Hickens was on the dais looking down at Lady Spywater’s wan face. He suddenly looked back over the heads of his men to glare at Highcross. “You can take your cravens and leave if you want. Whatever haunts this castle will fall dead to the weight of my sword. I promise you.” Hickens turned away to face the stairwell at the other end of the hall. “Now keep moving men! We are the viper! Let’s get up that stairwell and clear out the next floor! Don’t stop until every room feels the chill of our venom!”
Over fifty men huzzahed. The tongue resumed its slither once more, casting green venom across the walls. Archester halloaed and led his men to follow Hicken’s charge past the throne.
“Stay back!” Highcross called, and the twenty-odd men he had left at his command were glad to obey. They stayed behind the throne and collected around Highcross. From there, they watched their fellowmen follow Hickens towards the far stairwell. A dreadful weight burdened their guts the moment they saw black. A thousand phantoms screamed at once. Glistening pillars of death augured the fate of so many men.
Hickens fell to his knees, staring at his blackening hands. While men squirmed, slipped and cowered all around him, splashing about in a chaotic blur, he watched the flesh slough off his fingers. White bone kissed the air. His entire charge was reduced to a writhing black wreck, a tarry swamp of agitated worms and maggots. The ceiling was hidden from sight; the steam was so thick.
Highcross stifled a gag of disgust. He was the last lord alive. He had to turn away as a miasma of death was coughing in his face. The men with him could do nothing but shudder and watch. Some of them yelled in rage as they spotted their first foe. Across the swamp of writhing agony, under the archway of the far stairwell, stood a man in a long blue cloak. Thick smoke streamed from a torch in his hand.
“Look there, milord!” A lad tugged Highcross’ maille. “Look through the chaos, milord. It’s the ghost of Lord Spywater! And it’s got a torch!”
Through the frantic scene, over the squirming bodies, Highcross scowled at the blue lord. His scowl turned into a goggle when he saw the torch spiraling through the air. The blue lord’s sugarloaf helm flashed fulgently as the flames roared forth, spreading out like a stampede of tigers. After squinting from the sudden brightness, Highcross peered betwixt rising, whipping flames to discover the blue lord had vanished. At that moment, the lord in black maille cursed the memory of anticipating a feast. This was a meal no man should sit through. It was a feast to the almighty, a platter of souls for the picking.
“What should we do, milord?” A young lad with two tall plumes on his helm pissed himself for the second time since entering the keep. His eyes were withering roses, glazed over by depression, half dead, waiting impatiently for their lord to reply.
Highcross answered sullenly, “I couldn’t live the rest of my days in peace knowing what I’ve seen here. We need to avenge them.”
Another lad with a bronze breastplate wouldn’t accept that answer. “Your thoughts are rubbish, milord. Fuck revenge! Fuck these idiots if they were too stupid not to turn back. Hickens should’ve listened to you. A ghost haunts this castle, and it’ll kill us all if we stay. I’d happily live my days in peace knowing I was smart enough to leave.”
“I mean no disrespect, milord,” the lad with the plumes on his helm interjected, “but I have to agree with Darwin. I don’t know if I could stay, even if you demanded it. I’d forfeit a winter’s wage to turn back now.”
Highcross understood what his men were feeling better than they thought he did. “It’s too late to turn back.” He sighed glumly and turned away from the fire, away from the throne. “We’re not going to continue through the keep, but this siege is still far from over. Other lords have yet to arrive. Soon, we’ll have more reinforcements than we’ll know what to do with. We’ll starve out this blue phantom or send diseased curs swarming through his halls. I’ll see him dead before I see milady again.”
At that, the score of footmen sniffled and followed their lord away. When the sun hit their faces, they wished it was the moon. Moments ago horror and rage had made them spry. Now the excitement was over. Exhaustion hit them all at once. They were a coffle of zombies shifting out of the keep.
“This castle is ours whether Spywater breathes or not.” Highcross led his men across the bailey. “It’s not like he’s got all the oil in the world up there.” He pointed his sword at the shattered gate. “Before anyone gets to rest, I want to see a new gate standing there. Cut trees, coerce the villagers. Whatever it takes. But first get all of that debris out of the way.”
“We shouldn’t rebuild the gate!” The lad with the plumes was on the verge of smacking his lord across the face. “No one knows where the cannyns are hiding! We could be facing another bombardment as we work, and then Spywater will have a new gate to protect him from our allies. We’ll be shot down by quarrels, too. I say we get the fuck away from this cursed castle while we still have breath to fetch.”
Highcross took a maille fist and rammed it hard against the lad’s guts. “Did you not hear what I said earlier, Charles?” Highcross had converted his fear into rage. Charles knew he was the brunt of it as he grimaced from the blow. “It’s too late to leave, Charles.” Highcross fumed on, “It’s impossible to leave. We’ve gone too far. We can’t let those men die for nothing. Now follow your fellows and do as I’ve commanded. Go cut down a dozen trees if you have to, whatever it takes to get that gate back up.” Highcross twisted to glare at the baleful keep, hoping to see a set off eyes, hands holding a crossbow, anything to remind him that his foe was a man just like him. “Spywater’s no lummox. I bet he’s got reinforcements coming, too, and his won’t be expecting a feast. For safety, we’ll have to hold the castle like it’s our own, even if all we have is the bulwark and the bailey. At least we have some battlements to utilize.”
The lord turned back to his men. Most of them were already walking off to remove debris from the gateway. He saw the fear in their gait and wanted to encourage them, encourage himself most of all. “Our fellow feasters will be arriving in time for supper,” he reminded them, “so have no fear. I heard Lord Foulmouth’s bringing his sons, all seventeen of them. After the gate’s up, we’ll use whatever materials we have left to build mantelets. Lord Foulmouth’s sons may try something stupid when they get here, but you and I are going to finish this the patient way. No one is to enter that keep without me saying so. Heed to my words and we’ll win. We’ll feast in Spywater’s halls even if this takes a year.”
Charles wished he had better armor. He was still winded by the blow to his guts. “Yes, milord. Forgive me. We’ll do whatever it takes to kill that blue phantom.” He limped off to help his working fellowmen. As he staggered nearer, he whispered something only he could hear. “Lord Spywater’s already dead, and our weapons can’t hurt ghosts. That keep will never be ours. We’ll all be dead before the sun’s down.”
“One more thing!” Highcross yelled as he watched the men work. Some of them rolled their eyes, wishing their lord would shut up. “While you’re out ferreting wood, see if Bob Redmand’s in the village. I have a feeling he helped Spywater set his traps. Find him and bring him to me. But be careful. That’s The Sundown Boar we’re talking about.” Highcross paced a bit, his hands clasped behind his back. “Four of you split up and patrol the ramparts. Search for traps while you’re at it. We’re going to find out where Spywater’s hiding his cannyns. Those fucking things killed my horse. To blow up the gate the way they did, there must be a bunch of them hiding across the bailey somewhere. I bet there're tunnels all throughout this place. Spywater could be reloading hidden cannyns as we speak.”
Highcross spun to observe his entire surroundings. He was a hair on the brow of a head, and the curtain wall’s merlons were the spikes of the crown that surrounded him. He scabbarded his sword and continued, “I knew this castle was misleading the moment I noticed it had not a moat nor a motte. It has other more sinister defenses. That blue phantom fucker used our own rage to lure
us in. He tricked us. Now we’ll use our patience to lure him out. We’ll trick him back. I swear it.” Highcross punched the sky with a black maille fist. “I pine for the moment to duel that fucker one on one. I’ll wipe his arse with that weathered blue cloak then swaddle him in it before I fuck his brains.” He faced the keep in outrage, peering into all the dark loopholes. “You hear me, Spywater? I’LL FUCK YOUR FUCKING BRAINS OUT!”
The silence that followed made Highcross redden. He was about to turn away from the keep, but great white wings made all eyes turn skyward. A ghostly raven was gliding away from one of the donjon’s windows. The bright bird flapped its wings to rise higher. Its beak was the color of steel. Blue streamers fluttered at its heels. It disappeared behind a lonely nimbus before Highcross’ archers could nock arrows.
“You see?” Highcross pointed to the sky, smirking proudly. “Spywater’s human just like us. He’s scared. There was a message on that raven, most likely begging for some savior.” He spat and cursed under his breath. “Don’t stay in one spot for too long, men. We’re dealing with the most dangerous kind of man, a cornered coward. There’s no telling what he’ll do to survive.” His eyes followed the tall donjon that speared the sky, wondering if grapnels could get him up there somehow. “He’ll be watching us carefully but he can’t stay awake forever. Fuck all hell, I have a feeling this day will never end.” He felt brave when he faced his back to the keep again. “Now half of you go start gathering wood and don’t forget about Bob Redmand. You, come with me. Yes, you, Charles. Those cannyns won’t find themselves. We’ll start our search over at the stable. Bring your shield.”
CHAPTER EIGHT: THE COW
AN INNKEEPER STOOD behind a bar at the back of a quiet beer hall. With her eyes closed, she brushed her plump fingers across a crusty countertop. Her fingers found a mug. She wiped it clean with a cloth, then twisted to place it high on a cupboard behind her.
“I may be blind,” she disclosed, “but I know sadness when I see it.” Her sightless hands felt across the countertop once more, only to lift away sated. There was nothing else to clean. “You twain are the first strangers I’ve had since the war began.” She couldn’t see her guests, but she knew they were sitting far apart from each other. The male one with the slur and the stammer was sitting by the window. The female one with the proud voice was over in the corner where a chill liked to linger. “Why don’t you twain say anything? Maybe some talking would cheer you up.”
Bob Redmand leaned back in his chair, twiddling a spoon through some cold broth. His dick-helm sat on the sill of an open window beside him. He observed how the sun glimmered off its top, casting shadows down the hammered details of the shaft. His eyes ran along a vein to linger on warts. Those polished bulbs were eyes staring back at him.
He heard children larking outside, heard the hacks of some pick in a field. He also heard the lonesome young woman across the beer hall sniffle. He turned his eyes to watch her nose wiggle. Her face looked flush against the small flame on her table. It was the flame of a taper more red than any healthy heart, the perfect symbol for the confusion Bob felt when he looked at her.
“So you twain aren’t talkers, eh?” The innkeeper poured herself some beer. “Maybe you’re the listening type. Well, I’m afraid there’s no gleeman to take your mind away, but I could try. My story is a boring one, though. I lost my sight after my goodman died. My sons help me keep a living by supplying this here inn with food and drink. That’s why it’s called ‘Good Sons’ Inn.’ Every villager here knows me, but all have beds of their own. Only faraway farmers or frequent peddlers who’re too tired to make the travel home stay the night. That side of business is slow, but that broth you’re enjoying never stays cold for long. Every day, this place fills up around supper time. A good sons’ warm belly is what the villagers call it. Every day I make the broth a little different. This morrow I added more onions. Maybe that’s why you twain are so sad.” Her big round cheeks jiggled when she giggled. She readjusted her kerchief after quieting. “Forgive my jest. I’m sure you twain are sad for a good reason. Why don’t you share?” She took a hardy sip from the mug in her hand, wishing she could see her guests.
Bob’s reply was a slurp of broth.
The damsel in the corner wiped an eye with a dirty sleeve. “Your broth is wonderful,” she managed. “You have a nice, settled life here, Dorathy. I’m jealous.”
“The adventurous Lady Lossex is jealous of a blind woman?” Dorathy the innkeeper was baffled by the damsel’s words.
“I said nothing about being adventurous,” Lossex retorted. “I just said I wanted lots of beer because my journey had been rough.” The empty flagon at her elbow had once been full.
“Every lady should be adventurous.” Dorathy stifled a burp. “Especially one with a youthful voice like yours. You’re too young to be sad.”
Lossex brushed her hair away from her face. Her eyes glowed in the candlelight. “Can I have more beer, please? And some broth?”
“Neither of you have paid me yet.” Dorathy fisted her hips. “You’ll have more broth and beer when I taste gold!”
Lossex pouted, “But all I have is this dress. It’s satin, worth more than gold if you clean it.”
“I’m not taking your dress, lady. Scrub my cauldron clean and I’ll give you all the broth and beer and bedding you could need for a night. Scrub my back every night and I’ll let you stay for a year.”
“I can’t stay. I shouldn’t even be here.”
Bob almost stuttered something at that, but he bit his lip and sipped more broth instead, excited to listen further.
“I don’t know your story yet,” Dorathy said. “But you’re here now and you need to pay me. I’ll cut you a deal, lady. Scrub my back tonight and I’ll let you sleep in my bed.” Dorathy licked her lips. “My sons may be good, but sons’ll always be sons. I need a girl to scrub my back and brush my hair. The last maid I had married some farmer boy just to get out of the chore. Now my back could really use a good scrubbing. A really, really good scrubbing.” There was something odd about her tone that Bob couldn’t understand.
Whatever was in her tone, it offended the lady. “Do I look like a strumpet to you?”
“How could I know what you look like?” A huge rictus stretched across Dorathy’s face, pushing up those big red cheeks of hers. “Your voice is pretty enough.” She shifted to face Bob. “What about you? You have yet to pay me, too. Now from your voice, I can’t tell if you’re a drunken young man or a drunken old fool. With these eyes of mine, though, it doesn’t matter. Will you scrub my back tonight, boy? I’ll give you all the broth in the world if you scrub it real nice.”
Bob couldn’t tell what the blind crone’s exaggerated wink was for, but he could guess why Lossex was pouting. “I’ll do it only if you give Lady Lossex more beer and broth!”
The innkeeper couldn’t have been more excited. She clapped her hands and giggled. “Listen to the sound of that! It’s been a while since I’ve had a good scrubbin’. Hell, I never thought I’d become more adventurous than a lady in satin.” She wobbled around to stir a large kettle. “Now bring over your bowls and mugs. I’ll fill them up.”
Lossex was disgusted by the innkeeper’s carnal stipulations, but she brought her crockery to the bar nonetheless. Bob did as well, albeit slowly and shyly. When he stood next to Lossex, he broke a sweat, thinking the whole world was there staring at him.
“Thanks, Bob,” Lossex said, peering into his blinking eyes. She picked up her refilled crockery and strutted back to her seat. “Thank you, too, Dorathy.”
Bob’s mind halloaed as he watched her walk away. A loud voice next to his ear startled him. It was the innkeeper. “Your bowl’s still half-full and your beer’s barely been touched!” Dorathy couldn’t believe her fingertips. “What’s wrong with you, boy? You let my broth get cold. Is it too oniony for you?”
He thought the innkeeper was outraged. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Dorathy leaned back and guffawed so loud it made Bob stagger back bewildered. “Calm down, boy. I’m not your mother.” Her cheeks were juicy, ripe apples. She grabbed Bob’s bowl to refill it anyways, still stifling giggles. “From where your voice sits, I can tell you’re a tall man. I’m just surprised you haven’t finished yet, is all. I’ve never met a man who takes hours to slurp a bowl of broth, let alone neglect a mug of beer. Tell me, do you not like beer, boy?”
“Father said I shouldn’t drink beer or any drink like that.” Bob put both hands on the bar. In a flash, his anxiousness had turned to pure mannishness. A dangerous confidence imbued him. “I can only have three sips. No more!”
“Alright, alright.” Dorathy placed the refilled bowl down and snatched up the mug. “Let me get you some water then, mind you it’s a whit stinky from the well.” She wobbled until a bucket was at her feet. After quaffing back Bob’s beer, she dipped the empty mug into the bucket like a ladle and fetched up some murky water. A moment later, the wet mug smacked the countertop and Bob eyed it warily. “There you go, boy. Now your father’ll be pleased.” She listened to Bob sniff the water, and asked, “What’s your name, boy?”
Bob was about to answer when a drawling voice from the window called, “Oh, looky here! It’s The Sundown Boar’s dick-helm. Oh boy, it really does glimmer like the stories tell.”
The front door burst open. Lossex became shrouded in light. Worry raped her face as three men with spangenhelms stepped into the inn. Dorathy panted and backed away from the heavy footfalls, away from the sighs of moving maille. She knew the sound of soldiers when she heard it. As the door swung shut, withdrawing all light, a soldier in the front with a bronze breastplate put a hand on the hilt at his waist. Descrying Bob, he said, “You’ll be coming with us, Redmand.”
Bob ignored the man who had said his name to glower at the one fondling his dick-helm in the window.
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