund. These are my friends, Darryl, Frank, and Milburga,” I said, pointing to each of my companions.
“Edmund?” The man thought for a few mom
ents. He snorted. “You can drop the lies, Edward of Winterhome. I knew you would come. Besides, I recognised you the moment you walked in here. You are the spitting image of your father.”
My heart skipped a beat. “You know my father?”
“Aye, I know him. You look like your sister as well, though far less pretty.”
“Who are you?”
“The peasants in these lands — my lands — call me the Muddy Earl, but I have a feeling you already know who I am.”
The Muddy Earl was right. I did have my suspicions. I had them as soon as I saw him, and his recognition of me only confirmed them. Folk like us — the Gifted, that is — often feel a sense of familiarity with one another, even if we have never met. It would seem like I was facing an outlaw holed up in a broken fort atop a muddy hill, but I knew he was much more than that.
“How did you know we were coming, Ward?”
He smirked. “Hakon. I believe you know him. He left here earlier this morning and headed northwards, though not before warning me that his men were being tailed by none other than Edward of Winterhome.”
“I am Edward of Oldford now.”
“Until recently, I have heard.”
So there he was, the last Royal Godspeaker. He told me everything then. Hakon had lands loaned to him by his half-brother a little way to the west of Everlynn, and with those lands he housed and funded his band of several hundred oathmen. He and his men were zealots, fixated on some radical notion of creating a holy kingdom from the ashes of a world devoured by war, but Ward cared little for that. Ward’s only concern nowadays was wealth, and Hakon was very generous with that. He had paid Ward for information years earlier.
What information, you may ask? The location of the resting place of Emrys, along with the proper rites needed to open it, so all Hakon now desired was my sword. Godwin’s sword. The same sword used to lock Emrys within his prison all those years ago.
Why Hakon needed this information, Ward did not care to ask, but he put the pieces together and suspected that Hakon intended to use Emrys as the spark that would light the fires of war. Philip was merely bait to lure me in so that I would bring Godwin’s sword to a place where he could take it. And what reason did Ward have to stop him? None. In fact, for a small handful of silver it was Ward who told Hakon of the current bearer of that ancient blade.
“How do you know so much about Emrys?” I asked.
Ward stood and stretched. “When I was Edwin’s Godspeaker, I had access to the vast stores of information held in the Royal Secrecy. It holds everything one would need to know about how Emrys was entombed and how to release him. And that brings me to why I was hoping you would come. Wait here.”
The four of us waited in silence while Ward left the room. He was gone only for a few moments and then returned with a small wooden lockbox decorated with the symbol of a golden dragon. “This box will change your life,” said Ward.
“What is inside?” I asked.
“When Edwin charged me with the defence of the Capital, he made me swear that should the city fall, I would save this little box, which was locked up tight in a room within the Secrecy only the king had access to. He said that nothing else is more important than preventing the Usurper from opening that box. Many, including the pretender Carol, believe I fled the city to save my own hide, when in truth I fled to save this box. For years I did not open it, but curiosity eventually got the better of me. It is yours now.”
Ward held the box out for me, but as I reached for it, we were startled by a crash, the sound of horses and the shouts of men, followed by the deep groan of a war horn. Arooooooo. Aroo, aroo, arooooo.
“What in the Heavens is going on out there?” Ward shouted. The keep’s door swung open, and the guard that led us in burst through, panting.
“Lord, they’re here,” he said.
“Who?”
“The Moun—”
“Shit. Fucking weasels.” Ward turned to me. “You. I need every man who can use a blade. I am the only one who knows the secret in this box, so help me, and I will tell you what was inside.” At that, Ward hurled the lockbox into the fireplace, and we watched for a moment as it burned. I was dumbfounded. Ward turned back to his man. “You know what to do. Kill them all.”
“What is going on?” I asked.
“We are under attack. I knew this day would come. It seems my time as an outlaw is finally coming to an end. Follow me. I will get you your weapons.”
Ward marched outside, and Cubert, Dughlas, and I followed. Ward wore no armour. He had no time to put any on, so he would be fighting in nothing but his shirt and pants. He picked up a large, two-headed axe that rested against the wall beside the door. It was then that I realised Matilda was following us.
“Stay here,” I said. “You cannot fight.”
“The earl said he needed every man who can use a blade,” said Matilda.
“True. But you’re not a man.”
“Why do you doubt me?”
I put my hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I do not doubt your bravery, but I don’t want you to die.”
“Nor do I want you to die, Edward, but why must I be safe while you are not? Why must the men fight while the women cower?”
“I won’t have this argument with you here. Stay inside.”
Matilda opened her mouth to protest but then sighed and nodded. “Be safe.”
Cubert, Dughlas, and I went after Ward, who led us to the palisade gate. He handed us our weapons and, when he picked up my blade, admired it for a moment.
“This is Godwin’s sword. The sword of my ancestor. Do not dishonour it, Edward of Winterhome,” he said. He handed me the sword and then shouted for us to follow him up to the ramparts. We climbed the steps to the top of the palisade, where I took a few moments to see what was happening.
We were indeed under attack. There were about one hundred warriors assaulting the fort on Mudhill, I estimated, and those warriors were all clad in mail and wielding swords, spears, shields, and bows. Yet they carried no banners. The warriors had crossed the moat with no resistance, and many were now raging through the narrow streets around the huts, looting and burning the settlement. The ones that were not pillaging stood at the base of the palisade throwing javelins or shooting arrows, and there was a group of around two dozen warriors ramming the gate with a felled tree.
On our side I guessed there were about three dozen. We may have been able to hold out against the assailants, but they were burning down the homes of the men defending Mudhill, their wealth was being stolen, and their women and children were being slaughtered. The men were demoralised and knew that the longer they fought, the longer their families would suffer.
Every few seconds, the men with the tree would roar and charge at the gate in an attempt to smash through, and on our side we had our strongest men bracing the gate with beams, poles, spears, and whatever else they could find. They grunted and yelled every time the ram crashed against it.
Cubert, Dughlas, and I stood on the palisade above the gate with Ward. One of Ward’s men came running to us with a big bag of javelins, and Ward demanded that we start hurling them down onto the attackers. He handed me one, I leaned over the palisade, and immediately found a target.
I did not hesitate, cleared my mind of the fact that this man was a person, and with all my strength I threw the javelin down. A split-second later his ribcage cracked open. He screamed and fell to his knees, then one of his comrades kicked him out of the way so they could make another charge at the gate.
He died, face down in the mud, with an iron point protruding from his back.
Dughlas threw a javelin just after me, but it missed and was buried in the mud. The warrior Dughlas was aiming for took it, looked up at Dughlas, and tossed it back. It stuck in the palisade wall.
“Shit aim,” Cubert yelled.
“Him, or me?” Dughlas asked. Cubert only laughed and then tossed another javelin over the wall.
We continued thro
wing spears from the wall with Ward and his men. We killed a few of the warriors, but they were good at dodging and their shields were strong, and the ones we killed were quickly replaced by men who grew tired of pillaging and came to help their friends at the gate. Men were screaming and shouting on both sides. Everything was happening so fast. The sun had not yet set, but there was barely any light besides that from the burning huts due to the thick clouds, and to make matters worse, it soon began pelting down rain. It was so heavy, we could hardly hear the cries of those we fought beside.
But we did hear the terrible creaking noise below us, followed by a thundering crash. The gate had been torn from its hinges, the wooden posts holding up the ramparts snapped, and the whole structure collapsed down into the mud. We all fell, and time seemed to slow for a while.
I eventually landed in the mud with a splash and lay there dazed. I could hear screams and the splashing of mud, and the clash of steel on steel, or steel on wood, or steel on bone. I turned my head to see Dughlas help Cubert up, and the two of them ran through the mud to the newly formed gap in the palisade. Ward’s men were forming a wall of shields in the breach, but it would not be long before that too was broken.
“Edward!” Someone was shouting my name. “Edward, get up lad.” I felt someone help me up, and I snapped back to my senses. Time went back to normal, and Ward stood over me.
“We should retreat back to the keep,” I yelled over the deafening thunder of rain.
“No,” Ward shouted. He pulled my sword out of the mud and handed it to me. “They’ll just burn us out. I would rather make my stand here and die like a man than fall back and die screaming as flames tear the flesh from my bones.”
Ward was right. I thought to ask him what these men wanted, but he turned to join his own men in their final stand at the breach.
“Push! Push them back,” one man shouted.