He turned his head back to signal his men.
One was lying near his feet, waiting and watching. The other men were out of view. The fog was simply too thick to see that far.
The lead scout signalled by pointing up. The other man nodded and, as the lead scout watched, he turned his head and repeated the signal to someone behind him. Giving the relaying message enough time to reach the last in line, the lead scout waited. Gently and deliberately, he lifted himself into a crouch before raising his head through the low cloud cover.
The torchlight became clear.
Small flames licked the air from the ends of blackened rods.
Each of the rods was held by a tall, hooded figure peering over the mist towards the walls of Woodmyst. As the scouts slowly moved their gaze around they noticed other figures standing between the torchbearers.
The lead scout started to lower himself back below the cover of the mist. His men shadowed his motion.
The closest cloaked figure, holding a torch turned its hooded head towards them. The dark void under the hood seemed to bore into the lead scout’s life force, freezing his heart in mid-beat and causing a lump to form in his throat.
He turned his head to see all the other hooded figures glaring their way. The escape route was suddenly cut off by two of the dark ones.
The men had no choice but to fight their way out, if they could.
They formed a tight circle with their backs to one another as they brandished their swords.
“They are here,” called the lead scout as loudly as he could. “They are here. They are here.”
The hooded figures moved towards them like predators fixed on their prey. Each slid a long, broadsword from a sheath hidden beneath their cloaks as all the torches were suddenly extinguished as if by sheer will.
“They are here,” the lead scout called over and over from within the pitch-blackness in the grove.
“What was that?” Alan breathed as the torches in the brush winked out.
A voice carried on the breeze made its way to them, but its words could not be distinguished.
“I hear something,” Peter said as the voice called again and again.
“Can you make it out?” Alan asked. He turned his attention to the tower guards, “Anyone?”
They all shook their heads.
The voice was suddenly replaced by a distant clanging of swords upon swords. The exchange lasted only a moment before it was superseded by terrible screams of men in pain.
“By the gods,” Peter gasped. “They’re under attack.”
The screams went on and on for an eternity. The sound reverberated across the misty grassland below the walls. The sheep, sensing the horror, huddled silently.
Bloodcurdling cries reached the ears of all the men on the northern wall as the sickening experience of the scouts on the north-eastern edge of the village was mirrored by those sent to investigate the northwest.
The screams eventually died away and the men on the wall were confronted with deafening silence. It pained them more not knowing what was happening in the trees beyond the wall now that no sound could be heard and no lights could be seen.
They waited and watched for a sign of life or movement.
No one spoke.
As their eyes scanned the tree line, they silently prayed and hoped that one of the scouts would step into the silver blanket the moon had laid upon all things beneath her.
No one came.
A sudden dark shadow flashed across them, covering a portion of the wall and moving on.
Alan moved his eyes to the great orb in the sky and saw nothing.
“You saw that, right?” Peter asked.
“If you mean the shadow, yes,” he answered. “If you mean the thing that made the shadow, no.”
“Probably a bird,” suggested a tower guard.
“Too big to be a bird in flight and cast a shadow so immense,” the other guard replied. “I didn’t hear anything. My guess is that it was high in the air.”
Peter nodded as he returned his attention to the tree line.
Darkness and silence.
Alan leant against the guardrail and shook his head as he stared at the grove.
The fear tactic was definitely working.
Not only were the invaders able to cause terror by simply lighting torches and putting them out. They now had the ability to cast shadows across the moon.
“Who are these bastards?” he asked.
Time passed slowly as hot cider made the rounds three more times during the night. Peter surmised this meant three hours had come and gone since the scouts disappeared into the grove.
The sheep had moved away from the wall a short distance and the moon had all but lowered itself into the western forest. Clouds collected in the sky over the north and east obscuring the stars above the village.
“Dawn comes,” a tower guard announced.
Alan turned his face to the east. The clouds bore the faint lining of the deepest red on their extremities. The sky beyond turned from black to purple, as the light grew more and more bright.
He was thankful the night was over so he could return to his family once again. As quickly as he allowed that thought to run through his head, he suddenly remembered the scouts who had disappeared during the dark hours and realised there was work to do.
Mourning families would need to be consoled.
Frightened townsfolk would have to be reassured.
Another search of the grove would need to be conducted.
Still, in his mind, he couldn’t help feeling the need to feed his own selfishness and run straight to his family when he was relieved of duty.
“What is that?” one of the archers nearby called. All of the men on the tower turned to see the man pointing to the hill at the far end of the pastureland.
Reluctantly, the men turned their heads to see what had the archer’s attention upon the crest of the hill.
There, lined evenly apart were ten silhouettes of men standing in a row.
“Not again,” Peter breathed.
Flayed and stripped of their skin, the ten bodies had been bound to stakes posted into the ground upon the crest of the hill. Their abdomens had been sliced open allowing their entrails to dangle from their bellies and collect on the grass as their feet. Both eyes had been removed along with their tongues and the flesh from their thighs.
This puzzled Richard the most as he scrutinised the remains of the scouts. Why would the invaders remove the tissue from around the upper legs?
The other council members and Chief Shelley gathered near one of the bodies as twenty soldiers sat on horseback nearby. Some of the warriors kept watch of the surroundings for any movement in the grove while others held the reins of the horses belonging to the seven men on the ground.
Chief Shelley held a hand against his mouth as he shook his head. His stomach turned at the sight of the dead men before him. He had been informed about the screaming coming from the trees during the night before. Now he saw what had become of his scouts and he was sickened by it.
“I believe they were skinned alive,” Richard said. “My hope is that they didn’t survive the torture for too long. Their stomachs were cut afterwards. I think that was done after they were tied to the stakes here.”
“What about their legs?” Peter asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “The muscles were removed before they were brought to this location. The lack of marks on the ground gives me the impression they were drained of most of their blood somewhere else.”
The men’s eyes moved to the bare white bone of the thigh. The flesh had been neatly cut away from hip to knee.
“Why the eyes and tongue?” Michael asked.
“Perhaps,” Lawrence started, “removing the tongues was a means to silence these men. Removing the eyes may have been to prevent them from seeing the faces of their killers.”
“What does it matter?” Hugh remarked. “If you are going to kill someone, why remove the
tongue and eyes? It doesn’t make sense.”
Alan winced as he realised a possible, sickening answer to this question.
“By the gods,” he shook his head. The others looked to him as he turned away and walked down the hill towards Woodmyst a short distance. He lowered himself to the ground and sat on the hillside staring at the walled village below.
“What is it, Alan?” Barnard probed.
“It couldn’t be.” Alan continued to shake his head.
The other men turned to one another for an answer. The soldiers shared the same look of concern as the council members. They waited for an answer.
“Alan?” Chief Shelley crouched beside the seated man. “What is it?”
“They ate them.”
Chapter Eight
The scorched ground outside the western gate sat as a reminder of the pyre held two days ago. The blackened turf stained the earth in a rough, circular shape and still emitted the stinging stench of smoke and ash.
Wooden beams had been piled nearby and carpenters had begun to construct a new frame above the dark blemish in preparation for a new pyre. This time, it was to hold ten men. None of them were strangers to the village. They were all men who had family within the walls of Woodmyst.
A number of serves had been sent to collect kindling and firewood from the edges of the woods. None dared to venture too far beyond the tree line out of fear of whatever may be waiting for them just beyond the view of archers posted on the western wall.
The serves timidly bundled as many small sticks as they could carry and conveyed them to a pile not far from the construction site near the gate. A dropping branch, a rustling breeze or a small bird calling from within the woods would cause the serves to jump in alarming.
On the wall, the archers stood tensely as they stood guard above the working serves and carpenters. Some had been on duty since the night before and longed to be released of their current obligation. Their eyes were heavy and the occasional yawn betrayed their stoic posture.
The morning was dragging on. The hours passed slowly and relief seemed to be a far off destination that may never come.
Still, the daylight hours were far more welcome than the dreaded darkness of the night. In the minds of all the men on the wall, the setting of the sun brought foul creatures that were bent on destroying them.
At least during the day, the invaders seemed to stay away allowing the inhabitants of Woodmyst the chance to experience some normalities. But truly no one in the village was experiencing normality. Everyone housed an element of fear and dread. The sun wasn’t about to stop moving, so eventually the night would come.
The carpenters and serves knew their time was limited, so they busied themselves building and gathering. Even with their minds occupied upon their tasks, they occasionally found themselves peering into the shadows of the trees.
The armoury’s door had been closed and bolted shut from the inside. There, the four elders prepared the ten scouts for the pyre. The bodies had been laid carefully upon long benches and washed, as was the tradition. The four men had gently placed the intestines back into the abdominal cavities that were then sewn shut.
A mixture of water and rose oil was applied to the remains tenderly with folded cotton cloths. Wrappings were fitted, covering the men from toes to head. Great care was taken as the elders did this. Once or twice, Eowyn found himself shedding a tear or two as he cradled the torso of one of the scouts so that Frederick could wrap the bandages around the back and abdomen. He had known each of these men as young boys and had watched them grow over the years.
The scouts were then fitted in full battle dress with armour and battle cowls before being moved onto stretchers that rested upon the floor. Once they were placed on the litter, the elders tidied the outfits and straightened the clothes before placing each man’s sword onto his chest with blade pointed towards his feet. The final touch was to move their hands to the hilts, causing them to grip the handle in clenched fists.
The four men gathered to the side of the stretchers and knelt on the timber floor. They closed their eyes and silently prayed to the gods for the safe journey of their slain friends.
Eowyn allowed himself to sob as he remembered the ten boys running through the long grass of the meadow, playing with wooden swords and believing themselves to be invincible warriors. They vanquished the evil dragon daffodils by lopping off their yellow heads in one swipe, and they chased the terrible white barbarian sheep across the pasture from one end to the other. The elder smiled at the memory as tears streaked down each cheek, disappearing into his beard and trailing onto his chin.
His ears picked up the sound of the other three weeping also. Several long sniffles and wipes of sleeves across faces later, the men rose to their feet and made their way to the door.
Nicolas unbolted the access and allowed the serves into the room. Twenty young men dressed in white entered the armoury and silently lifted the stretchers to waist height. The elders, led by Eowyn exited the room first, leading the procession towards the western gate.
The pyre gathered a small number of people. The chief had ordered that only the family of the fallen and necessary participants attend the ceremony due to the threat that lay outside the walls.
The council members and Chief Shelley stood to the side allowing the immediate family of the scouts to take places of prominence. The wives of the married fallen and fathers of the ones who were not espoused held flaming torches in their hands. Their uncontrollable crying could be heard from within the walls of Woodmyst.
The village had grown quiet, and out of respect an unofficial silence was held during the ritual. The only sounds to be heard were those from the wild birds, bleating livestock and children too young to understand.
The bodies were carried one by one through the gate and into the open ground beyond the wall. Archers kept watch from above, scanning across the tree line for movement from within the woods and the grove to the north.
Each stretcher was raised upon the wooden structure and placed carefully on top. The armour of each scout gleamed in the sunlight as the sun floated high in the sky.
Eowyn stepped forward to speak the words that were required by the service.
“We gather to honour these poor souls,” he began. This time he named all ten men and cried as he recited the speech.
The family members stepped forward and lit the pyre, placing the torches into the kindling. The gathering watched the flames engulf their loved ones and stayed until the flames had consumed all bodies.
Afterwards, the four elders moved along the line of family members and hugged each one as they offered comforting words.
Alan silently watched on as they did this. He believed no words could bring comfort after seeing what had become of these men. He wanted vengeance.
The faces of the wives and parents of the fallen scouts simply wanted their husbands and sons back. But that was not something that even the power of the gods could muster. How could words remedy this?
Chief Shelley and the council members waited by the pyre as the elders escorted the families back inside the gate. The twenty serves stood nearby with large rods, waiting for the family members to move beyond view. Once they were inside the gate, the serves stabbed at the base of the pyre with the rods to hasten the fire within.
Some of the structure collapsed sending sparks into the air. The smoke wafted high before being caught in a breeze far above the ground, sending it southward.
“Is this to become the routing for Woodmyst?” asked Chief Shelley. “Are we to be surrounded each night and light pyres every day?”
“Perhaps we should leave,” Lawrence argued. “Let them have the village.”
“They don’t want the village,” Alan interjected as he stared blankly at the fire.
“What do they want?” Michael asked angrily. “Have you been talking to them?”
“Calm down, Michael,” Peter said in a low voice, placing a hand upon his friend’s shoulder. “Use yo
ur wits, gentlemen. Alan is right. If they wanted the village, they could simply take it. We know they have the numbers.”
“They want us,” Richard said. “If we run, they will give chase. If we stay, we have a better chance of survival.”
“Explain what you mean,” said Michael grimly.
“They want us to run,” Richard replied. “It’s why they are using the scare tactics with the torches and leaving the mutilated bodies where we can find them. They are hoping we’ll get scared and flee across open land to escape.”
“The fear tactics are working, Richard,” Lawrence said. “My wife and children are scared. I’m scared. I want to leave.”
“If you leave, they will find you,” Richard retorted. “You won’t have the safety of the wall, the protection of our archers or the sanctuary of the Great Hall for your wife or children.”
“I’ll leave early in the morning and travel by day,” Lawrence said.
“You’ll be lucky to reach one of our neighbours before sundown,” Chief Shelley said. “You have a young son and daughter who cannot travel quickly, a wife who would not allow you to travel lightly. That means you will need a horse and cart to carry you and yours out of here. You will be out in the open, and that is precisely what they want.”
“But why do they want that?” Hugh asked. “I don’t understand the reason for this siege.”
“Food,” Alan retorted.
“Food? Fine. Empty the grain stores and give them what we have. Let them take the cattle and the sheep.”
“They don’t want the grain,” Chief Shelley said as he peered towards the woods, “and if they wanted the sheep and cows, they could just simply take them. They’re all outside the walls. The livestock would be gone already if that was all they wanted. No, it’s not any of those things that they want.”
“Then what do they want?” Hugh asked.
Alan turned towards the western gate and started back towards the village.
The Walls of Woodmyst Page 7