Marrok remarked to himself how not long ago he, too, was ill trained, and though, despite his lack of experience in combat, he felt able to utilise his training if, and when, required. Had he not, after all, defeated a giant with no training? Overconfident in his skills, his mind flashed back to the words of Jericho during his early training sessions. “Never underestimate your opponent, no matter how small or how weak they appear.” With this in mind, he re-evaluated and concluded, despite what threat the guards posed, never was there more a dangerous opponent than one who was untrained.
He and Draken alighted from their horses, the breath of which steamed in plumes from the cold air. Handing the reigns to the stablehand, the pair picked their way carefully through a muddy mire churned up by so much foot traffic.
The fortress, not exactly a new castle or as imposing as some, was still the most dominant feature of the landscape, a blip in the otherwise beautiful surroundings. The walls of the castle were less than secure, crumbling and in danger of collapse in several places. The upkeep of the building seemed less than important, and so the pair wondered alike if the rest of the compound was in much the same state.
Marrok looked to Draken. ‘Cosy.’
Draken smirked and shook his head. ‘A dung heap in reality.’
The younger man laughed. ‘Not so loud.’
‘Don’t worry so. The common folk won’t understand us. Quite a different language altogether.’
Marrok sighed.
‘Never fear, I speak fluent Westeron. It is not so different to Rosthagaarian or Arrom and likely the Lord of this … place will speak several dialects and languages.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
They passed under the gateway and advanced into a courtyard, thankfully free of mud, thanks to the layers of straw laid down to prevent the tracking of effluent and dirt into the castle.
At least they cared enough for that. Shame about the rest, Marrok thought, as he avoided several passersby.
From what they could see, the four sides of the courtyard held stalls, full with produce and people haggling for the same. The smell of rotten fruit and vegetables tossed aside was uninviting and competed with the stench of the common folk.
Marrok longed to be inside, away from the wafts of decay. He looked upwards and saw to his surprise that the square castle keep was in better shape than the walls and battlements. A long, steep, stairwell led up to a single doorway, open and guarded. Beyond, a second larger door barred the way. Several windows, no more than arrow slits were glazed, which he found odd, considering the ports were designed for defence. Higher up, beyond reach, larger openings had been constructed and were also glazed.
The stonework seemed intact and made from a kind of blue stone, no doubt quarried from nearby.
He and Draken mounted the steep stairwell and felt the strain at the back of the legs, due to sitting in a saddle for so long.
The senior man winced and groaned with each step.
‘Are you going to complain with every step?’ Marrok offered a sideways glance.
‘I’m old and creaky. Leave me be.’
Marrok held up a hand in abeyance and assessed the potential threat ahead.
Both he and Draken smelled it immediately, the unnatural aroma of a drunk. Red-eyed and propped up against the wall, a guard with a lopsided steel helmet and chain mail smiled drunkenly at them.
Draken spoke, and Marrok looked at him confused, and then remembered he was unaccustomed to the Westeron language.
‘Move aside, I wish to speak with my sister, Lady Marisa Bothwick.’ Draken pushed the guard aside, who crumpled into a heap on the floor and began to snore almost immediately.
‘Pathetic. Such careless security has me worried what we will find inside.’ Marrok peered ahead and behind cautiously, checking that they had not been seen.
‘You and me both.’
Marrok took the lead, his arm crossed across his cloak and under it to rest upon the hilt of his sword. His head swivelled left and right seeking danger as they climbed the last remaining steps to the keep.
A light breeze swirled around the steps, throwing a light dust into the air, and Draken sneezed. A steady drip of water pooled to the left of the large, oak door. It’s iron rivets, proud of the surface, showed its strength.
Marrok, with one hand, turned a circle of metal, which unlocked the door with a loud click. He pushed the door slowly with a creak that reverberated beyond the doorway, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the different lighting inside the keep. A flaming torch lit a corridor that led straight ahead. The only visible object was an arrow slit window.
‘Follow me, quietly now.’ Marrok motioned.
The pair stepped inside and crept along the corridor until it turned left and opened out into a hall of feasting. The warmth of the room hit them, coming from a burning fireplace on the far wall. Wainscoting surrounded the room, which was lit by high windows just below a coffered ceiling. Two long tables, complete with chairs, and a smaller table at the head dominated the room. It appeared that a feast had occurred several hours ago. All around them, people lay on tables, or on the floor, drunk from too much ale. Snores and smells abound. One individual had vomited and simply lay in it, not caring in the slightest.
Marrok gestured to Draken to take the left-hand walkway, and he would take the right. They both walked carefully and avoided bodies laid upon the floor and headed towards the head table.
Marrok stepped over the final feastgoer and banged his fist hard on the table. Nothing. No one stirred.
‘They must have enjoyed a little too much ale. Try again,’ Draken urged.
Marrok banged his fist again, several times. ‘Wake up, Lord Bothwick. We have business with you.’
Bothwick stirred, as did several others around the room. ‘I hear the tongue of an Arromithian dog. Who dares disturb me?’
Marrok was pleased that he could understand the Lord. ‘I am Marrok Wulf. I seek an audience with my aunt and my companion’s sister, Lady Marisa Bothwick.’
Bothwick, a wrinkled, old, foul-smelling individual looked at them both through drunken eyes, one closed so he could focus. His head was balding, and several strands had been smoothed over the crown. He wore seven days worth of grey stubble, and his clothes were decidedly unwashed. A dark emerald doublet and cream shirt had food and drink stains encrusted upon them. His many rings upon his fingers were dull and unpolished and when he spoke his teeth were almost all rotten or stained.
‘Your aunt, you say? Well, I’m sorry to say that she’s not available, so be off with you,’ Bothwick replied.
‘I said we are here to see my aunt. I demand –’ Marrok began.
‘Forgive my hot-headed nephew,’ Draken interrupted. ‘My Lord, I know that this is inconvenient to you and we sincerely apologise for the interruption to your … your festivities. It is imperative that I see my sister as a matter of some urgency.’
Bothwick eyed him with a mixture of derision and curiosity. He noted that several of his people had stirred and were looking on as curious as he was. ‘And what would you say to this sister of yours?’
‘With the utmost of respect, that is between she and I,’ Draken replied.
The lord placed his hands on the table and leant forward. He eyed Draken carefully, waiting for the other to drop his stare. ‘Then do tell me why I should do as you ask. I am lord of this land and if you want my help you will speak.’
Draken held his own stare for several more seconds before looking to Marrok. The young man nodded his approval.
‘We have been instructed to bring her the Last Will and Testament and action any request or bequest on behalf of her father, Lord Wulf,’ Draken lied.
Now was the moment to appeal to the lord’s greed for gold or power. The first thought when one hears of a will is to wonder if there’s anything in the document for them. In this case, anything bequeathed to Marisa would become the property of the lord, as a wife’s property is automatically his upon m
arriage, such is the law of the land.
Draken and Marrok had planned the excursion to the finest detail. They knew of Bothwick’s ways before they had ever met, that he was a drunkard, greedy and liable to bouts of temper. They had discussed, at length, Marisa’s stay with the elves and how from that day she had been reclusive, never to see her father or mother alive again. She did not attend the funerals, nor the actual reading of the Will, which saw Wulf Hall pass into the hands of King Hantestum. Should the travellers be prevented from seeing Marisa, thought likely as no word had been forthcoming in many a year and efforts to maintain contact had proved fruitless, the elven king had given Draken a reasonable tale to tell, even if it was a falsehood. Bothwick, it was hoped, would see piles of gold in his mind’s eye and throw caution to the wind.
Standing there in the Great Hall, Marrok saw Bothwick’s eyes change suddenly from that of disdain to something akin to delight. It was hard to tell, so drunk was he. Marrok smiled inwardly. They had hooked their prey.
‘Well, why didn’t you say? Welcome, my friends. Let us retire to my chambers and we shall discuss this matter further. Follow me.’ Lord Bothwick staggered slightly and plodded to the back of the hall where a nondescript ash door sat within an alcove. He opened the door with a creak of hinges and ushered Marrok and Draken inside.
Beyond the door, a spacious war room with a lower ceiling and arrow slit windows greeted them, lit poorly, but enough to see by. The corners were dark, and a dim light spread over a thick, well-worn table, piled high with rolls of parchment and maps. Several chairs surrounded the space, and to these Bothwick invited his guests. ‘Sit and tell me more.’
Draken refused to sit, and Marrok had almost sat when he realised this and stood once more. ‘I am afraid, my Lord, that this information is for my sister, Marisa. Should she wish you to be present at the reading, then –’
Bothwick flew into a very characteristic rage. He swept his arm across the table, casting parchments across the stone floor. ‘How dare you insult me. I am the master of this house. Show me these documents before I have you removed and flogged.’
Draken stood his ground and thanks to his tall stature towered over the shorter Bothwick. ‘My sister,’ his deep tones rumbled.
There was a stalemate, and Bothwick knew it. He was alone with two men, one of whom knew how to fight. The sword tip protruding from his cloak and his broad shoulders and steely stare proved that point. The other looked familiar. Perhaps a wizard of some sort, he thought, and backed down for the moment.
‘Peace, brothers. I shall take you to Marisa. Right, this way.’ Bothwick crossed to a small door at the back of the room and dipped his head to enter. Marrok followed first, his hand at the ready around his sword. Draken followed and closed the door behind them.
They followed a similarly lit corridor, also illuminated by arrow slits. Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls as they walked. At the far end of the hallway, a doorway, barred and uninviting, awaited them.
Bothwick turned to face the pair. ‘Your sister is beyond. The door is kept locked for her safety.’
‘You keep my sister locked away?’ Draken balled his fists.
‘Easy now, Draken,’ Marrok intervened. ‘Why is this door locked?’ he asked in a more cordial tone.
‘I suppose I owe you an explanation.’ Bothwick sighed. ‘It was the night of the great storm, twelve years hence. Marisa grew feverish and then began to scream obscenities concerning the gods and a plot to kill one of them. Despite the healer’s best efforts, we could not calm her. No tonic helped, and the screaming worsened, almost as if she was possessed. She claimed Death was out to get her. For her safety, I had her confined to this room.’
‘Open the door. I wish to see this for myself,’ Draken demanded.
‘Very well.’ Bothwick reached deep inside his undershirt and withdrew a long iron key. He inserted it into the door’s lock and turned. It clicked, and he was then able to push the door open with a scraping of wood on stone. He indicated that Draken should enter.
‘Stay here for the moment,’ Draken advised Marrok.
Marrok nodded, understanding the hidden meaning. Protection duty.
Draken ducked as he entered the darkened room. A little light from a solitary arrow slit shone in a beam and onto a bare foot that protruded from a darkened corner of the chamber. He returned to the corridor and gripped a torch from the left of the door and ventured back inside. The darkness retreated some and shadows cast about the room. He held the torch ahead of him and peered ahead.
A high-pitched scream rang out from the corner and Draken jumped with fright. His heart beat fast, and his breath quickened. ‘Marisa? It’s me, Draken, your brother.’
There was no response, so he stepped closer to the far corner of the room. The light from the flame lit a dirt ridden covering, barely hiding the woman’s modesty. A simple cloth garment, or what remained of it, covered Marisa who stared blankly ahead. Draken kneeled before her and cast the light across her face. Aside from the light auburn hair, he saw nothing of his sister in this woman. Her eyes were unseeing, and she held a pained expression across her dirt encrusted face.
Draken reached for the woman’s hand and took it in his. She felt cold, and almost instantly the woman screamed and withdrew her hand with lightning speed. His head sagged and he was about to stand to leave, disappointed that this woman, whoever she was, could not help them when a most beautiful voice erupted from her.
‘Wakey, wakey, little Drakey,’ she sang, followed by a screaming fit. ‘Death is coming. Hide. Run! The woman gripped her long tangled hair in her fists and pulled at it, and her eyes shone a milky white.
Draken dropped the torch only to retrieve it quickly. He sat back in shock. It was Marisa. No one else called him Drakey. He had not heard that name in such a long time, that a single tear splashed onto the cold stone floor. ‘Oh, Marisa, what has happened here? My darling Marisa.’
He saw red at her treatment and stood. He barged out of the room and slammed Bothwick against the wall. ‘If you were not married to her, I would kill you where you stand for such treatment.’
Bothwick pushed back, and Draken almost fell, but thankfully Marrok caught him in time.
‘YOU DARE! This is my home, and that,’ he pointed into the room, ‘is my wife.’
‘You would treat your wife in such a manner?’
‘What choice do I have?’
‘I shall take her far from here. You would be rid of the burden,’ Draken offered, breathing hard.
‘No! This is not possible.’ Bothwick looked frightened.
‘What are you hiding, Bothwick?’ Marrok asked, stepping forward and permitting his bulk to dominate the smaller man. He gripped the man by the shirt.
Bothwick looked terrified and took a deep breath. ‘Guards! Guards!’ he yelled.
A scraping of chairs came from along the corridor and, a moment later, two sword wielding men hurried from a room further along it. They looked right and then left to see Lord Bothwick with two unknown men, one apparently threatening Bothwick.
‘Cease what you are doing. Let Lord Bothwick go and there won’t be any trouble,’ a tall, thickset man of around thirty years’ old demanded. He held his sword how Marrok would have expected a man of experience to hold it, and immediately complied.
Lord Bothwick seemed to grow a foot taller and turned to his guard. ‘Take them to the Great Hall. I will be but a moment.’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ The thickset guard responded, and he and his companion advanced on Marrok and Draken.
Marrok and Draken surrendered and found themselves being led at sword point back along the corridor.
Bothwick had by now ventured into the room of his wife, and his voice could be clearly heard. ‘Stay quiet, you evil wench.’ His aggressive tone was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a slap.
It took all Marrok’s strength to resist taking out his sword and running the guard through, but without a plan, both he and Draken were l
ikely to die in this very corridor.
Draken closed his eyes and remained silent. Thoughts of the pain he would very much like to inflict on Bothwick ran through his mind. Why did this man treat her in such a godless way?
They passed through the war room and were ushered into the Great Hall, where a dozen more men stood upon seeing them being led by guards and they, too, withdrew swords.
‘Stop,’ their guard ordered, and they complied.
Marrok was already forming plan after plan in his mind for escape until he was interrupted by the flat of a sword to the back of the legs that made him collapse to his knees before the head table.
Draken fell a moment later. They both exchanged worried glances. Was this the last view that they would ever see? A run-down hall in a decaying castle keep.
Lord Bothwick burst from the war room and into the hall, and raced red-faced to the opposite side of the head table away from the threat and slammed his hand upon it. ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have you killed.’
Marrok looked at the man defiantly. ‘Perhaps I didn’t introduce myself properly. I am General Marrok Wulf, Order of The Wulf.’
Bothwick threw back his head and laughed. ‘You expect me to believe a boy leads an army? Besides, the whole world knows, The Brotherhood is defeated and a distant memory.’
Marrok cursed. Gone was the day that such a title would hold any sway. ‘Fine. The Will in return for our freedom.’
‘You bargain poorly. I could have you killed and take it anyway.’
It was Marrok’s turn to smirk. ‘It is sealed by a magic only my uncle, here, can remove.’
Draken shot Marrok a look. The boy was a natural liar and secretly prayed his bluff would succeed.
Bothwick’s face clouded. He was right, the older man was a wizard. ‘I agree to your terms.’
Marrok grew bolder. ‘Swear it.’
‘Don’t test my patience, boy.’
Marrok raised his brows expectantly.
Bothwick threw his hand in the air, exasperated. ‘Fine. I swear it. Get them on their feet.’
The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection Page 127