Stronghold (tomes of the dead)

by Paul Finch

  With a wild laugh, he struck first, jabbing his sword-point at Ranulf's face, though this was a feint. Typically sly, he'd also produced his dagger in his left hand, and this he now thrust at Ranulf's midriff. However, Ranulf saw this, and smashed the sword aside, before striking the dagger from Navarre's hand with a blow so fierce that it sent the weapon spinning into the shadows. Navarre snatched his hand back, scowling. Even tired, it seemed that FitzOsbern's main strengths, namely his supreme hand-eye co-ordination and the blistering speed of his ripostes, had not deserted him.

  Navarre, who relied more on sheer power, stepped backward, but only to regain his balance in order to strike again, this time with a two-handed stroke from overhead. Ranulf fended it off with a mighty clang, but the impact dealt his shoulders a jolt that he felt all the way down his body. He realised that his limited energy was flagging already. If he were to survive this contest, he would have to end it quickly.

  "You were never going to last through these border wars, FitzOsbern," Navarre scoffed. He struck again, but again Ranulf parried him. "A man with a conscience is a man who is fundamentally weak."

  "And you'll last?" Ranulf grunted through gritted teeth, striking back swiftly. "You think there's any way out of this spider-hole your master has led you into?"

  Navarre didn't immediately reply. Again, the speed of Ranulf's counter-blows had taken him by surprise. His teeth too were now gritted, his facial groove so red and enflamed that it looked set to crack open.

  "Loyalty to one's lord is all," he snarled. "Betrayal of that creed merits ignominious death!"

  Their blades clashed furiously as the fight spilled along the passage, sweat spraying from their brows, sparks flashing in the dimness. But Ranulf's growing exhaustion was giving his opponent the upper hand. Blow after heavy blow rained down on him. It was all he could do to fend them off, never mind retaliate. At last he was backed against a row of iron bars. Sensing victory, Navarre stepped forward with a demented grimace, and lunged hard at Ranulf's chest — only for Ranulf, with his last ounce of stamina, to step nimbly aside. Navarre's sword-arm passed through the bars and wedged there — just briefly, but long enough for Ranulf to turn and slash down hard, severing the limb at its shoulder.

  Navarre didn't have time to scream.

  The second stroke took his legs from under him, shearing them at the knees. The third was a downward thrust, delivered as he lay on his back, piercing him clean through the middle of his grotesque face, finally splitting it apart into the two separate hemispheres that for so long it had desired to be.

  The sudden silence in that dark passage was ear pummelling. The echoing clangour of blade on blade dissipated quickly in the Keep's far reaches.

  Ranulf sank to his knees, gasping, leaning on his upright sword. So tired was he that he thought he would pass out. Sweat dripped from his chin, blood trickled from his numerous cuts, all reopened through sheer effort. Many moments passed before he was able to shift away and fall onto his side. More time passed as he lay there, the painful beating in his chest subsiding with torturous slowness. At length, he looked up and took in his surroundings. From somewhere overhead, he could hear a booming and derisive voice. He knew this could only mean one thing.

  Earl Corotocus had entered negotiations.

  Gazing down from the top of the Keep at Grogen Castle was like gazing from some colossal escarpment. From this dizzying height, the surrounding mountains were more like foothills. The broad flow of the river, sparkling so magnificently in the rising sun, resembled a garden stream. The rest of the castle's ramparts were so far below they looked like an artist's miniature.

  But Earl Corotocus felt neither superior nor confident as he stood on this lofty perch. He didn't even feel as if he occupied a strong position. The entire rest of the fortress — its bailey, its walks, its battlements and towers — were crammed with cohorts of deranged, howling cadavers. They were packed so tightly in the courtyard that scarcely an inch of ground was visible. The same was true of the encircling landscape, at least to the north of the Tefeidiad. The western bluff was hidden beneath a tide of human flotsam. On the sweeping northern moor a host was gathered so immense that it seemed without limit. Even if it hadn't struck Corotocus before, it struck him now that an army of the dead was the largest army that could ever be assembled — for on the Anglo-welsh border, in Wales, and in much of England as well, there was no end to those unjustly slain or deprived to the point where death came too early. Even King Edward, with all the arms he could muster, would have difficulty hewing his way through so vast a multitude.

  For this reason, if none other, the earl had now decided — somewhat belatedly, he supposed, though he would never admit it to his retainers — to parley. Ninety yards to his west, on what remained of the Constable's Tower roof, stood several recognisable figures: the statuesque form of Countess Madalyn, with her flowing red hair and imperious aura, and the hooded figures of her priestly acolytes. As these self-appointed leaders stared back at him, possibly realising the stalemate they had at last come to, their monstrous followers fell eerily silent.

  "I repeat, Countess Madalyn," Earl Corotocus boomed. "Your forces will never enter this last bastion. They will dash themselves to pieces on its walls, or decompose until they are bones and slurry before the slightest breach is incurred."

  Corotocus knew they'd understand this. Time was the one thing an army of the dead lacked. The earl's men, who had only been able to stock enough supplies for a couple of weeks at the most, would eventually die famished or parched. But the besiegers would rot. It seemed an even bet which would be the quicker process.

  "You cannot storm us!" The earl's confidence grew as he continued to bellow down to them. "My mighty mangonels will make no impact on these impregnable walls, even if you could manoeuvre them into a suitable position. As you can see, the only possible ingress is via the west or south drawbridges. Maybe you think you can batter these down and create bridges of your own, as you did at the Gatehouse? But I defy you to try, countess. In both cases, the buildings closest to these bridges, the baronial State Rooms and the North Hall, are made from timber and wattle, and have thatched roofs. That was a deliberate ploy by the designers of this castle. I need only have flaming arrows shot down upon them and those structures will burn to ashes. Part of your army will be consumed. The rest will remain as they are now, helpless even to get close to us."

  The earl looked around at his men. They were huddled behind him, maybe thirty in total. They were a craven looking bunch: wounded, filthy, red-eyed with fear and exhaustion. Knights were indistinguishable from men-at-arms. Even so, they regarded him with awe. They had come into this place knowing it was their last refuge, believing it would only delay the certainty of death. But now their master's words gave them hope. Could it be that he was speaking truthfully? Had he again plucked them from the jaws of disaster?

  He turned back to shout again. "Your only option, Countess Madalyn, is to withdraw. Return your army to the soil from whence it came and await the king's judgement, which I assure you will be fair."

  He was surprised when the voice that called back was not Countess Madalyn's, but that of a man. It was deep and melodious, with a Welsh accent and a strong note of authority.

  "Earl Corotocus, Countess Madalyn no longer deems you a worthy negotiator. All of your former promises proved to be false."

  "Who speaks?" the earl shouted.

  "You must produce a different spokesman."

  "Who speaks, I say?"

  "I am Gwyddon, Countess Madalyn's senior counsellor. You no longer have a part to play here, Earl Corotocus. Until you produce someone whose word we can trust, you and your men remain under sentence of death."

  "You insolent dog!"

  "Which sentence to be carried out at the first opportunity."

  The earl rounded on his men, scarlet-faced. "Bring her forward!"

  Gwendolyn of Lyr, her head held proudly, was brought out from the bedraggled ranks and led to the parapet
, where the earl ordered her to stand in one of the embrasures. She was pushed so close to its brink that her toes curled around it. Once there, he had her hands twisted behind her back and bound to an iron ring set into the stonework. Of course, this small safety measure could not be seen by the figures on the Constable's Tower. All they saw was a girlish figure, naked save for a red and blue harlequin cloak, standing on the edge of extinction.

  Again, Corotocus shouted across the courtyard. "You think I won't cast this child down, countess? Surely you know me better than that?"

  "Mother!" Gwendolyn called in her native language, certain that none of her captors would understand her. "Do not listen to them. They will not risk it. They have just secured…"

  Corotocus himself leapt up alongside her and thrust the tip of his dagger under her chin. "Silence, you little harridan!" His Welsh was imperfect but adequate. "Hold that tongue, or I'll slit it down the middle and leave you with two!"

  Gwendolyn clamped her mouth shut, but blinked fiercely, determined to eradicate any tears caused by the gusting wind. She was determined the English would not think her afraid. The earl gazed back to the Constable's Tower, but saw no obvious consternation. Countess Madalyn was close to the battlements, watching intently, but the priest who had spoken — the one called Gwyddon — was conferring with his henchmen, almost casually. Finally there were nods of agreement from the priests, and they wrestled forward two figures of their own, placing them in embrasures as well. By these prisoners' livery — a surcoat of blue and white chevrons and a crimson tabard bearing three golden lions — they were Walter Margas and Davy Gou.

  Corotocus and his men were startled to see that any of their comrades had been taken alive, though both prisoners were streaked with char and ordure. They stood boldly, their chins upraised, but shivered with pain and fear. If Corotocus had been close enough, he'd have seen Margas's cheek hanging in a bloody flap, exposing his clenched molars.

  "An awkward situation," du Guesculin said quietly.

  Corotocus gave him a withering look, before turning to his other men. Two of his household archers were still in possession of their longbows and had quivers containing a few arrows each. He signalled them.

  "Make sure your aim is good," he said.

  At one time, such a cryptic order would have left them bewildered. But under these circumstances, there seemed no question about what was being demanded of them. Both bowmen stepped forward, knocked arrows and let fly. They had had much target practice over the last few days. Perhaps this explained why both shafts hit cleanly, one striking Margas in the middle of his chest, penetrating to his heart, the other catching Gou in the throat, sinking to its feathers.

  The two corpses crashed from the parapet, turning over and over as they plummeted into the courtyard.

  There was no word of complaint from Corotocus's men, all of them having moved unconsciously into that dark, soulless realm where the loss of any life is a price worth paying if it might save your own.

  "Have you any more for me, countess?" Corotocus laughed. "I have plenty of arrows."

  "Such is the reward for blind loyalty," came a weary voice.

  Corotocus spun around. Gwendolyn looked too, surprised to hear a familiar tone.

  Ranulf trudged forward from the door connecting with the lower levels. His face was haggard, damp with seat. His clothing and the blade of his drawn broadsword were both spattered crimson. Corotocus in particular looked stunned. He glanced past Ranulf through the doorway behind, at which Ranulf chuckled.

  "Don't waste your time looking for Navarre, my lord. He's already in Hell. Which is where you'll soon be."

  "Archers!" du Guesculin shouted.

  The two bowmen stepped forward, fresh arrows knocked to their strings.

  "So this is the great marcher baron!" Ranulf scoffed. "Who, even when his world has come to an end, sends other men to fight for him."

  "You betrayed us, Ranulf!" Corotocus growled, pointing a shaking finger.

  "That's not how I see it."

  "You would have delivered us all to those things."

  "No!" Ranulf said, pointing back. "I would have delivered you!" He turned to the rest of the company. "Would any man here object to that, if it meant that you would be saved? Are the bonds of fealty so tight that, on this man's orders, you would strike blow after blow against the innocent and then take his punishment for him?"

  There was no response.

  There were still one or two honourable knights among this wretched band — men who had held vigils, gone on quests, ridden in the tournaments wearing the colours of fine ladies. But all were now grizzled, begrimed, stained over and over with their own gore and the gore of others. They were more like sewer rats than men. Reduced to this forlorn state, perhaps it was no surprise that none seemed willing to side with him. The only safety they knew, and it was a slim one at that, lay with their overlord.

  "If you fall defending this stronghold," Ranulf asked them, "what do you think will happen to Earl Corotocus when the king arrives? He may be punished for stirring up a hornet's nest the like of which the world has never seen. But what will that punishment involve? The confiscation of estates? A money fine? You meanwhile will be dead! Everyone you ever served with will be dead! Or worse — enslaved for eternity by satanic magic, forbidden entry to God's kingdom."

  "You speak treason" someone cried, fear making him angry. "Not just against the earl, but against the king."

  There were mumbles of agreement. Others too began to shout and hurl abuse. Ranulf hung his head tiredly. He didn't suppose he could blame them. Most here owed everything they had to Earl Corotocus. They knew no other life.

  "He is indeed a traitor," du Guesculin said, venturing forward now that he could see there was no fight left in this rebel. "But he sins not just against the king. He's allied himself to these demons… to Lucifer himself."

  Ranulf shook his head with contempt. "You're a liar, du Guesculin. You're the worst liar of all, because you've seen what this madman's cruelty and tyranny has brought, and still you side with him."

  "For crimes against God there can be no forgiveness," du Guesculin retorted. "Archers…"

  "Wait!" Corotocus shouted. After initially seeming afraid, albeit very fleetingly, he'd now re-assumed his air of lordly confidence. When he spoke again, it was in an even, almost affable tone. "I don't necessarily share that view, du Guesculin. That certain evils cannot be forgiven. God does not share it either."

  "My lord, I…" du Guesculin protested.

  "Silence!"

  Corotocus eyed Ranulf as he walked around him. Ranulf still had his broadsword and could have cut his overlord down at a whim. At this proximity, even two flying arrows couldn't have prevented it. But as always — and Ranulf cursed himself for this — he felt it important to know what Earl Corotocus was about to say next.

  "Did you really slay Navarre?" the earl asked. He sounded impressed.

  "It was the easiest but worthiest accomplishment of my life," Ranulf replied.

  "Hmmm. I understand your feelings. He was a difficult fellow. He always felt challenged by you, of course. At least it's been settled in the honourable way."

  "You're out of your mind, la Hors."

  "Possibly, Ranulf, possibly."

  "You should kill me now, my lord, because when I'm able to I will surely kill you."

  "Let's not be too hasty. There's a method even to my madness." The earl put a thumb to his chin as he pondered. "Seeing as you've accounted for Navarre, I'm afraid it now falls to you to complete his final task."

  "I don't take orders from you any more."

  Corotocus sighed. "I see. Well, answer me this… do you wish what remains of our company to die? Do you wish them torn apart on these ramparts, or trapped in this place until they're forced to feed on each other? Is your hatred of me so irrational that you would sacrifice what's left of your comrades to so ghoulish a fate?"

  Ranulf glanced at the rest of the men. Their expressions had chang
ed, the hostility of a few moments ago replaced by an intense, childlike fear.

  "There may be one or two worth saving," he said.

  Corotocus laughed. "And it won't be difficult for a warrior like you to do it." He moved back to the battlements, looking down towards the Constable's Tower, where Gwyddon and the other druids were still in debate. "As you can see, Ranulf, we've reached an impasse. But I have a plan to break it, one that will save all our lives. Unfortunately, when we leave here… someone will have to stay behind to keep charge of this hostage. Navarre didn't know it, but he was due to be volunteered."

  "The generosity with which you reward your servants knows no end," Ranulf said.

  "Serving me is its own reward. Or so I'm told. But let's assume that you volunteer for this task. It won't be as onerous for you as it would have been for Navarre, you having already made an alliance with these creatures, or at least with their mistress."

  "That didn't go quite as I planned," Ranulf admitted.

  Corotocus gave him a frank stare. "The alternative is that I push this girl over the edge right now, because she'd be no use to us any more."

  Ranulf said nothing. There was nothing he could say. Yet again the earl's wiles had backed him into a corner. Pleased, the earl leaned over the battlements and again bellowed to the group on the Constable's Tower.

  "You can cease that pointless gabble!"

  The druids turned and regarded him.

  "There is nothing for you to discuss!" Corotocus shouted. "The situation is perfectly simple. If you try to enter this Keep, the girl will be thrown to her death. If you refuse my men and I permission to leave safely, she will starve with the rest of us. And if you ever again presume to bypass my authority to negotiate with my underlings, she will die under a flensing knife."