White cloth was used first, applied directly to the remains. They started at the feet and slowly, carefully, neatly and tightly wound the material up each leg to the groin.
Many long pieces of cloth had to be used before the head was finally enveloped. They clothed the body in a scarlet robe made of silk and, with the assistance of two male serves, placed it upon a wooden stretcher. The hood of the robe was draped over the corpse’s face and boots drawn upon each foot.
Sweet smelling herbs were carefully placed around the body. An adornment of lightly coloured field flowers decorated stretcher.
“Fit for royalty,” the Chief complimented the serves standing around the body. “You should all be very pleased with yourselves. Go and take rest. You deserve some time for yourselves.”
They bowed their heads in respect and moved out of the room in silence. Barnard stared at the body for some time. He wished it would speak to him, if only to tell him from where it had come and why it had been left in such a state.
Eventually, he turned towards the door where two guards waited for him.
“Stay and guard this one,” he ordered.
Both guards bowed their heads as the Chief walked through the door, passing between them as he made his way back to the Great Hall.
The riders returned throughout the day with no knowledge of who the mutilated victim could have been. One rider, however, believed he knew where the individual had come from.
“I rode to Winterspring,” the rider informed the Chief who sat in the Great Hall on his throne with the elders seated beside him, two on each side. “The elders there told me they saw smoke coming from Selidien, farther to the west. They were about to send riders to investigate as they had not had word from their neighbours for about a week.”
A young female serve brought a pitcher with water. The rider gladly took the jug and sculled the contents, dribbling some down his neck. He lowered the pitcher and took a deep breath, “Thank you. My horse will…”
“Your horse is being seen to as we speak,” the serve replied.
“My gratitude,” the rider replied.
“Continue your tale,” the Chief ordered.
“Well…” The rider returned his attention to the men on the platform. “I offered to accompany the riders. We rode at haste. When we arrived at Selidien we found nothing but ashes and bones. There were no living souls, no livestock, no huts or storehouses at all. Except for the children.”
“What was that?” Chief Shelley asked.
“The children were left untouched,” the rider explained. “Apart from being a little hungry, they were fine. Most of them had taken shelter in the farmhouses outside of what was left of the village.
“Apart from that, my lords, there isn’t much to say. I accompanied the riders back to Winterspring before returning here. I would not be surprised if this unknown one came from there. Perhaps a prisoner.”
“Take rest,” the Chief instructed. “You have done well. I will send someone to fetch you when you are needed again.”
The rider bowed, pitcher still in hand. The serve who waited for the pitcher to be returned to her, bowed also. Both retreated towards the giant doors of the Great Hall.
“Your thoughts, gentlemen,” Barnard prompted.
“I believe we have already taken the best measure,” said Nicolas, a thin clean-shaven man. His staff rested against his thigh as he rubbed his hands together trying to keep them warm. “Our defences are being prepared and fortified as we speak. I can not see what other action we can take for the time being.”
“It also may be a coincidence,” Eowyn interjected. “This poor soul may have been placed there as an act of jest by some very disturbed people who have simply moved on to their next target.” He scratched at his beard for a moment. “But I think not. Nicolas is right. Defences should be prepared just in case.”
“We should have the serves organise the stores,” Edmond suggested as he leant back in his chair. “If these intruders return, we must be ready. Our people must be brought into the village behind the safety of the walls. That means water and food must be readily available.”
Chief Barnard Shelley nodded his agreement. With the rider’s report still echoing in his mind and the possibility that the same marauders that attacked Selidien might be on their way, the Chief was deeply troubled for the safety of his people.
“Chamber serve,” Barnard called. A young man standing near the large fireplace in the centre of the room stepped forward and bowed. “Pass the word. Double the guards, call the citizens to the village and lower the river gates.”
Chapter Three
Two large gates made of thick iron bars were submerged into the water, one at the western boundary and the other at the east where the river entered and exited the village confines, effectively blocking any intruder’s attempts to access Woodmyst.
The tower guards had been doubled, each armed with bow and a great supply of arrows. They struck hammers against the large chimes hanging in the tall structures. Loud notes resonating through the air called farmers and sheepherders to retreat behind the walls of Woodmyst.
The sheep and cattle grazing in the meadows were left behind as men and women grabbed clothing, food and what weapons they had before making their way for the nearest gate. Dogs instinctively followed their masters and horses were led by the reins behind the village walls. Every able man was told to carry his sword. If no swords were available, farming tools would suffice.
The only men to remain outside the tall boundary of Woodmyst were those who were constructing the pyre. Here, Alan and Peter unloaded the wagon and placed the bundled wood under the large frame that was built for the stretcher that carried the body. Richard and Michael placed dry straw and kindling in layers around the bundled branches.
The frame stood at chest height in the field outside the western gate. This was the place for all pyres. It was symbolic as the west was the place the sun went to rest. So also, the souls of men were believed to rest in that direction too.
“It’s a good pyre,” Richard said.
“Fire will be the judge of that,” Peter replied as he wiped his hands across the knees of his trousers.
“It’ll take.” Richard smiled.
“Indeed it will,” Alan agreed. “But we should retreat behind the wall for now.”
“You’re not afraid?” asked Michael. “With the help of Grolle, we four could take them on.”
“I like your enthusiasm, my friend,” Alan replied. “And yes, I am a little afraid. But my hunger outweighs my fear. My wife’s cooking calls to me.”
The men laughed as Alan gripped the reins of his horse before they all steadily made their way towards the western gate.
“Why don’t the men of our village wear iron armour like they do in the other realms, Da?” Tomas queried as he sat on the kitchen floor admiring his father’s outfit. Alan tightened the straps of his brown leather harness with his gloved hands. It displayed the engraving of a bull’s skull with its horns stretching across the breastplate.
“Iron is too noisy, my son,” he answered as he lifted a vambrace and placed it against his left forearm. “If I run with iron armour, my enemy will hear me clanking and squeaking as I try to catch them by surprise. Leather,” he continued as he strapped the forearm guard in place, “is reasonably quiet and allows me to move more freely. This is why the men of Woodmyst wear leather in battle.”
Alan finished fitting the other vambrace to his right forearm before strapping his long sword’s scabbard to his right side. He buckled a pouch belt around his waist and placed a battle cowl on his head.
“You look like a warrior,” said Tomas with a grin.
“Not yet,” replied Alan before lifting his sword from the table. It was a simple, practical design with a double-sided blade, iron hilt and handle wrapped in brown leather. The leather had stained and frayed slightly with age and use.
He carefully slid the blade into the sheath, admiring the sound of metal again
st metal as it gently scraped along a blade guide that stretched from mouth to the base like a rail in the scabbard.
“My handsome man,” Catherine breathed as she entered the room. She had been preparing herself in the bedroom and now wore a long burgundy dress with a matching hooded cloak. This was the attire for the womenfolk of Woodmyst when a pyre was called.
“My beautiful wife,” he replied as he reached with his hand to touch her face. She stopped him short by taking his glove in her own before leaning in to kiss him deeply. Tomas and Linet both made a face to demonstrate their disgust.
“Touch me all you want after the pyre tonight, husband,” she told him. “But not with those old pieces of cow hide.”
He chuckled. Alan had forgotten that he was wearing his gloves. He nodded and turned to his children, “Fetch your cloaks. It is cold outside.”
The village had practically been emptied for the ceremony. The inhabitants had gathered outside the western gate near the pyre. Only the tower guards remained at their posts, overlooking the area around Woodmyst.
Two young boys beat slowly on drums slung over their shoulders as they walked ahead of the procession. Their slow, steady rhythm kept the pace for those who followed after them. Six male serves dressed in white hooded cloaks bore the stretcher that carried the slain stranger. They slowly walked along the road from the Great Hall’s entrance to the western gate.
The four elders who were robed in scarlet closely shadowed them. Chief Shelley trailed behind with the six council members carrying flaming torches. All were dressed in their armour with battle cowls over their heads.
The gathering outside the gate parted as the procession made its way to the pyre where the six serves hoisted the stretcher carefully onto the pile of wood. The body was positioned so the head was closest to the village while the feet were pointing westward.
All four elders gathered a small distance from the feet end of the body so they faced the village and the gathered witnesses. The serves moved into the crowd as the Chief and the council members filed near the southern side of the pyre.
Eowyn, one of the elders, held his hand high.
The drummers stopped drumming.
A solemn silence fell upon the already quiet gathering.
The sun slowly sank towards the treetops of the forest nearby. Slowly, a red tinge crept into the clouds that crawled across the sky towards the north.
“We gather to honour this poor soul,” Eowyn began. “We do not know his name. Nor do we know from where he came. But we send him onward as one of our own. We follow the traditions set by our forefathers.
“His ash returns to Areang, keeper of the earth,” the Elder announced as the council members stepped forward to light the pyre with their torches.
“His spirit will be guided by Haaen, lord of the sky,” continued Eowyn as the flames took hold of the kindling lower on the structure.
“His memory will be mourned by Gwendra, guardian of life.”
The fire grew larger and lapped the body resting atop of the lumber.
“His soul will be embraced by Grolle, shepherd of the dead.”
The flames engulfed the pyre as the words were spoken.
All heads bowed in silence as the pyre burned.
The sun sank below the tree line and the sky grew darker.
Lavender clouds drifted to the north as smoke lifted into the sky.
Tears of sadness fell on the cheeks of women who shared Gwendra’s pain.
Small children tilted their heads up, wrinkling their noses and scratching their faces at the confusion of it all.
The pyre crumpled as fire ate away at the support beams of the structure. Sparks and embers flew into the sky as large flames ignited anew.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
All heads suddenly lifted and all eyes opened. Confused stares were exchanged and muffled questions were asked.
Barnard turned to his councilmen, wearing a perplexed expression.
“Where is it coming from?” he asked.
“From one of the towers on the eastern wall,” Alan replied. “We need to get everyone who cannot bear arms inside the Great Hall.”
“Do it,” the Chief ordered. The six men started shouting and herding the crowd back towards the gate. Orders for men to gather weapons and for all others to make haste to the Great Hall were given as Barnard gathered his family and the elders before joining the townsfolk.
The chimes of the tower on the eastern wall continued as the last of the western gate was shut and barricaded. Chief Shelley, his wife Sybil, along with Catherine Warde and Martha Fysher guided the elderly and other either too young or incapable of fighting into the Great Hall.
The four elders gathered what serves they could together so that tasks could be given to each of them. Some were sent to gather and prepare food for the people while others were instructed to supply the soldiers on the wall with arrows and water.
Alan Warde and Peter Fysher ran through the streets of the town towards the clanging peal that echoed across Woodmyst. Once the base of the tower was reached, they then entered a small doorway before ascending a ladder to a platform about half way to the top. They crossed the platform to the opposite side where another ladder led up to the viewing floor of the tower.
Alan was first to reach the lookout. A soldier was striking the chime with a hammer repetitively as another kept his eyes fixed towards the northeast. Alan placed his hand on the first soldier’s shoulder as a sign to stop sounding the alarm.
The clanging ceased immediately as Peter hoisted himself onto the viewing platform. Both men approached the second soldier who was still staring across the open fields outside the village walls.
“What do you see?” Peter asked.
“Hmm?” the soldier turned his head without moving his eyes. “My apologies. I can’t hear too well. The alarm is still ringing in my head,” he said loudly.
“What do you see?” Peter repeated, increasing the volume of his own voice.
“On top of the hill,” the soldier replied, pointing beyond the farmhouses and a flock of sheep some distance away. “In the same place where the body was discovered last night.”
Alan squinted. The clouds were dark and obscured the hilltop. He could make out the sloping curves of the land as it gently swept its way from the rugged mountains into the pastureland near the village. On top of the hill stood something.
He thought perhaps it was another body. It was motionless and robed in dark cloth.
But it appeared taller than the first.
“Do you see anything?” Peter asked.
“There is something,” Alan replied.
The clouds parted and moonlight burst through, lighting up the pastureland and the hillside before them.
The sheep scurried towards the river as the shadow of the clouds retreated towards the mountains in the other direction.
A lone dark hooded cloaked figure sat on a dark horse atop the hill.
The horse stomped its foot as the rider shifted his balance.
The cloak wafted in the breeze as it seemingly stared towards Woodmyst. Its face was obscured by shadow.
“By the gods,” Alan whispered.
This time, there was no mutilated corpse.
There was only one rider.
Could it be that this individual was solely responsible for the body they had discovered the night before?
Perhaps it was a friend or family member searching for the mutilated individual.
Alan shook the thoughts away and quickly ran to the far side of the tower and shouted towards the ground where some soldiers had started gathering, “There is one rider on the hill. Send horsemen to bring him in.”
Within moments, five warriors on chargers were streaking across the pastures towards the hill. They drew their swords and held them high as they closed ground between themselves and the cloaked rider waiting upon the crest.
Suddenly, the rider snapped his reins around to his right and the dark
steed raced towards the north and disappeared into the grove at the hill’s edge. The warriors turned in that direction but pulled their horses to a halt at the base of the hill.
Night was upon them and they didn’t know what awaited them inside the wood where the dark rider had disappeared. Giving chase could prove lethal. They turned their horses back towards Woodmyst.
Suddenly, just within the line of trees where the rider had vanished, a flaming torch burst to life.
“There,” called one of the warriors, pointing at the flickering light amongst the trees.
Another torch erupted near by. Then came another followed by another and another. Soon the grove was alive with points of light stretching from the hillside all the way along the northern border for as far as the warriors saw.
They were vastly outnumbered.
Without a word, the men kicked hard and sprinted their horses towards the eastern gate of the village.
“By the gods,” Peter breathed. As he spoke a clanging echoed across the village. One of the towers on the western wall was sounding the alarm. “What is it?” he called down to the soldiers below the tower.
“I’m not sure, my lord,” one called. “We’ve just sent someone to find out.”
“Hurry,” Alan called to the warriors on horseback that were still racing for the gate.
The gate swung open and let the riders through, closing behind them as soon as they were within the safety of the walls.
“Barricade the gate,” Alan commanded.
“My lords,” a soldier from below called.
“What is it?” Peter asked.
“We’ve received word from the western towers,” the soldier replied. “The forest is filled with torchlight also.”
“They’ve surrounded us.” Alan shook his head.
“Prepare for battle,” Peter shouted. “Blow the horns.”
One of the soldiers on the viewing platform lifted a ram’s horn from his belt and blew. A long trumpet call bellowed into the air. Another in the next tower chorused the sound over. And so it went until all towers had echoed the call.
The Walls of Woodmyst Page 3