Stronghold

by Paul Finch

  "We don't know exactly where the scoop-thrower is located," Ranulf whispered. "It must be up here on the treed ground, because it was concealed from the battlements. Judging from its angle of shot, it can't be more than a hundred yards or more to the south of us, but the exact position is uncertain."

  "We should spread out," Garbofasse said. "Form a skirmish line. Twenty yards between each man. That way we cover more ground."

  Ranulf nodded; this would suit his plan as well.

  "There's still no movement from these... these things," FitzUrz said. Of the horrible shapes lying around them, some were more decomposed than others, several little more than bones wrapped in parchment. But again, in many cases, their heads were turned towards the raiding party, as though watching them carefully.

  "The puppets don't sleep, but maybe the puppet masters do," Ranulf said. "It probably only needs one command to be issued and they'll come raging back to life." He mopped his brow. He was sweating so hard that the grease and soot was running off him in streams. "Form the line. We're moving south... slowly. Keep your eyes and your ears open."

  With some hardship in the darkness and undergrowth, they spread out into a skirmish line, Ranulf anchoring it at the north end and Garbofasse at the south, and proceeded again along the top of the bluff. The ground became even harder to negotiate; it wasn't just bulging with roots, but it had been churned to quagmires by thousands of trampling feet. In some cases, the bodies of the dead lay in actual piles, as if they'd been heaped together by gravediggers. Subsequently, the skirmish line extended and warped as the men struggled to keep up with each other. But on flatter ground, they came across the first of the heavy weapons. Many were still in their wagons, unpacked. Several onagers and ballistae had been taken out and were partly assembled, though further corpses were strewn around these. More work-gangs, Ranulf realised with a shudder. This army of reanimated clay could be turned just as easily to tireless labour as it could to war, and of course it never asked for pay. The full extent of the power this gifted its controller was quite chilling.

  There was still no sign of the scoop-thrower, though ahead of them, they now sighted firelight. They slowed their advance to a crawl.

  In a small clearing, a circle of tents had been raised, with snores emanating from inside them. In the middle of the circle, raised on a mound of hot coals was a large cauldron or cooking-pot. It bubbled loudly as it pumped a column of foul-smelling smoke into the night sky. They halted, wondering what this meant, though each one of them was thinking the same thing: the dead don't need shelter against the elements; nor do they need to sleep, nor to eat warm food.

  Ranulf felt a sudden urge to draw his blade, though he knew he had to resist. Glancing down the line, he saw the next man along, Robert FitzUrz, watching him intently, one hand on his dagger hilt. Ranulf shook his head. They weren't here to perform assassinations. How did they know who actually controlled these dead? How would they know they had killed the right people? In addition of course, Ranulf had his own scheme to attend to. He shook his head vigorously.

  FitzUrz nodded and passed the message along the line. They continued to advance, skirting around the small encampment, but now with their eyes peeled for the massive, distinctive shape of the scoop-thrower. They'd penetrated maybe thirty yards further on, again having to thread between piles of corpses, when Ranulf spotted something else. Twenty yards to his right, half-hidden by trees, there was a stockade with torches burning on the other side of its open gate. Inside, he made out what looked like a gold pavilion covered with red lions. He glanced left again. Only a couple of the other men were visible beyond FitzUrz. He slowed down so that soon they were ahead of him by several yards. Concentrating on what lay in front of them, they didn't notice that he had fallen behind. He now ceased advancing altogether and, as soon as they'd vanished into the mist and rain, turned and hurried towards the stockade.

  When he reached it, he saw that it had a single guard - a living one - on its gate. The guard was young but heavily bearded and, wearing a white gown and hooded white cloak, he looked like a priest of the old religion. He had a curved sword at his belt and a circular shield on one arm, but his spear stood beside him. He looked wet and tired, and was yawning into his hand. Clearly, the last thing he was expecting was some form of attack. When Ranulf lobbed a stone, which crackled in the bushes, the guard turned dully towards it, as if he wasn't quite sure that he'd heard anything. He never saw Ranulf steal up behind, wrap an arm around his neck and throttle him into unconsciousness.

  Ranulf took the curved sword before proceeding. It surprised him that there'd only been one guard, though he supposed that with a multitude of horrors to be called on from the surrounding woods, even the most nervous camp commander would feel relatively safe here.

  Creeping to the pavilion, he saw a flicker of flame within. He held his breath before entering. This would be the biggest risk of all, but the stakes he was playing for were higher than any he'd known in his entire life. Whichever way he looked at it, there seemed to be no other option than this. Sliding the sword into his belt beside his dagger, he drew the tent flap aside and stepped through.

  Beyond, in a small pool of candlelight, a woman sat with her back to him at a small table. Her lustrous red hair, which hung unbound to her waist, revealed that she was Countess Madalyn; there could not be two people in the camp with her distinctive looks. At first she didn't notice the intruder. She was writing what looked like a letter. A number of other documents, already scrolled and sealed with wax, lay alongside it.

  When she sensed that he was there, she gasped, spun around and jumped to her feet.

  Ranulf knew that he must have made a ghastly sight, though he was surely no worse than the monstrosities that had been lumbering around her for the last few days. He put a finger to his lips, hissing at her to be silent.

  "Cry out and call your creatures, countess... and you will miss something to your advantage."

  "Who are you?" she breathed, wide-eyed.

  She was clearly frightened, but she was angry as well - and why not? She was a great noblewoman, as befitted her impressive stature and fierce beauty. And she was now embroiled in a war for the lives and souls of her people. Slowly, her expression softened.

  "I... I seem to recognise your voice."

  "We spoke the day before yesterday," Ranulf said. "Just before this battle commenced."

  "You were the English knight who advised me that further war was futile."

  "And I now advise it again."

  He stepped forward. She retreated, but halted when he took the crumpled letter from a pouch and offered it to her. She opened it and read it. Her eyes widened with wild hope.

  "You recognise your daughter's hand?" he said.

  "Of course. Is she safe?"

  "For the time being. I can't say what will happen to her if this siege drags on."

  Countess Madalyn glanced again at the letter. "This tells me that you harbour feelings against Earl Corotocus and that you aren't alone. How many do you speak for?"

  "At present just myself. But our men are weary and many are wounded. When they arrived here, they thought the war was over. Even the hardiest of them are now losing their appetite for it. What's more, whatever black gate you've opened to summon this hellish horde has left them terror-stricken. Few question the earl's authority thus far. But that state of affairs won't last."

  She folded the letter and regarded him sternly. "Earl Corotocus did not hang and butcher my people alone. Why should I spare any of his wretches?"

  "Because one atrocity fuels another, countess. Victory for you here will only provoke the marcher barons to make more incursions into your land."

  "Then they too will die at the hands of my army."

  "That possibility won't stop them coming," Ranulf said. "They won't believe mere rumour. With no-one alive to tell them the truth about what happened at Grogen Castle, they'll bring even greater forces. And with King Edward's might and wealth behind them, they'
ll soon find a way to tame your festering rabble. The war will go on, an endless cycle of brutality and counter-brutality."

  "Interesting to finally hear an Englishman speaking so. Of course, the main change is that now it is you who stares defeat in the face."

  "Believe what you wish about me, countess, but you have negotiated peace treaties before. I know you seek a better way than endless violence."

  She pursed her lips as she pondered this, before finally saying: "And how do you respond, Gwyddon?"

  Ranulf was startled when a second figure stepped out of the shadows. He looked like a druid or priest of the old faith. He had broad, pale features, with a long, jet-black beard and eyes like lumps of onyx. He walked with a knotted staff, but looked young and strong, and had adorned himself with ornate jewellery.

  "Don't be alarmed, English knight," the countess said. "When Wales belongs to the Welsh again, Gwyddon will be my first minister. No counsel of mine shall be closed to him." She turned to her advisor. "You heard?"

  "I did, madam." Gwyddon nodded, never taking his eyes off Ranulf. "And I urge you to tread carefully."

  She turned back to Ranulf. "Not only will you return my daughter, but you claim that you will either hand Earl Corotocus to me, or punish him yourself?"

  Ranulf nodded, more disconcerted than he could explain by the priest's unexpected presence. He'd faced enemies before, but the hostility emanating from this fellow was almost palpable. The inscrutable onyx eyes never left him.

  "And how do you propose to do this?" Countess Madalyn asked.

  "I'll need to plan accordingly," Ranulf replied. "But I had to come here first. I had to know if you would be receptive to my offer."

  "So you claim to come to us with a plan, though in truth you have no plan at all?" Gwyddon said.

  "I didn't say that."

  The priest turned to his mistress. "If the choice were mine, the answer would be 'no'. Why should we hear terms from an enemy who has already been crushed?"

  "Gwyddon... or whatever your name is," Ranulf said. "The army that King Edward is bringing into Wales has not been crushed, and likely is ten times the size of your miserable host."

  "You see," Gwyddon retorted. "He is crafty, this Englishman. Even now, he seeks to elicit information about the progress of his reinforcements." He sneered at Ranulf. "We will tell you nothing. Return to Earl Corotocus and prepare yourselves firstly for death, and secondly for everlasting service in my regiment of the damned."

  "Countess, this is madness," Ranulf pleaded. "There is no point continuing this fight."

  Gwyddon laughed. "The point is that Wales is on the verge of greatness."

  "Wales is on the verge of annihilation," Ranulf countered. "It doesn't matter how long it takes King Edward to get here, or whether he saves us or not. In fact, the longer it takes him to get here the better, because during all that time your army will be rotting to its bones."

  "And all that time we will replenish it," Gwyddon said. "The more who die, the greater our reserves of strength."

  "Is this what you want?" Ranulf asked the countess. "Queen Madalyn of Lyr, reigning supreme over a nation of mindless corpses? Or will it be First Minister Gwyddon reigning over them? I'm not quite clear."

  Countess Madalyn's lips trembled as she heard him out, but she said nothing. Ranulf pleaded to her again.

  "Listen to me, I beg you. If we return to England, we can tell everyone what we saw here. We can tell the king himself. If all you want is Wales for the Welsh, I dare say you've won it already."

  "Until such time as Edward Longshanks invokes aid from the pope," Gwyddon interrupted. "'Holy Father', he will say. 'There are demons in Wales. Instead of directing our crusader armies east, we must send them west.'"

  "If that's what you think, shaman, you don't know King Edward very well," Ranulf said. "No foreign armies will ever be permitted onto the island of Britain."

  "King Edward does not control the island of Britain."

  "As I say, you don't know him very well." Ranulf turned back to the countess. "Madam, however invincible this fellow might have convinced you that you are, it is better to be King Edward's friend than his enemy. Your army of monsters has given you an advantage, so I pray you don't waste it. With might on your side as well as right, isn't it better to talk?"

  Gwyddon made to respond, his face written with scorn, but Countess Madalyn signalled for silence. She read her daughter's letter again.

  "You speak well for a common knight," she finally said. "But you have no authority to make this treaty."

  Ranulf nodded, as though pondering this. And whipped the dagger and curved sword from his belt. "These are all the authority I need!"

  The countess stepped back. Gwyddon's eyes narrowed.

  "If I was as treacherous as you fear," Ranulf said. "Wouldn't I plunge these blades into your two hearts right now? Instead of vowing to plunge them into Earl Corotocus when I return to Grogen?"

  "This is true," the countess said. "He has taken quite a risk to come here. It would be easy for him just to kill us."

  "He seeks only to save his men, so they may fight another day," Gwyddon argued.

  Ranulf laughed. "After their experiences here, I doubt any of 'my men' - as you call them - would ever glance past Offa's Dyke again, let alone enter Wales. We'll leave our weapons, our booty. I promise we'll march home and harm no-one. Think, madam, how that would help your position once King Edward arrives. I can plead with him on your behalf. Tell him how you punished the criminal Corotocus, but spared the rest of us. Could there be a greater gesture of good will?"

  She gazed at him intently, as if he was slowly persuading her. She was about to speak when there came a frantic shouting from outside the pavilion. It was in Welsh, but Ranulf knew enough of the border tongue to recognise an intruder alert - apparently the English were in the camp.

  "See how he lies and manipulates!" Gwyddon roared. "See how he buys time for his assassins!"

  The countess's expression froze with outrage.

  "Ignore my offer at your peril," Ranulf said as he backed towards the entrance. "You've thrown your lot in with a pagan sorcerer. Continue on this path, and who knows - when you get to Hell, you may share your dungeon with Corotocus himself."

  He turned and dashed outside, where he met another of the young priests at the stockade gate. The priest had a scimitar in his hand, but was too stunned by the sight of the intruder to react. Ranulf slashed his throat and knifed him in the heart.

  Beyond the stockade, there was no immediate response from the dead, who still lay motionless in the undergrowth. But several dozen yards to his right, behind a wall of black and twisting trees, flames were blazing into the night. A great mechanical outline, with a huge throwing-arm, was engulfed in fire. There were more wild shouts. Some were gruff, some sounded panicked. A half-naked figure came weaving between the trunks, stumbling over corpses. It was Tallebois, the squire.

  Ranulf dashed to intercept him, grabbing his arm and bringing him to a halt. The squire squawked with fright.

  "What happened?" Ranulf demanded.

  "We found the scoop-thrower. We brought coals from the campfire and piled straw beneath it. Now the whole thing's burning. We cut its torsion springs as well, broke its winch and pulley-bar. They'll never use it again." Tallebois laughed hysterically.

  "FitzOsbern, where the devil have you been?" came an angry voice.

  Garbofasse lumbered into view, with the others at his heels. He was slick with sweat, his pale flesh shining between streaks of soot and grease.

  "I tried to find the countess," Ranulf said. "How ineffective would the Welsh snake be with its head removed as well as its sting?"

  "And?"

  "She's around here somewhere, but now there's no time."

  As he said this, a terrible voice sounded through the trees to their rear. Ranulf recognised it as Gwyddon's. The druid was chanting discordantly, intoning some hideous spell. As one, the corpses strewed between the trees began to s
tir, to shudder, to twitch.

  "Dear God!" Tallebois screamed.

  "Back to the castle!" Garbofasse shouted.

  "We'll never make it across the moor," Ranulf said, ushering them downhill rather than back along the bluff. "Head for the river."

  "The river?"

  "Do as I say!"

  But on all sides, grotesque figures were rising quickly to their feet. Paston, standing further away from the others, squealed like a calf as an axe clove his skull from behind.

  "This way!" Ranulf bellowed, racing downhill.

  The others followed, pell-mell. But it was a chaotic flight. They tripped over roots or were clawed at by spectral shapes emerging from the mist on either side. Garbofasse fell heavily, injuring his knee. Ranulf stopped and turned as the others ran ahead.

  "Go!" Garbofasse cried, hobbling back to his feet. "Get away!" He was already hemmed in by mewling figures, so he picked up a longsword and swept it at them with both hands. Two went down, sundered at the waist, but a third, fourth and fifth were soon on top of him. "Go!" he shrieked again, wrestling with them as they snapped at him with their foul teeth.

  He managed to invert one and drop it on the top of its head. Another, he ran through with the sword, though it still lunged at him. More joined the fray, bearing him to the muddy ground.

  "Go!" was the last thing Ranulf heard the mercenary captain say, though it became high-pitched and incoherent as his larynx was bitten through.

  Ranulf ran on down the hill, striking on all sides with sword and dagger. The others were already much further ahead. Even Red Guthric, personally bonded to Garbofasse, scrambled down the slope without looking back - until he too fell. A corpse had dropped on him from a tree. It was a naked stick figure, its skin hanging in empty folds, but it had sufficient strength to knock him to his knees, whereupon it clamped its teeth on the nape of his neck. Ranulf galloped alongside and drove his dagger so deeply between its ribs that its blade was wedged there. The spindly monster dropped Red Guthric and rounded on Ranulf. He slammed his curved sword through the middle of its chest, entirely transfixing it, but still it tried to grapple with him. Leaving both his weapons behind, Ranulf stepped away, stumbling on downhill. Red Guthric was back on his feet and came as well, but on wobbling legs. When another form blundered into his path - this one a bloated mass of swollen, purple flesh - and wrapped him in a bear-hug, he was unable to resist. Helpless, barely able to scream, Guthric was raised and broken across the monster's knee like a plank.