Like the splatters of blood that tainted the blurriness of motion, the grass never stopped flowing. Neither did the mist. Like the shadow of a mountain, the mist rolled over the land, slinking around brightly painted menhirs, blanketing hills with darkness. The whole jungle seemed to move as the mist carried on over a steep escarpment. Silently, the village was left behind. Not a single man or woman was left alive to tell what had happened. A child on a pallet woke for the first time that morning to exit her tent and wonder. The mist of the dawn killed everything.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE CATERPILLAR
OVERNIGHT, HOARFROST HAD changed the leaves and grasses of the country. Where flowing fields of green once flourished, prickly wastes of crispy blue gave a chill to the air. The rising sun vied with a blanket of darkness that covered the entire sky. Not a single spear of light was able to puncture it. Above the vast horizon of many rolling hills, the sky was a mean and gray bulwark blocking the dawn. Rain plummeted thickly over everything, tapping and pattering, trickling down thatch, slowly melting the frozen grass.
Lake Spywater looked like it was taking a cannyn barrage as droplets the size of fists punched its surface with resounding pats. A gale rushed down the village road, swooped around the siege camp and rattled the castle’s half-finished gate. The big, round bailey of Castle Spywater was completely empty. The tarry, burnt corpses before the shattered keep doors were frozen with the hard-packed meliva; black hands outstretched through the hoarfrost to catch the rain.
Lord Foulmouth’s dream of teats and sausages faded to the dark insides of his eyelids. He didn’t yet know his dream was over as he listened to the pattering of rain. It was the gale that suddenly hit his face, the gruesome chill of it, that made him realize things were not what they seemed. Without opening his eyes, he could tell his garments were sodden over his skin. Droplets of water were pecking him. He could feel the water running down his forehead and across his shifting lips. When he tried to bring out a hand to wipe the water from his face, he burst open his eyes and screamed at the top of his lungs. He was forty feet in the air, his hands and feet tied to a flagpole that jutted from the keep. The blue flag that once flapped there had been discarded, replaced by a slimy, green man. All the black and burnt bodies were directly below him, staring with outstretched hands, begging for him to help them up.
Another gale rushed over him. His soaked white hair flapped across his face. No life was in sight as he gazed down at the empty bailey, but he screamed for help all the same, baring his crooked, green teeth. “Hhheeelp Mhheee! How the fuck did I get here? Hhhheeeelp Mhhheeee!” His screams echoed around the ramparts and leaked faintly into the country. His head swiveled left and right. “Lord Spywater, you flea eating cockroach! You’ll pay for this!” There was nothing for him to look at but the thousands of splashes of rain coating the bailey with water. Still, he knew Spywater could hear him. “Do you really think you’ll get away with this?”
He tried to wriggle out of his bonds. The flagpole creaked forward a bit and he stopped. The drop below was baleful enough to make any animal sniffle and think twice. As if hypnotized by a demon, Foulmouth’s face was taken by a petrifying rage. With his mouth gaping, his eyes unblinking, every muscle in his face twitched. Veins bulged across his temples. His beard whipped in the wind. In the reflection of his eyes, one could see the half-finished gate over on the other side of the bailey.
A woman with soaked hair appeared in the gateway, stepping timidly through the mud. A coverlet was wrapped around her shoulders like a cloak. She stopped before entering the bailey, shivering from the cold. She leaned in to look around.
Foulmouth had to blink five times when he saw her. “Up here!” With as much doubt as he had inside him, the tiniest bit of hope was enough to make his chapped lips un-crinkle into a smile. He beamed as he called to her, “Collette, my dear! I’m up here!”
His words were waves of force that pushed the woman back. Startled, she flung her sight across the keep. It skimmed over Foulmouth, taken by the impressive donjon that speared the clouds. His voice called again and her sight flicked back to the man on the flagpole. Way up there, above the shattered doors, he looked like a leaf on a twig. “Darling!” she called to him. “You weren’t in bed this morning. I heard your scream. Why are you up there?”
The tiny bit of hope in Foulmouth’s heart was sucked away as if by a mosquito. “Why am I up here?” he asked sarcastically. “Woman, do you think I fucking know? Maybe I flew up here in my sleep and tied my own fucking hands to this pole! What do you fucking think?”
Slouching from guilt, Collette shuddered in the gateway. She answered shrilly over the pounding rain. “I’m not sure, darling, but there’s a giant slash in the side of our pavilion.”
Foulmouth rolled his eyes. “Well, that explains everything!” He harrumphed and spat out a gout of snot. “Now go build a ladder and help me down from here.” The snot was lost to the rain and landed with all the other droplets. “Tell Highcross and Lafender I need help! Go!”
Collette stood there, shivering. The rain was splashing mud onto her coverlet.
“Almighty damn you, I said GO, bitch!” His voice resounded through the gateway. “Highcross and Lafender will know what to do. Bring them here!”
The woman was gone in the blink of an eye. It felt like Foulmouth had sat through a long and tiring mummer’s show before Collette was back. Highcross had the hood of his white cloak donned over his helm, holding an arm around her. Lafender was there, too, along with a dozen of Foulmouth’s minstrels. As if the bailey was quicksand, they all stopped in the gateway, huddling together. Some of the minstrels were balancing on pattens and holding shields above their heads, their neat, colorful attire perforce near to dry. Collette pointed and all her company followed with their eyes to spot the caterpillar.
The jowls under Foulmouth’s eyes wriggled in contempt. “Now you see me! Isn’t it amusing?” Another gout of snot mingled with the falling rain to nourish the blackened corpses below. “NOW GET ME DOWN FROM HERE!” His voice was a volcanic eruption. “Almighty damn you, fuckers! Why are you just staring at me? BUILD A LADDER AND GET ME DOWN FROM HERE!”
The audience in the gateway stood perplexed. A tableau prevailed. Highcross’ lips twitched; words were caught in his throat. Lafender held his head as if it was too heavy for his neck. Some minstrels gave each other looks to confirm their thoughts. There was no way they were walking out into that bailey, out there in the open where countless traps were waiting for them. If it wasn’t the memories of the lords Archester and Hickens, it was all those burnt corpses that reminded them to keep away from that bloody keep.
The grating cries returned. “What is this? Why are you all just standing there?” Foulmouth’s expression was taken by a heavy doubt. “Tell me you have men working on a ladder. Tell me … tell me you’re not just going to stand there forever. Tell me, because … you’re going to need a loooong fucking ladder to GET ME DOWN FROM HERE!”
Highcross’ lips were twitching terribly now. His jaw dropped, and a single solemn word flopped out. “Sorry.”
Foulmouth heard something, but it was too faint to understand. “I’m sorry,” he yelled, “what did you say?”
“Sorry,” Highcross muttered the word again, louder this time. “I’ll make sure your knights and black powder don’t make the long trip for nothing.” With that, he turned to depart.
Foulmouth watched the white cloak flutter out of sight. His nostrils flared open with rage. “Don’t walk away from me, Highcross!” The demand was hurled over the bulwark like a stone to barely reach Highcross’ ears. “In case you’re not aware, I’ll inform you that King Spiderwell promised to appoint me as the baron if these parts when the war’s over. That includes your land as well, Highcross. I’d think twice before forgetting that!”
Shivering in the gateway, Collette added to Foulmouth’s plea. She looked to Lafender and asked, “Make the long trip for nothing? What did Highcross mean?”
Lafender
was still shamefully holding his head. He revealed miserable eyes to Collette for a curt moment then brushed past her to walk away.
Foulmouth cringed at the sight. “You, too, Lafender? I can’t believe what I’m seeing! Are you just going to walk away without saying anything? In that case, you’re damn right my knights won’t arrive here for nothing. They’ll arrive to cut you all to bits once they learn you left me up here!”
Collette let the coverlet fall from her shoulders and she fell to her knees, facing the road. She screamed at the lords striding away from her. “Please, you have to save him! I love him! We have to help him down!”
Her voice was no more than spattering rain. Highcross and Lafender were far off now, striding bleakly towards the camp.
A few minstrels made sad moans at that. They were all still there, all twelve of them huddled in the gateway. They nodded at each other understandingly and slipped hands into their cloaks. As Collette collapsed into the mud, Foulmouth’s screams came echoing through the gateway to entwine with her sobs. The cries and sobs mixed with the wind and rain, altogether creating a prelude to something much greater. In a swift straight line, one by one, musical instruments were pulled out from the minstrel’s cloaks. With chinrests held at chins and fingertips placed on keys, a sad, sad, bloody fucking sad song began to play.
From the way Foulmouth squirmed in his bonds, making the flagpole creak in its supports, anyone could assume the song was not his favorite. And according to his screams, the song was very bloody fucking sad, indeed. “ARE YOU TOO SCARED? IS THAT IT? YOU THINK SPYWATER’LL KILL YOU IF YOU GET TOO CLOSE? WELL, YOU’RE ALL FUCKING CRAVENS THEN!” His screams thundered over the bailey with fury, but still, the singers sang on. It was a song Foulmouth had heard at many funerals. His minstrels played it well. Blood began to run betwixt his teeth; he was screaming so hard. He paused to catch his breath and closed his eyes. Behind the chaotic noise of wind and rain, he faintly heard Collette’s sobs. He sighed, noticing how her sobs augmented the whole song, making it tantamount to a grand theatrical performance. The minstrels swayed their bodies back and forth with the melancholic rhythm. One had a tear rolling down his cheek. Another with a shield above his head grinned the whole time as he sang. The lutes, citoles and flutes could be heard from way over in the camp, where howls of laughter kicked off to echo across the country.
Foulmouth opened his eyes when he felt something touch his hair. A large, white raven with a steel beak was perched on the end of the flagpole, glaring down at him inquisitively. The green lord spat a bloody curse. The raven pecked his head and took off. He watched the long blue streamers on the raven’s ankles flutter through the wind, out and up towards the clouds. Over the minstrel’s depressing music, another bloody curse went up to see the raven off. “I swear, you devilish beast, one day I’ll slap you right out of the sky with a quarrel! I swear it. I’ll stay here and eat one bit of my tongue every day until my knights arrive. When that happens, cur, this whole rotten world will wish I never existed!”
The raven heard the lord’s warning as it entered the blanket of clouds. In the thickness of all that rushing gray, its golden eyes glowed pensively. Rivulets of moisture ran across its white wings, the feathers on its neck ruffled by the wind. Tilting its weight, the majestic bird plummeted out of the clouds. The lake, the village, the castle, it was all far behind now. Spywater’s raven soared over the country road, imitating its bendy course.
Lady Lossex tugged her shawl back a bit to look up and watch the bird soar. It was soaring in the same direction she was headed. With her derriere snug in a saddle’s pillion, she had one arm around the waist of Bob Redmand. They were riding together on a mule. It swayed its heavy rump back and forth as it dawdled down the muddy ruts. The rain had soaked Bob’s hair. Water ran in rills down the thick features of his face. He squinted at the sky when Lossex pointed. “Look, Bob, a white raven!”
Bob gave a well-disposed mumble, holding the reins with tight leather gloves.
“A white raven is a good omen, Bob,” Lossex asserted, shifting to hug Bob’s waist with both arms again. “It’s the almighty saying our journey will be fair.” She leaned her cheek against his back. “Anaysia may be the end of our journey, but it’ll be the beginning of a new life.”
Bob hadn’t said much all morning, so Lossex wasn’t disappointed to get another grunt for a reply. She twisted in the pillion to glance back at the village. Perched on the edge of the lake, the houses looked like little brown blocks.
“I’m glad you agreed to sell your helm,” she said. “From the stories I’ve heard about your tourney days, I can guess how much it meant to you.”
“I won’t need it where we’re going,” Bob replied. “Like you said, for new things to come, the old must be by and gone. I liked that. It’s good wisdom. My helm is by and gone, but now we have this mule, and saddlebags full of food, and your cloak!”
“Yes, and thank you. You are a good holder of wisdom, Bob. How did you come to be so wise?” Lossex laid her cheek on his back again, hearing the rain patter against her shawl.
“I guess I just love wisdom because I don’t stutter when I say it.” Bob could feel Lossex nod in response as her cheek rubbed his back.
“Wisdom is great,” she restated. “My father said it’s what keeps big men high and little men low. Whenever I’d ask him about one of the world’s ways, he’d expound, and every time he’d conclude with his favorite words. ‘Wisdom is a ring of keys and a king’s should clang the most.’” With that said, she closed her eyes. Sniffling, she added, “You’re going to love my father, Bob. He owns a lot of property in Wellimgale. He’ll give us everything we need to reach Anaysia fed and unharmed.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN: THE APE
(A FORTNIGHT LATER)
IT HAD BEEN a while since Sir Jax had felt the woeful symptoms of boredom. As if the war was over and all was back to normal, he sat by the leaded window of his private chamber dressed in fine livery, listening to the tumult and clamor of a busy city. The din of Wellimgale was altogether a web of noises he had heard a thousand times before. But still, he closed his eyes to listen like a virgin farm boy in a city for the first time. It was odd to think that all that chaotic chatter was the sound of peace.
Loose, smooth velvet the color of blood tickled his skin in curious places whenever he moved. His private chamber was on the third level of the king’s castle keep, a small gray room with simple wooden furnishings. His bed was messy and sour—sanguine coverlets wrinkled into ugly forms. “Curse this waiting,” he whispered to himself, leaning his elbows on a table where he had neatly laid out his armor. He had been waiting there for two days now. “I have to see Lacey.” He rose from his seat, envisaging the moment he would once again enter his favorite tavern to grasp Lacey’s wrist and whisper his favorite words.
He only got to the door before he heard a knock. “Jax, are you in there?” The voice was low and rough through the wood.
Jax opened the door and nearly fell to his knees. The sight had been anticipated, but it was still shocking nonetheless. Sir Medgard was the type of man who made all other men look like little girls; he wasn’t born to wear purple silk. Jax said as much as he rubbed his stomach to mend his laughter.
“Keep laughing,” Medgard said superciliously, “the ladies down the hall didn’t think it funny.” Two days ago, with Jax riding at his side, Medgard had entered Wellimgale looking squalid and gaunt like a mongrel. Now his white cheeks shined brightly under flowing hair.
“Is that lavender I smell?” Jax teased.
Medgard entered the room to tilt his head at the armor on the table. “I forgot to ask what perfume they were wearing,” was his half-mumbled reply. He pointed at the armor. “I see you’ve been using this time well. Your armor, it’s oiled and shiny as new. Did you bang out the dents yourself or something? Wow, there’s barely any rust at all.”
Jax answered meekly, “With all this waiting, mending my armor is the only thing keeping me sane.”
Jax shrugged. “This castle has a good armory. Why spend shinnings mending armor when you could do it yourself?”
“I never bothered learning how.” Medgard picked up a couter off the table. It was of a design he hadn’t observed closely yet, a piece taken from Lord Montese’s fallen knights after the battle at Deadman’s Church. “My squire used to do everything for me, but he took a bolt to the brain a year ago during King Spiderwell’s first attempt at taking Wittinberry. I’ve since learned how to wipe my own arse, or at least most of it. A part of me has grown from the whole experience, and I made a few friends from it. The bulk of Kilwinning’s knights seem to think squires are for cowards or something. In fact, Sir Xenthious’ wrote a whole song about how squires just slow everything down. But I don’t mind having someone watching my back at all times. Yup, it’d be nice to receive a new squire soon. It’s just one more thing we have to mention when the king sees us. At this rate, though, that could be a while from now.” Medgard gave a tired sigh and put the couter back on the table. “I might as well hire a squire with my own purse. It’s not like I can’t afford it.”
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