The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  Marcus grabbed his pipe from the desk, opened a tin and grabbed a pinch of root. He packed it with his thumb in the bowl and lit it using a tinderbox. He sniffed it and took a long drag and held it in place for a long time before exhaling. “I have supplies; this year has been good. The early spring helped fill the larders to capacity.”

  Marcus coughed and cleared his throat. Marcus chuckled. “It is ironic. This is the first year in ten that the harvest has come in early. Spring was early, winter was warm and there was plenty of rain.” He smiled. “They picked a lousy year to plan a siege!”

  Curls of smoke rose to the ceiling and spread throughout the room. Rule could smell the sweet pungent aroma of the herb. He saw Marcus’s eyes glaze slightly. It had been laced with Tor root and the acidic grassy aroma was now evident. He looked to Brighton with questioning eyes.

  Brighton rolled his eyes and shrugged. Kings had their vices, always had! The knowledge of this did not help ease Rule’s nerves.

  Rule leaned in and emphasized. “They have a large iron-covered ram, I also saw buckets.”

  “Once the drawbridge is up, they will not serve much purpose. The soil here is clean of usable rocks, unlike the castles of my neighbors higher in the mountains. They will need to bring their own.”

  He grinned. “It takes a lot of boulders to bring down a well-built castle! Besides, our moat is wide, deep and spring fed. They would need to build a very large bridge. They would lose half of their army just building the thing and moving it into place. I have steel bows that can shoot eight-foot spears the length of the meadow. They will be sorry they attacked.”

  Rule smiled. “They move archers above your castle on the mountain to your rear. You will be vulnerable.”

  Marcus considered the warder’s words. We have metal-clad shutters and such to help protect the castle. The roof is mostly fired tile. Even burning arrows will have little effect. The entire inner keep is stone almost a meter thick. The doors can’t be breached with boulders by bucket.”

  “I would not take the attack lightly, sire.”

  Marcus leaned in and growled. “I assure you, I do not! I will send for my brothers—if I determine what you say is true. Igneous will bring many from Overlund, and they will be eager for battle. My older brother…” He shrugged. “He may come, he may not, depending whether it suites his mood or not.”

  Brighton entered the room with four scouts in tow. They were already dressed in their field clothes and ready to leave. Their faces were filled with worry. Rule assumed that Brighton had already told them the situation and had expressed the urgency of the mission prior to letting them enter the room.

  Marcus stood to greet the men. These were his best scouts. “I have a quest for you. It is rumored that we are going to be attacked by the Killoroy clan. The warder here will give you details. I want you to go and verify his claims. Do not engage. Am I clear? I do not wish for them to have any idea that we know of their deception.”

  All four men nodded in unison.

  He grabbed Rule by the arm and pushed Brighton toward the door. “Now if you excuse me, I have to get back to the bed and make sure my subjects are happy,” he said, while grinning.

  Rule looked over his shoulder longingly. The girls were young, pleasant on the eye. It had been a long time since he had shared the bed with a woman. A warder’s life is filled with solitude. He followed the men and Brighton out of the room and heard the door close behind him, the latch fell into place and he heard a key turn. Giggles from within echoed softly in the halls as they made their way to the armory.

  Brighton leaned in and whispered in his ear. “If you stayed, I’m sure the gal from the kitchen would be more than pleased to make your acquaintance. Maybe even the two in the king’s room once he tires of them.”

  Rule hesitated, thinking hard on the subject. “Maybe next time.”

  After Rule had explained the locations of the moving troops to the scouts, he joined Brighton in the dining room for a proper breakfast, complete with sausages, eggs, gravy, fruit and more bread. Rule stared at the serving table. It was more food than he had ever seen in one place his entire life. His stomach growled as his senses were assaulted with decadent smells of roasted sausages, biscuits and gravy, and bacon. He grabbed a plate and stepped up to the table, trying to decide which to try first. Unable to make up his mind, he just started stacking his plate high with everything he saw.

  After the meal, Rule stuffed his pack full of extra bread, cheeses and dried sausages knowing he would have to feed the need for the next couple of days.

  Rule patted his distended stomach and moving in pain. “I’m afraid I ate too much.”

  “Nonsense! I’m sure you live on berries and grubs most of your days. A nice fat-filled breakfast will do you little harm.”

  “It will if I break the back of my mare.”

  Brighton grunted as he tried to stand.

  Brighton watched as his friend grabbed several more sausages and another wax covered cheese wheel and added them to his pack which already was strained at the seams. He was glad that Rule was taking some extra supplies with him. Truth of the matter was, hunting and finding food while you were traveling could be difficult—even if you had the skills of a ranger. Game could be scarce. Entire areas could be hunted out.

  “Do you need anything else, supplies ye can’t find or get on yer own?”

  Rule asked for a sack of dried biscuits and fruit, several candles, a new flint, some twine and a small pot for cooking. He looked at the one in his pack with sad eyes. It was battered and worn to the point of being useless. It no longer held liquid and leaked from a blade he had taken in battle. His mare had been lucky when the blade hit the pan and had only suffered a deep scratch.

  A maiden entered the room several minutes later with his supplies in a burlap bag. She handed them to Rule, curtsied and swept out of the room. Rule watched her go.

  “Are you sure you won’t stay?” Brighton said, setting his arm across his friends back.

  “I can’t. You know that. My purpose is not here. You will have to close the gate and raise the bridge—where will I be? Here! And a siege could take months.”

  “I know,” Brighton said. “But I had to ask anyway.”

  “I’m not meant to be around people for that long of a time…” he murmured. “Closed in places make my skin crawl and all the bickering and shouting drives me insane.”

  Brighton nodded weakly. His friend had always been a solitary soul, even as a young lad.

  They walked together down the quiet halls of the keep and headed out to the stables. The stable boy had already brushed out his mare and feed her well. Rule stepped around the horse, checking her out; making sure all was well. The horse whinnied and nuzzled his hand.

  “I missed you too,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Try to make it back before another twenty years pass. I’m not sure I will make it more than ten and I’d like for you to meet the family before I pass.”

  Rule stiffened and felt guilty. “I’ll try, but I make no promises.”

  Brighton smiled. “Regardless, I’m glad you stopped by, although I worry about you.”

  “You shouldn’t! You should worry for yourself. You are the one getting old.” Rule said, as he strapped his bulging pack to the horse and checked the saddle cinch and reins. He bent over and pulled up the horse’s hoofs one by on checking the shoes. The stable boy handed him the reins.

  “You have a fine horse mister!” the boy beamed.

  Rule nodded his agreement and gave the boy a hard rub on his shoulder. “Thanks for taking good care of her.”

  “Shucks! It weren’t no trouble. She’s a good horse, she is! Behaves herself.”

  The boy watched the two walk slowly toward the gate.

  Brighton nodded. “I grow weary of this life my friend. Maybe the gods ’ll accept me into their arms and I will die with honor on the battle field. I’d rather not ride one of them wheeled contraptions and die crapping in my pant
s.”

  “As I recall, you weren’t too fond of the gods.”

  “I’m not.” Brighton laughed.

  “Then I guess you will need to pray for their forgiveness,” Rule said, raising both brows. “Lest they enjoy making you suffer this world for another twenty years!”

  Brighton scrunched up his face in contemplation. “You think they will forgive an old cuss like me?”

  “For your transgressions?” Rule snorted loudly. “Not likely. I recall you cursing them up and down on many occasions. I’ve heard that the gods have long memories.”

  “They deserved it you know…the cursing and such!”

  “I’m sure they did,” Rule said, while swinging his leg over the saddle and adjusting himself.

  Brighton looked hurt. “Ye don’t sound convinced. If you’re not convinced how am I ever going to convince them that I’m sincere?”

  Rule let the comment hang in the air, causing Brighton to break into laughter.

  “Ah, here...” Rule motioned, reaching behind and pulling the uniform free of his saddle. “Give this to Marcus. It’s the uniform I pulled off of the scout.”

  Brighton reached up and grabbed the uniform, immediately recognizing the coat of arms. “I’ll see that he gets it.”

  Rule turned his horse and gave it a soft nudge. It broke into a quick walk, heading for the gate. Brighton watched him go, but he did not wave.

  The guard at the gate gave him a deep nod as he passed by. By now, word of the news he had delivered had spread throughout the castle. He heard the gate slam shut and the lock grind behind him. His horse’s hooves clopped loudly as he passed over the moat, echoing in the still air. He heard the chains snap tight, looked back over his shoulder and saw the bridge to the moat being raised. He hoped Marcus was right, that the moat was too deep and wide.

  He nudged his mare again and pulled her reins tight to the right. She broke into a quick trot as he faded into the wood, his cloak blending in with the trees and leaves.

  The guard of the gate stood atop the portcullis and watched the scouts galloping across the field. He stared up at the sun and was surprised that it was only midafternoon. They had returned too soon in his estimation. He waited for them to get near before he ordered the drawbridge down. As two groups of five men jumped to attention and pushed poles into the gear mechanism and threw their backs into it as they lowered the bridge, which shuddered and groaned until it fell the last few feet to the deck with a resounding crash.

  The bridge was made from a dozen tall oak trees which had been split in two. They had been planed down to be six inches thick and the boards pegged together and then riveted together with iron slats. The bridge had thick iron hinges and heavy iron chains the size of a man’s arm that were wrapped on wooden pulleys. The chains were anchored at the top of the portcullis which stood almost two stories taller than the bridge was long. Even so, it took many men to lower it using the ratchet and leather brake. To raise it, they needed teams of horses or oxen. Oxen were better.

  The scouts road across. The guard could plainly see the pain and worry on their faces. The horses were lathered from being ridden so hard and the stable boy looked on in horror as the animals panted and wheezed, staggering to the side—dehydrated and worn. The scouts dismounted quickly and ran into the castle.

  The stable boy walked the horses in tight circle, keeping them moving and letting them cool down. He talked to himself as he walked.

  “Yer gonna be okay,” he mumbled. “Bones will take good care of you, he will!”

  One of the horse whinnied weakly.

  “I know! Scouts is such stupid people.”

  Bones shook his head in disbelief. Scouts were so stupid—they treated their animals horribly. He would be lucky if all four of these horses made it through the night. The first day was critical. If a horse collapsed it wouldn’t make it through the day. He led them to the water trough and let them drink a little before he pulled them away. If they drank too fast…

  The guard ordered the bridge raised and knew that it would most likely stay in that position for a long time. The teams of six oxen strained against their yokes, pulling the wrist-sized ropes that worked the pulleys and wheels that rolled the gears that hooked the chains—raising the bridge. They snorted and dug their hooves in as their master cracked the whip above their heads. They dipped their shoulders and strained against their yokes.

  Bones watched as the horizon disappeared behind the slab of wood. Soon, all he could see was the heavy oak planks of the bridge pressing against the iron portcullis grate and the high walls of the castle. Guards had already taken purchase on the battlement above the bailey and were standing guard between the crenels. Soldiers walked the parapet and readied baskets of arrows and quarrels. Heavy iron kettles had been set to heat the oil and to hold the hot pitch they would use on arrows and as a deterrent for the war machines when the time came.

  The last wagonload of wood had been brought in. Soldiers and carpenters alike had been in the forest chopping and sawing trees, which had been stacked high on wagons and brought into the castle to be stacked to dry. With winter fast approaching they needed as much wood for heating as they could muster.

  The soldiers rushed to secure the bridge as it creaked into place, forcing large iron spikes into slots in the end that keyed into iron guides above. Once the spikes were in place, the bridge was secure.

  Marcus slammed his hands on the table and flung it against the wall.

  “So, the warder was right,” Marcus cursed. “Damn the gods, I had hoped he was in error!”

  The scouts continued their report, paining a dour picture. “The archers are circling to get above the castle. They carry both crossbows and longbows. Their bows are two rods long; they will be able to send a six-foot shaft three-four-hundred yards.”

  Marcus shook his head. “We’ll be easy targets. We need to cover the alleys and streets with planks. Use the lumber we were going to use to floor the new church.”

  Brighton shook his head. Rule was right about when they would arrive too. “That gives us less than 24 hours.”

  Marcus stood and his hands formed tight fists before he slammed both down on the table. “I want every able-bodied man to be working on our defenses. I want the parapets protected from arrow fire from above. We need angled shields; pavices twice as wide as a man in each crenel. Take all the metal the smithy has set aside for shields and have him make sheets to rivet to the wooden planks. They’ll use fire and we can’t have the buildings compromised.”

  Brighton approved and exited the room. He stomped down the halls as his broadsword dragged on the ground behind, making a scraping sound. He swore loudly to himself and pounded his fist in his hand.

  “Where the halla are Robert and Craig?” Marcus swore. “I need to get a message to my brothers. If it is war the clan Killoroy wants, the bloody bastards, then we’ll show them what clan Jonovan is made of!”

  Robert entered and fell to a knee, bowing his head.

  The king shoved a scroll into his hand, “Robert, you get this to me brother O’Brian and if he shows up in less than a moon, there’s a hundred gold pieces in it for you. On yer way back—I want you to ride to the other realms and tell those lords that clan Killoroy has broken the treaty and has attacked castle Jonovan.”

  Robert was surprised. He had never heard the king speak in this fashion. He had always prided himself in not having the heavy accent of his ancestors. The stress was making him forget and he had fallen back on what he knew as a child.

  Craig came in and fell to a knee. The king motioned him to stand. “Gods be damned, there ain’t no time for this formal court shit. Stand to yer feet, Craig.”

  Craig glanced up and shot to his feet, his eyes darting around.

  “Good! Now get this to me brother Igneous in Overlund. If ye do the same as Robert, ye’ll get the same reward. Ifin you fail, there’ll be nothing to come back to, but I’ll curse yer name as I’m dyin’!”

  “Yes, m’l
ord!”

  Craig looked down at the scroll with the thick red-wax royal seal and wrapped it in cloth before he stuck it into his satchel. He nodded respect to the king and ran out of the room. He had no idea where the eighth realm of Overlund was, or how to get there.

  His footsteps echoed in the stone halls as he ran, looking for Brighton. The old man would know—if anyone knew. Craig looked over his shoulder. Robert was already heading to the stables—he would beat him out the gate. Sweat began to bead on his forehead and he worried that they would not have enough time to escape before they were surrounded. Dizziness swept over him, his stomach churned and he grabbed hold of the wall hoping the feeling would pass. It didn’t and he lost the contents of his stomach in the middle of the hall.

  Fifteen minutes later both scouts were ready to head out of the castle and ride for the hills. They had their orders. Marcus Jonovan, Lord of the Woodlands, was sending word to his brothers. He wondered if Igneous was going to come. Heaven help the invaders if Marcus’s older brother showed up. His reputation for being ruthless in battle was well deserved!

  He ruled the Islands, a dozen domes of rock purchased in the middle of the ocean just miles apart. The land was wild, untamed and lawless. His brother was the most feared leader of all the tribes and they all bowed a knee to his iron rule. His warriors were legend. They were barbarians of the old clans, tough as nails, all muscle and sinew. They lived in the most inhospitable place in the realms, far worse than the Ice Spires. This was his home, although it had been a decade or more since he had set foot on the land of his forefathers.

  The guard saw the commanders gathering. He knew this was serious. He straightened his clothes and stood proud waiting to be given orders. He knew he had to lower the bridge again and he gave the orders with a steady voice. This time, the scouts would be on their own. His orders were to let nobody get into the keep once the scouts leave.