The Walls of Woodmyst

by Robert E Kreig

  “We don’t have time to be gentle or considerate,” Richard continued. “I hope our friends would understand. Our task is to throw all of these warriors into the dragon’s flames before the sun falls below the horizon.

  “Two men for each body,” Richard instructed. “Let’s get this done.”

  The men paired up and started carrying bodies up the steps of the Great Hall. One lifted the fallen by their arms while the other carried them by their legs.

  As they approached the open access to the auditorium, intense heat could still be felt escaping the entrance in waves. Inside, bright flames still filled the room as the pillars with dragonheads burned brightly and cross beams high above near the roof continued to blaze.

  Richard and Francis Lytton carried the first of the bodies to the door. They swung the body, one – two – three, and flung the soldier into the inferno. The warrior was engulfed in flame before he hit the floor.

  The men didn’t stay to watch or pay their respects. They instantly returned to the street to gather another fallen soldier as the two men behind them mirrored their actions.

  After three swings, they tossed the fallen warrior into the flames and also descended the steps to gather another. The next two men in line repeated the action, as did the next two and the next two.

  It was arduous work and took a lot of energy to accomplish. Their muscles ached and their bodies grew more and more tired as the work continued.

  Slowly, but surely, they reduced the amount of fallen warriors lying upon the street as the day wore on. By the time they were halfway through the task, their pace had slowed.

  Richard allowed them time for a water break. The stable master took his workers with him to the kitchens where they gathered the remaining cider and some bread to share with the others.

  They sat for a few minutes together, enjoying the makeshift meal before returning to work. The food felt good in their stomachs and a rejuvenated band of men busied themselves with their task.

  Richard’s thoughts often wandered as he worked. He contemplated the whereabouts of his fellow council members and their current state of being.

  He assumed, and secretly hoped, that they were all dead. He hated the idea of the enemy torturing them. Skinning them alive. He wanted to believe that they fell in battle as heroes.

  Then there were the stolen children.

  All of them were taken during the night, right before his eyes. He shuddered to think what horrors they were subject to. Inside he quietly prayed to the gods for their protection over the little ones.

  But after the past few nights, and with the gruesome chore he was currently engaged with, he wondered if the gods were there at all.

  He tossed another body into the furnace before returning down the steps to the next fallen warrior. His men continued to steadily gather and heave the dead upon the flames.

  He peered up to the sun. It slowly made its way towards the western wall.

  Richard guessed that they had an hour at best to finish the task.

  After that, he feared, the Night Demons would return.

  He bent down and, with the help of a bowman hoisted another soldier from the ground. The two carried the warrior along the street towards the steps as Richard’s mind continued to wander.

  His thoughts turned to questions as he considered how to counteract the enemy attack, if they were to return.

  The Night Demons were still a formidable force with a vast number of warriors at their disposal. Woodmyst consisted of a small band of men who were extremely tired and seriously unfit to do battle.

  Knowing they were a lost cause, Richard considered running away.

  He then remembered the wagon dropped outside the gates of the southern wall. The image of Elara lying in the street, twisted and battered, returned to his thoughts. This appeared to be the fate of those who tried to escape.

  Another option of escape entered his thoughts. Perhaps entering the flames would be a better option than meeting the doom the Night Demons had in store for them.

  He pushed the thought aside as he and the bowman flung another body through the doors of the Great Hall.

  As he descended the steps, he made up his mind once and for all. It was the only choice that made sense. The struggle within his mind was pointless and had no substance.

  He would fight the Night Demons until he had no more breath.

  A great commotion erupted nearby. Several horses snorted and squealed, arousing Tomas from his half sleep state.

  He peered around and tried to see what was going on, only to have his vision obstructed by the hessian sack over his head.

  Blurry figures passed by to and fro, frantically moving items about and causing a ruckus as they did so. Several excited grunts and low sounds were given by a number of the warriors nearby.

  It sounded, to Tomas, as if the Night Demons were preparing to move. The boy hoped it was to leave the area entirely. Perhaps the warriors would leave him, and the others held captive, and simply return to where they had come from.

  He was intelligent enough to know his hopes would most probably not be fulfilled.

  The sounds of the steeds stamping their feet echoed throughout the cavern. Tomas wondered how long they had been there. Several times, they had lifted his hood, never enough for him to see clearly, in order to give him water. At other times, they led him to a secluded place to discharge his bladder.

  Perhaps it was the same warrior each time. His own personal guard for his duration with the Night Demons.

  He could never be sure.

  One of the warriors moved behind him the steeds nearby and offered them soft clicking sounds and low rumbles. He imagined the hooded figure rubbing his clawed hand over his mare’s muzzle.

  A tiny flare of anger welled up inside of him. He didn’t like the idea of these fiends touching her.

  Continuing to bustle about him, other Night Demons collected items that clattered on the hard floor of the cave.

  The light of the campfire allowed him to see shapes like men, crouching and rolling items into bundles. He watched as they carried the bundles around him to the horses.

  It was as he had thought.

  They were preparing to leave.

  A hissing caused him to turn his head back towards the fire. Water was being slowly poured over the flames, dousing the makeshift hearth and stealing its warmth away.

  Tomas suddenly missed the light and heat of the campfire. The light enabled him to see some things about him, albeit blurry. The warmth provided comfort as he lay upon the floor of the cavern.

  Now, all he saw was darkness while feeling cold at the same time. He suddenly felt very alone and vulnerable.

  More noise continued around him as the Night Demons prepared their chargers. Tomas imagined leather straps and metal buckles being tightened as saddles were fitted and bridles placed over the horses’ muzzles.

  The sound of snorts and stamping hooves signified objection or excitement amongst the steeds. Tomas couldn’t be sure without seeing the horses for himself, and currently, he saw nothing but blackness.

  Two clawed hands slid underneath his armpits and lifted him to his feet. He felt vibration and movement around his ankles as the ropes binding his legs were untied. One hand then rested upon his shoulder and directed him towards his left. He turned, complying with the directions and started to walk.

  The warrior led him to a secluded place within the cavern. The sounds of Night Demons conversing in their language and hurried activity still surrounded him, but he could tell he was facing the rock wall of the cave.

  He had been here before.

  The warrior gave him two pats on the back, right between the shoulder blades. This had been done before also. Tomas understood and undid his trousers with his bound hands. Moments later he let his bladder expunge its contents before tucking himself away and tying the cord on his trousers as best as he could.

  The warrior then directed the young boy back towards the horses. He was so close
to them he could smell the animals. It was a welcoming scent.

  The Night Demon put his hands under Tomas’ armpits again and hoisted from the ground. The boy was swung gently into the air, his right foot hitting something softly. He lifted his legs high to allow the object to pass beneath him.

  The warrior then lowered him slightly. Tomas felt his thighs slide over the side of something smooth.

  The clawed hands recoiled from his torso, and one moved to his bound hands and directed them to a space just in front of his crotch. He felt with his fingers and touched leather. He reached forward and moved his fingers over the edge of the leather object he sat upon and touched thick, coarse hair.

  He was sitting in a saddle upon a horse.

  The warrior released Tomas’ hands from his own grasp and left him upon the steed alone.

  His feet found the stirrups and he pushed them into the straps securely. With his hands still bound, he gripped the edge of the saddle. He had no false hopes that they would hand him the reins so he could control the beast himself. They had led him here upon the mare, so they would lead him away also.

  The sound of a large number riders leaving through the cave’s entrance echoed through the cavern like thunder. The first of the Night Demons were leaving.

  His charger moved nervously as the noise of hoof upon flint made its way towards them. Reaching with his hand, he patted the horse on the top of its neck. It gave a gentle nicker in reply.

  Tomas wondered if he was upon the mare or not.

  He hoped so.

  The warriors around him started mounting their steeds. The sound of an infant crying suddenly echoed through the cave. Tomas assumed it had been aroused from a peaceful sleep, perhaps to be carried by someone on another horse.

  Feeling a sudden compassion overwhelm him, he thought about the safety of the children and the mothers who had been brought to the cavern. He hoped they were all fine and that perhaps they too were upon steeds about to be led away.

  Tomas then wondered where they were being taken. He still didn’t trust the Night Demons. After all, they had killed his father and scores of men in Woodmyst. What was there to stop them from slaughtering him and the captives with him?

  Perhaps, they were being kept alive as men kept cattle or sheep. If they weren’t to be meals for the Night Demons, then perhaps they were to be fed to the dragons.

  But what was he to do about it?

  His hands were tied and his face covered. He couldn’t see or shout.

  He would have to face bravely whatever fate was in store for him.

  The horse lurched forward as they began their journey. The sound of many hooves falling upon the cavern floor echoed around him. The light at the cave’s entrance grew larger and appeared dim.

  It was dusk.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A flock of sheep had gathered near the river’s edge and some cattle were scattered here and about throughout the meadow. Richard watched them for a while from the breach where the eastern gate once stood. The others rested inside the stables, waiting for his return.

  The sun had just dipped below the treetops in the west. The dark clouds had returned and donned pink and purple patches as the sun sent the last of her light into the sky. They were laden with rain and resembled the heaviness Richard felt as he watched them approach.

  Thunder could be heard in the distance and flashes of light broke through the dark vapours above. It was going to be a long night, if he lasted through it.

  He turned away from the meadow and slowly made his way back towards the stables not too far away.

  They had gathered food from some of the neighbouring houses and decided to make a banquet of sorts for what might be their last night alive. Two chickens were killed and potatoes boiled over a fire they had build just outside the stable’s doors.

  Torches had been lit in the barn, sending orange light into the dark corners and lighting the expanse of the room.

  Some men had gone back to the kitchens behind the Great Hall and returned with a barrel of mead. Usually, Richard would refrain from the drink when he believed he was going to engage in battle. Tonight, however, he filled his mug and sat on a stool by the fire, waiting for the chickens and potatoes to finish cooking.

  The men stared into the flames solemnly, their minds on what could be coming for them. Some pondered as to why they should even raise a sword to the enemy. It was obvious their lack of numbers was their weakness and would work against them.

  Fighting simply seemed useless.

  Surrender seemed a better option, except that they knew the enemy was likely to ignore any attempt to capitulate.

  With their spirits torn and their hearts in dismay, they simply stared at the flames in silence.

  “You know,” said Francis Lytton, the stable master, “I hope I marry a fine woman. One with huge tits.”

  The men all looked towards him, confused and bewildered.

  “I don’t really care much for what she looks like,” he continued. “Just as long as she can… Well, you know.” He smiled bashfully. “I’d like maybe two or three younglings. A boy amongst them would be nice, but girls would be fine.”

  The men listened intently, shifting their puzzlement of his words to wanting to hear him tell them of his dreams.

  “We could live on a farm, grow some crops. Horses.” He suddenly sat up straight and looked to one of his workers. “You can guarantee there’ll be horses. And rolling hills for as far as you can see.”

  Richard felt a lump grow in his throat.

  “The house would be modest.” Francis peered into the flames. “You know, two storeys, four bedrooms and a oversized kitchen with a humungous table. We would eat roast chicken or rack of lamb every night until we got sick of it.

  “And as they got older, young gentlemen with great wealth would come from miles around to steal my beautiful daughters away from me. I would chase them off with my rusty sword and shout, do you know who I am you bastards. I’m Francis Lytton the stable master, destroyer of Night Demons and keeper of horses. Get off my land.

  “That’s what I hope to do one day.” He turned to Richard. “What about you?”

  Richard looked up from the flames and locked eyes with the burly man.

  “What?”

  “Tell us what you hope for,” the horseman said.

  The council member looked around the fire to the ambitious faces of the men sitting in the firelight. They were waiting for him to speak.

  How could he top the words of the stable master?

  “Is the chicken ready, yet?” he asked.

  “Oh, come on,” whined a stable hand.

  Richard returned his gaze to the fireplace.

  “I don’t know if I can ever get the things I hope for,” Richard began. “I don’t know if I deserve anything like that. There are so many things that I’ve done in my life that I regret and perhaps, because of those things, I shouldn’t get the things I hope for.

  “Do I desire a wife? Yes, of course. Children? What man wouldn’t want sons, or daughters.” He gave Francis a quick glance. The brawny man smiled.

  “I think it’s every man’s wish to find himself a home where he feels he belongs. Somewhere he can feel wanted, respected, loved. I think that’s what home is meant to be.

  “Does it necessarily need to be upon rolling hills or maybe a farm? Those were the dreams of our fathers passed on to us.

  “We just don’t have any dreams of our own. We haven’t had a chance to sit and think about what it is we really want.

  “I think what I really hope for is that our children, if we ever get the opportunity to sire any, have the opportunity to have hopes of their own and see them through. That’s what I hope for,” Richard finished.

  “Now,” he said. “Is the bloody chicken ready?”

  The roast meat and boiled potatoes had been placed upon a plate and placed upon a trestle table fashioned out of two sawhorses and a plank of timber. The men stood around the spread, p
icking at what they wanted as they stood around and discussed a great many things of triviality.

  Conversations traversed through important subjects such as how to grow monstrous pumpkins and how to grow tasty pumpkins. No one, however, could tell anyone how to grow tasty, monstrous pumpkins.

  “It’s one or the other,” said a stable hand. “Nevertheless, horse manure is the best fertiliser you could invest in.”

  The discussion moved on to places they had visited outside of their village. One of the bowman told of how he had travelled to Oldcastle, at which the men scoffed.

  “That’s just on the other side of the forest,” one of the swordsmen said. “The riders have travelled farther than that and back within a day.”

  “Well, where have you been?” the archer asked, pointing at the other with a half eaten chicken leg.

  “I don’t admit to have travelled far, but I have been to Winterspring and Selidien.”

  Selidien.

  The name rang in Richard’s head over and over like a clanging toll.

  Why did that name set his nerves on edge?

  “I’ve been to Dweagan,” said a stable worker. “You would think they don’t know what a push broom is, or they have millions of horses. I didn’t see that many though. But, oh the mounds of horse turds piled up beside the road.”

  “You’ve got horse manure on your brain,” announced Francis. “Something is wrong with you, boy.”

  “Wait,” Richard instructed. “What was that you said?”

  “What?” the soldier replied. “About me going to Winterspring?”

  “No,” Richard replied. “The other place.”