Lossex grinned. It was a grin Bob had never seen her make before—an evil grin. Her head was aslant. All light in her eyes was gone. She was a different woman.
Bob’s smile collapsed into a frown. “Don’t you want to go to Anaysia?” Worry emanated from his glistening eyes. “You said you couldn’t say no if someone asked you.”
The menacing grin on Lossex’ face slowly warped into a sincere smile. At least it appeared sincere. “Of course I will,” she told him. “Living in a palace with you would be … wonderful. But I need to see my father first. Will you come with me, Bob? Will you escort me to my father? The road is dangerous, I couldn’t do it by myself. After, we can marry and buy a caravel. Together, we’ll sail to Anaysia to live happy forever. Just like you said.”
The wrinkles beside Bob’s eyes came back suddenly without restraint. His nod said everything, and to that Lossex scooted forward, creating ripples in the water that lapped against Bob’s chest. His arms embraced her and their lips touched.
The bat in the attic stretched out its wings, yawning. Through the thin wood, it could hear the moaning of a human, the splashing of water and the squeaking of skin. The moans got louder, shrill and vehement. Suddenly they became so loud, all twenty-four bats in the attic opened their beady eyes. Their little mouths yawned, showing neat rows of sharp teeth. The one that had been awake the longest dropped and flapped its wings to flutter out through a crack in the wood. Its squeal said it was time to get some grub. The other bats dropped from the eaves and rafters to join it.
The night sky embraced them all as they fluttered out of a crack in the side of the inn. Higher into the sky, they flittered. It was a blurry cloud of black passing under the stars. Soon they were flying away from the village, over the road and towards the castle. They passed over a camp that spread across the road. It was a small camp, a camp that hadn’t been there the night before. Among the meager tents was a black pavilion massive enough to catch the eye of any animal. The pavilion was larger than any house in the village, blacker than the bats flying above it.
When the bats flew over the castle keep, the blue lord watched them curiously, bowing to wish them a fair hunt. He was in the highest chamber of the donjon, his blue gloves resting on the sill of a window. From way up there, he could see everything. Once the bats were out of sight, he looked at Foulmouth’s massive pavilion for the twentieth time that night. He was watching it for a reason, and now that reason was showing itself to him. Cookfires roared around the camp, allowing Spywater enough light to watch the naked green lord frolic with his strumpets into the pavilion. The sight made Spywater grin.
Music spilled over the fields, and the lord in the donjon closed his eyes to listen. Whoever was singing way down there sure had a lovely voice. The lyrics made Spywater’s eyes open wide suddenly. He swore he heard his own name being sung. He listened closer to confirm. It was a song about a blue ghost haunting the ruins of Castle Spywater for eternity. The song was causing bursts of laughter to sprout throughout the camp, creating a crashing roar of instruments. However humorous, the current music wasn’t nearly as coordinated as it was earlier that day, to Spywater’s disappointment.
He shook his head and turned away from the window, letting the starlight add luster to his silky hair. Across a sanguine carpet, over on the other side of the circular room, sat a long ebony desk. Spywater’s blue cloak flowed across the carpet as he walked to the desk and fetched his lantern. With iron keys jingling in a glove, he took one last look at all his books. Hundreds of books were stacked high throughout the room, wavy tendrils rising from the floor. They were left in darkness when Spywater closed the trapdoor and locked it behind him.
He went down, down and down some more. In less time than Mystery would need to scurry from the castle to the lake, Spywater went from the highest point in his castle to the lowest. Water dripped from the vaulted ceiling as he held his lantern high. It was a place deep in the castle undercrofts, a secret place deeper than the dungeons. Until now, it had been untrodden for a hundred years. The tunnel he was traversing was so long, his lanternlight couldn’t reach the end. He counted the sconces in the wall to his right as he passed them. “Twenty and six,” he said to himself, his cloak flowing over the dusty stone floor.
Occasionally, he had to step high to avoid networks of scraggly roots that stretched across his path. After passing the thirtieth sconce, he descried a single robust root that punctured through the wall and slithered across the floor to puncture the next wall. It was a root fatter than most tree trunks. He had to give his cloak some assistance when he stepped over it.
“Fifty.” The number was soon whispered gaily, a susurration that soared down the tunnel like a specter, echoing. “Fifty, fifty, fifty.” Spywater clutched the sconce on the wall and cranked it. Stone around him began to vibrate and spit dust as a giant gear turned behind the wall. Next thing, an opening revealed itself slowly to him. It opened up two feet wide and all vibrating stopped. Spywater held his lantern closer to observe the cavity. He had to look up to observe it effectively. Rusted iron rungs jutted out of the stone and went up higher than his lanternlight could show. It was a ladder that would take him to the surface.
Over the pommel at his waste, he hooked the handle of his lantern. He slapped it to make sure it would stay there, then placed his gloves on the iron rungs. Next a boot. A glove. A boot. A bead of sweat dripped from his chin when he reached the top. Above him was a steel trapdoor. It was unlocked but covered in a foot of sod. He placed a palm on it and pushed up. Nothing happened. He grunted as he pushed harder. Still, nothing. He decided to beat it with the bottom of his fist. He heard something rip, and the trapdoor moved up a bit. When he beat it again, the grass roots in the meliva ripped more. He had to beat the trapdoor ten times before it finally burst free.
Shreds of grass blew up into a night breeze as starlight smacked the lord’s face. Holding the trapdoor up with one hand, he opened his lantern to blow out the flame. After hanging the lantern on a hook, he crawled out into the night and closed the trapdoor behind him. Crouching, he relaxed his eyes to observe the camp on the other side of the field. He observed black figures swirling around cookfires, silhouettes twirling inside tents, torches whirling among dancers. The music was even worse close up, he mused. Grinning, he went on his stomach to crawl behind the cover of a furrow.
After crawling for a time, he paused. A drunken soldier was stumbling towards him. It was some fop with a bronze breastplate. The man had just come to take a piss in the wind, but he was too close for the lord’s comfort. He lost his neck to the wind as well. After rolling the cadaver behind a tall swath of grass, Spywater continued along, moving gradually on his elbows and knees. His blue cloak slithered amongst the crops and plants like a rill, steadily trickling towards the massive black pavilion.
A wench seated by a cookfire swore she saw something blue dash across the corner of her eye. Nothing was there when she looked towards the pavilion. Spywater was behind it with nothing but country at his back. A dagger slid from his cloak to greet the night with a cold kiss. He bore the face of a man twisted by hate as he stabbed the canvas. The sound he heard next was more than satisfying. The blue lord stepped through the gaping slit and tucked his dagger away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE TROLL
PRESTINGS’ GAUNTLETS PICKED up a wool shirt and he sniffed it through the brim of his sallet. He scowled and tossed the thing away. “How can they live like this?” He grimaced at the guts of the bandit pavilion. The canvas ceiling was slightly illumed by the moon and stars. The night had made it easy for Prestings to sneak in there undetected. A bucket of shit was beside his sabaton, but he couldn’t see it. He accidently kicked it as he stepped forward to observe a broken targe on a trestle table. It looked as though someone had tried to mend it with shit. Prestings shook his head as he realized what he had kicked over. “Shit.”
The flap flew open. A bandit roaring in flames immerged into the pavilion, filling all corners with light. Pres
tings gripped his longsword with both hands. Through the slit of his visor, he could see the arms of the flaming man rising high to lick the ceiling, blackening the canvas.
Swoosh! It was a clean, quick arc that flashed in the firelight. The flaming man toppled to the ground as Prestings stepped away, stepping in shit to watch the man in flames make his last grating scream.
Another bandit dashed through the flap of the pavilion. This was a skinny lad with fear on his face. He took one look at the flaming body on the ground and shuddered before he dove for a sword on the bed. It was a super shiny sword, one the lad oiled every night like his dingdong. Prestings said as much as he stepped in to engage, his longsword up and ready to guard.
The lad saw a glimpse of himself on the knight’s breastplate, saw his own fear-stricken face glaring back at him, urging him to run. The hardened steel of Prestings’ breastplate usually didn’t show reflections, but the burning man he was stepping over added the perfect tinge to it.
The lad took one wild swing with his attempt to leap away. The knight laughed as he caught the swing with his flat and sent back a riposte that put a gash in the back of the lad’s head. It was a fast, thoughtless exchange, one that sent the lad hurling to the floor. Prestings walked over him, through the flap and into the night.
Under a star-mottled sky, he espied two bandits huddling behind a log by the campfire, their attire riddled by woodchips. Pebbles whistled over their heads every four seconds. One smacked the log, casting more woodchips onto them. One of the bandits had a maille coif and boiled leather spaulders. He rose to loose an arrow at the faraway forest, then flattened behind the log again. Prestings grinned behind his helm as he walked over to them, knowing well the bandit was loosing his arrows in the wrong direction. The second bandit was half-asleep with a wineskin in his mouth. Prestings admitted it felt wrong to run his blade through the sot’s heart. The bandit with the maille coif looked over to see the sword slowly pull out, blood oozing from the fullers. It was a sad, still moment.
“What the fuck!” The bandit’s coif suddenly rustled on his head, almost blocking his eyes as he sprung up in a hurry to get out of the knight’s reach. A sword sang shrilly under his feet as he jumped. Prestings cursed and his blade smacked the log. He watched the bandit yip and skip away out of the light of the campfire. A pebble pinged off Prestings’ breastplate.
From somewhere far off, a voice rang, “My bad!”
Prestings raised an arm to show he was okay. “All good, Phillick!” He heard footfalls and turned to behold three raging bandits charging with flourishing axes. “A little help here.”
“Coming!”
An arm wielding an ax came swinging downward briskly and kept going down as it separated from its body. It smacked the ground, groveling. Prestings kicked the bewildered bandit away and parried another ax. He couldn’t, however, parry the one that cracked against the side of his helm. It made him stagger back. With his sword in one hand, he cut a gash into a leg and stepped back some more. The axmen had hatred in their eyes as they stalked around him, one of them limping severely.
The axman who had lost his arm, however, was already halfway to the forest, determined to survive somehow.
Phillick was trundling over the grass and tucking his sling under his left vambrace when he saw the maimed man skipping across his path. The man was so driven by fear that he didn’t even see Phillick until a sword came flaring into the starlight. The man’s head opened and he plummeted. With all the velocity of his skipping behind it, he plummeted right into a brier. Phillick ignored the man’s driving words and left him to die. He died tangled in the thorns, clutching a bloody stub where a forearm should’ve been, staring at the moon.
By the time Phillick arrived at the campfire, panting with his weapon raised, Prestings was nearly done using a bandit’s cloak to clean his blade. Phillick stooped to do the same. Looking up to watch Prestings scabbard his sword, he asked, “Is that all of them?”
Prestings raised his visor to peer off into the woods. “One with a maille coif and leather spaulders got away, but I don’t think he’ll be much trouble unless he somehow stumbles into our horse.”
“Swell riddance.” Phillick rose and slid his sword away. He stepped back from the heat of the campfire, took a look at the tents behind him. “Well … that went smooth, I guess. You were right about sneaking into the pavilion, Prestings. I was worried when I saw the flaming bandit go in there, though.”
Prestings turned to espy the pavilion. He had to close his visor because the flames were too bright. The thing was a burning city compared to the campfire at their heels. It burned bright enough to make the menhir shine like a colossal crystal under a desert sun. Thin shadows lingered in the arrow carving up high. It was a wet, glistening wound. Prestings saw it and looked to where it pointed. The distant stones and skulls were hidden by the night, but he could still see the hump in the horizon that hid a portion of the stars. Phillick began to stare at the distant, dark hump, too, just as lightning flashed far off behind them. Their shadows danced before them, around the lifeless bandits on the ground.
A cackle from Phillick gave the scene exactly what it needed. Stacked by one of the logs were six bulging wineskins. Phillick popped the top of one to sniff its contents. He cackled again. “There’s enough carrot wine here to make the trip back to Wellimgale a whole other adventure of its own.”
Prestings took off his helm and gave a curt laugh that sounded more like a sniff. “Toss me one of those.” The nozzle easily found its way into his mouth. He swallowed. “Tastes like shit, but so does everything else in this world.”
“Victory doesn’t taste like shit.” Phillick strutted forward, leaving the wineskins behind.
Prestings asked, “Where’re you going?”
“Searching the tents.”
Prestings’ wineskin was tossed to jiggle with the others. He redonned his helm. Stepping over a log, he said, “Wait for me.”
He entered the tent to see Phillick snatch up some torches from a wicker basket. Phillick looked back at Prestings. Holding up the torches, he said, “Exactly what I was looking for.”
“Torches? For what?” Prestings’ brow quirked. “For the cave? Don’t tell me you’re still planning to go in there after what we heard. There’s no way I’m fucking going to fight a troll with you. No way.”
The chortle that escaped Phillick’s hawk-faced helm really sounded like the squawk of a hawk. “Prestings. Prestings. Prestings.” Phillick shook his head jokingly. “I knew you would balk again. You’re so predictable. It’s almost as if some author wrote you in a book. What will it take for me to convince you this time? Huh, pal?”
It sounded like the clangs of a mallet when Prestings fisted his hips. “You won’t convince me this time, Phillick. What?” He was offended. “You really want me to get battered by some cave troll? I thought we were like brothers.”
“I don’t want to fight the troll.” Phillick walked past Prestings to leave the tent. “I just want to see it.”
Prestings followed Phillick outside. “You just want to see it? You really have gone mad.”
The torches were held into the campfire. Phillick admired them burning brightly in his gauntlet, then offered one to Prestings. “Yeah, I just want to see it. When have you ever gotten the chance to see a troll, Prestings?”
“Never.” Prestings refused the lit torch with a wave of his gauntlet. “I always thought trolls were things of fairy tales.”
“And that’s exactly my point.” Phillick thrust the torch again. “I didn’t think they were real either. But this one seems to be very real. All I want to do is see it with my own eyes. Imagine it, Prestings. Close your eyes and imagine it. Picture the light of your torch slowly revealing a beast unlike anything you’ve seen before. I wonder what color its skin is.”
“What if we can’t run away in time?”
“That’s a ‘what if,’ Prestings.” Phillick’s laugh was annoying enough to make Prestings wish Medgard
was around with his temper to give Phillick a clout. The weasel went on, “I could just ask ‘what if the troll is friendly?’ See how that works? Come on, Prestings. I know you want to see it, too. For the almighty’s sake, we killed all these bandits to get this far. We shouldn’t turn back now. We’re almost at the end!”
“We’ve reached the end a long time ago, Phillick.” Prestings snatched one of the torches, but not to guide him to the cave. He turned to remember which direction he had left the horse. “We heard the thing scream. That’s good enough for me.”
“Not for me, it isn’t. Oh no.” Phillick had a positive energy in his voice that said Prestings was already convinced. “Imagine what the boys will think when they hear you turned down the chance to see a troll.” He marveled at the sky as if the picture he described was floating right there in front of him. “They’ll call you a coward, Prestings—a loser. Meanwhile, I’ll say I had the courage to go by myself and see it. I’ll describe what it looked like to all the ladies and they’ll call me a hero. I’ll paint a big picture and say ‘good morrow, dear ladies, this is what a troll looks like. Want to sleep with me?’ And after they sleep with me, we’ll all lie around in bed laughing about how cowardly you are and how you never got to see the troll. Then King Kilwinning will hear the story and …”
“ENOUGH! You little pheasant!” Prestings stomped to express his anger, accidently into a puddle. Blood splattered onto his sabaton as he said, “If anything’s a troll here, it’s you. Damn it! You’ve convinced me for the last time, Phillick. But we’re making this quick.”
The walk across the valley was a sullen and quiet one, but Phillick couldn’t complain. He had taken one last look at the menhir before walking out of the camp. Now the stone-laden hill towered above him. He heard Prestings curse when they spotted the skulls and ancient armor strewn about the stones. Phillick would’ve cursed, too, but he didn’t want to give Prestings more reason to turn around. The rocks sliding and rolling under their feet created more noise than their rattling armor. They were only ten feet up when Prestings slipped. Phillick caught his arm and kept him from tumbling to the grass. The silence prevailed and Prestings carried on with a glower. Holding his torch back by his hip with his eyes low, Prestings carefully sought his path up the treacherous climb. Phillick flowed up the scree in a much more graceful manner, barely looking at his own feet; he had the benefit of following while Prestings carved the way.
Knights of the Dawn (Arcanum of the Dolmen Troll Book 1) Page 17