A Walk in the Black Forest

by K. A. M'Lady

  “Such an incredible creature,” she mumbled. “How much death and destruction have you wrought to those who have crossed your path?”

  Her father had come here to England because of this sword. It was first shown to him six months ago by his friend, Sir Simon LeGrange. He’d said that he’d bought it on the black market. He was told it was dug up somewhere around Woodmir. And, as the story goes, the mystery ensued. Her father was so intrigued by the sword that he’d brought her mother with him to do a working holiday of sorts. Solve the mystery of the sword’s master.

  Always the mystery. You and Sherlock Holmes, hey, Father? She could still hear her father, ever the teacher, telling her—Always start at the beginning…Learn first, who is the man? Was he strong of heart? In the face of great turmoil, hatred and evil, was his will and justice stronger than that of his enemy? Would he stand alone in battle if that was what was necessary to prove that his way was true and just? What did he do? Was he not just a ruler of his people, but did he lead them when all others would have turned their backs or saved themselves? Where was his place in history? Did he fight for God and country? Did he defend the oppressed? Feed the hungry?

  Oh, Father, you always wanted to know so much…So, great bearer of the dragon sword, what is your story? What secrets do you hold? She held the sword, absently caressing the dark-winged creature. And you, Daddy, did the sword yield to you its secrets? If only you could tell me.

  But he couldn’t tell her. Six months had passed since she’d last seen her parents. There’d been an accident...faulty brakes and rain-soaked roads, the police had said. They’d found the sword and her father’s briefcase along with his notes at the scene. The police said they must have swerved to avoid an animal or some such thing. They’d lost control of the car. The brakes were worn on their rental car—poor maintenance—they wouldn’t have been able to stop even if it hadn’t been raining. The embankment was what flipped them into the tree.

  The museum called her not long after everything was over. Her father had been the best in his field. He’d taught her everything he knew about medieval Brittan, weaponry and anthropology. They wanted her to finish his research. Take over the dig. His dig. How could she refuse? Her father would have wanted it this way.

  What secrets are you hiding, old sword? What great mysteries do you have lurking in your past?

  The image of the forge filtered through her mind. She imagined the sword gleaming from the hot coals of the smithy’s fires. The dragon’s eye glowing in the night like molten lava as the final hammer rang out in the midnight air. She could almost picture the warrior waiting for the magnificent weapon. The sword’s metal reflecting the glow of the full silver moon while the windy night gave life to the dragon etched deeply into the sword hilt.

  In the shadows, the warrior would stand alone, dark and predatory, large of frame with hair as black as pitch. His eyes would match the silvery gleam of moonlight and he’d have the bearing of a Greek god. He’d have the strength of Hercules, and the mystery and magic of the dragon itself...a rightful master to wield the dragon sword.

  Gabriella could only wonder at the mystery surrounding this sword. The stories that it could tell would quite possibly fill endless tomes. The lives it probably took were more than likely insurmountable. All the information they’d found reported that it dated back to the time of William the Conqueror. And a dire time it was. All recorded information noted that the Battle of Hastings was a bloody butchery of men. Gabriella would stake her reputation that this sword and its owner were smack dab in the middle of all of it.

  The night was waning and, like most nights, she couldn’t sleep. She felt an uneasiness stirring just beneath the surface of her skin. It was like a current of electricity was flowing through the air, stirring up the molecular structure of life. Something exciting was on the horizon. She could feel it in her bones.

  At times like this, it was pointless to even try to sleep. She’d just toss and turn all night anyway. Longingly stroking the dragon emblem one last time, she gave the ruby eye a quick kiss for luck.

  Well, sitting here like a lump isn’t going to help me solve this puzzle. I’ve got to get back out to Woodmir if I’m going to dig up any clues. So, taking a deep breath and one last longing look at the beautiful sword, she wrapped it back up in the velvet casing and closed it in its case. She’d have the hotel lock it in the vault for safekeeping. There was no way that she was going to trudge around the countryside with the damn thing.

  None of the information she’d turned up so far had said that it was cursed, but she wasn’t about to take any chances. Besides, it was just too creepy for words. Old relic of a sword turns up after hundreds of years and the first anthropologist who has it in his possession ends up dead, or at least missing. No bodies were ever found, but the police weren’t being too helpful in not listing them as dead.

  The whole ordeal had been a nightmare. The disappearance of her parents was just too King Tut-ish for her liking. Mysterious accidents, their deaths being a possibility, it was all definitely too strange for words. I love ya, Dad, but I’m taking no chances. She grabbed the case and headed for the door.

  The manager was only too happy to assist her in locking up her valuables. The English were always so polite and accommodating. She really did love it here.

  Leaving the hotel, she made her way out of the city to the vast countryside. The flat, rolling landscape stretched for miles on either side of the car windows. The green so deep and rich, a child couldn’t have drawn it any darker in crayon.

  The flat of the terrain blended with the darkened skyline and Gabriella wondered what the hell she was thinking driving around alone through England’s countryside, at one in the morning. American Werewolf in London kept ringing in her ears, and she laughed at her foolishness. “You really need to get it together, Gab,” she scolded herself. “Lions and tigers and weres, oh my! Or better yet, witches, cauldrons and fire-breathing dragons. Maybe I need to get out of this business. All this craziness is definitely starting to affect my brain.”

  Shaking her head at the ridiculousness of her thoughts, Gabriella turned off the main roadway to the back-roads of Kent. On the outskirts was a small bed and breakfast where she had an appointment with the proprietor in the morning to discuss some of the history of Woodmir. She was trying to get some additional background, anything that might lead her back to the sword and its owner.

  Woodmir Haven was said to be an original inn from the seventeenth century, and its family still the rightful owners. It was recorded that their family had lived in Kent since the Battle of Hastings and Gabriella was hopeful that the current owners could give her the information that she needed.

  But for now, the remnants of Woodmir Castle stood in the distance. This was her dig site, and a mangy plot of earth and rubble it was. This was the small-forgotten landscape that had claimed the last weeks of her parent’s lives. This is what you died for, Daddy, she thought glumly as she drove up the winding gravel drive.

  The car slowed on the rocky path before she finally came to a stop in the parking lot, not far from the work area. They’d sectioned off several areas of importance and her fingers twitched with the thought of getting back at the dig. She didn’t have a lot of help, but there were some students to assist her. The funding was minimal, as it usually was, but she was thrilled at the thought of finishing her father’s work. Woodmir Castle was an excellent opportunity.

  Getting out of the car, the door closed with an echo, stirring the birds in the adjacent trees. The squirrels took up their nervous chattering, annoyed at being awakened at such a ridiculous hour. The moon shone brightly in the pitch-black sky and the stars inked out in its darkness. Her boots crunched across the gravel, pounding loudly in her ears.

  Gabriella wasn’t sure if it was because she was alone out here in the darkness or the dig site itself, but the night coursed through her like lightning preceding a storm. All the hair on her arms and neck stood on end and she froze in place, y
ards from where they had mapped out where the main gates to Woodmir had once stood.

  She closed her eyes, and her heart raced like thunder. She could feel the wind pick up all around her, lifting the length of her dark red curls from her shoulders and whipping around her face. The air froze in her lungs and she gasped, fighting for the next breath.

  Something amazing and important had taken place on this very field; in this very spot. She knew it...could feel it coursing through her. It wasn’t as though she had some sort of psychic ability. She didn’t. But she’d swear on her life, right here, right now, that God, or some other power was trying to tell her something.

  Gabriella staggered with the weight of an image bearing down on her. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. She stumbled forward and fell to her knees, her hands scraping against the gravel as she caught herself. Gasping to fill her lungs with air, she looked up towards where the castle had once stood and, in the misty light of the moon as she shook with an overflow of strange sensations, the castle shimmered against the backdrop.

  Sitting back on her haunches, she rubbed her eyes quickly before looking again, but there was nothing there. “I’m losing my freaking mind!” She fell backward, sitting hard on her butt and staring blankly at the crumbling rubble that had once been the outer curtain of a bailey wall.

  Shakily getting to her knees, she staggered to her feet and made her way back to her car. There was no way she was going to try to drive all the way back to her hotel tonight, and it was too late now to try and do any work, especially now that her nerves were all jacked up. Popping open the trunk, she shakily pulled the emergency blanket from the roadside kit and got behind the wheel.

  She’d have to make do with sleeping this one off. Besides, the crew would be here at first light. Maybe then she’d have a grip on her senses and be able to get some work done. Setting the seat back, she pulled the blanket up to her chin and locked all the doors. She was trembling so hard she couldn’t stop.

  “Get a grip on yourself, Gab,” she warned herself harshly. “It’s not as though some tall, dark warrior is going to ride up out of nowhere on his great steed and steal you away. It’ll be morning soon and everything will be normal and right with the world.”

  Coaxing herself into a calm state she didn’t truly feel, she tried to relax enough to try to fall asleep. As she closed her eyes, visions of dragons swarming the skies stole their way through her thoughts. “Oh, for cripe’s sake!” she grumbled, pulling the blanket over her head.

  Chapter Four

  Woodmir Haven was a cozy little inn just on the outskirts of Kent. When the morning came, the rain and the drizzle added a surreal quality to the inn as it sat against the backdrop of rolling green hills. With its shingled roof and wind-worn shutters, the quaint little brick two-story was its own piece of heaven in the encroaching storm.

  Parking her car and dodging the raindrops, she headed for the front door. A little garden lined the front walk to the door, a cobbled path leading the way. The first remnants of autumn foliage—burnished copper, mustard yellow and damp-weary greens—clung to each other in the rain as autumn reared its chilly head.

  Entering, she noticed the wooden awning that swung on squeaky fixtures; Woodmir Haven was etched neatly into the grain of its timeworn surface. Like some portent of an uncertain future, a chill stole down her spine.

  The first step into the building, however, brought a rush of warm baked bread, garlic and cilantro, rosemary and thyme, all blending into a concoction of home-cooked meals at Grandma’s. Each scent mingled with low lighting and easy warmth, like Christmas in a well-used library, brushing away any uneasiness.

  Grabbing a table near the back, she looked around while she waited for the hostess. The place was empty, but she could hear someone singing in the back where the kitchen had to be. Shaking the rain from her curls, she sat in the chair with her back to the wall, her view unimpeded before her. Looking around, she noted the interior of the building was dimly lit and the dark wood of the walls glistened in the soft glow of lamplight. The scent of lemon oil mixed with the soft fragrance of fresh-cut flowers. Marigolds and Candytufts, Michaelmas Daisies and Sweet Rockets filled the air with their luxurious aroma.

  To the right of the front door was a fireplace, empty behind an iron grate, waiting for darkness and fresh wood to permeate the air with its warmth. The smell of hickory and maple; a remembered smell of home, hugged all the dark corners, giving the inn a welcoming feeling.

  In the center of the sitting area, which stretched across from the fireplace, there were two rich brown chairs angled across from each other, the leather gleaming in the fractured light. There was also a plush green sofa with brown and green throw pillows and round cherry end tables sat between each piece of furniture. There were large vases on each of the end tables filled with more wildflowers. The warmth and opulence of the sitting area quietly called to her weary bones. Contentment, it said to her.

  Directly ahead of the entryway was the front desk. It, too, was a rich cherry color and held the normal desk registry in the center of its length. On each end sat a gold candlestick lamp, glowing softly against the backdrop of cream wallpaper. No computers or printers, faxes or telephones could be seen from the dining area.

  To the left of the entryway was the dining area where she sat, and the staircase that led to the rooms upstairs. She was tempted to rent a room and hide away, if just for a little while, in the peace that permeated the inn.

  Gabriella looked up and noted a woman quietly shuffling towards her. She was small in her early sixties and happily looked every bit her age, with meek features, deep age lines etched small round eyes and the laugh lines of a warm smile, the epitome of a grandmother with neat white hair curled back from her face. She smelled of drugstore Chantilly perfume.

  Smiling, she handed Gabriella her menu. “G’day to ye, miss,” she merrily stated, her country brogue thickening her accent and hinting at a mix of Scottish blood.

  “Good day to you,” Gabriella replied politely, a smile forming on her lips. “I’m here to see Mrs. Beatrice Mercer.” “Ye must be that professor gel, what? Knew ye’d be coming this way. Foretold it meself just this very mornin. Can I get ye some breakfast while we chat? I’ve some fine scones jus made this mornin. Right hearty on such a gloomy day.”

  Gabriella looked at her askance, unsure what to make of her comment, but accepted the offer and ordered a cup of earl gray tea. A few short moments passed before the woman returned. Her stomach growled in appreciation.

  “Don’t get too many visitors out this way,” the woman stated, setting her meal before her. Her accent was heavy, but her smile and curiosity were genuine.

  “Now ye go on an eat, miss, and I’ll see if’n I ken get ye started on what ye come here fer.” She smiled weakly. “Quite the tales if the stories be true,” she said, her smile crooked and a sparkle forming in her dull brown eyes.

  Intrigued, Gabriella leaned forward and propped her elbows up on the table, resting her chin on her clasped knuckles and said, “Please do go on.” She was thrilled at the ease with which the woman chose to share her history. She had always loved stories.

  Her father, as an art collector, would always regale her with the stories of the pieces he would purchase on whatever trip he had been on. He had worked for the New York Museum in their medieval artifacts department. The stories he would tell about the weapons and armor, tapestries and the like would always leave her yearning to hear more.

  Spellbound, she waited with anticipation for the woman to continue.

  “Well, my dear,” she started, unable to refrain as she pulled out a chair opposite of Gabriella and sat down. “As me da told me and his da afore him—and so on down me long family line—’tis said that not far from ere where the rubble of Woodmir Castle stands that when the fog rolls in, thick from the woodland, you can hear the sounds of battle. Aye, erd it meself, I ave. Many a time,” she said with a nod. “Tis said the Conqueror gave that castle to Sir R
ichard Lefont for his services at the Battle of Hastings.” The woman’s voice became low and mysterious, setting up the scenes of her saga.

  She was as enthralled in the telling of the story as Gabriella was transfixed to hear it.

  “Tis also said that Lefont was a great warrior and fought in the service of his liege lord and friend, Lord Damon DeGracey, who was the most renowned knight of the kingdom. He was revered for his achievements in battle, and was said to be one of the Conqueror’s most steadfast supporters. They called him The Dragon of Blackmoor, and the stories say that he was six foot ten and the strongest, most viscous knight in the realm. ‘Tis even said that he killed o’re a hundred men by his self at the Battle of Hastings, some with his bare hands, but most by the most lethal of weapons, Dragon’s Blood, the mightiest sword in all the land. Though none of the records give proof of such a weapon existing.”

  Gabriella paid close attention to the information about the Dragon of Blackmoor and his sword, Dragon’s Blood. She would definitely have a lot more work to do when this day was done. “Where do they say his sword was made?”

  “Tis said was on his island, where Blackmoor Castle stands. Though now it be no more than rubble and dust. Tis said you could once find it along the coast on an outcropping of the sea. Rumor says that he called the dragon itself and stole its eye and that’s where the sword got its strength. Other rumors say that he killed a dragon in Constantinople for a dark prince that rode with him and the sword was a gift. But no one really knows for truth.”

  “How do you know all this?” Gabriella asked, amazed at the tale yet leery at the truthfulness.

  “Ah, but you doubt an old woman,” she winked. “No worries, dear. In me family line, ‘tis said an old warrior rode with the dragon. And, o’course, the stories be passed down from his own lips. Tis said he learned from the great dark beast his self.”