“This is my brother, Sir Balin,” said Brulen to his two armored companions.
One lifted his visor, revealing a clean-shaven face and guileless eyes.
“I have heard of the Knight of The Two Swords. I should have known you by your arms,” said the knight. “I’m Sir Peryn of Montebeliard.”
The other knight raised his charge, that Balin might know him. Gules, two barbel addorsed, or.
“Sir Garnysh of The Mount,” he said, and then, hurriedly, “Sir Balin, did you see the six riders who attacked this camp?”
Balin nodded.
“Five of them took Count Oduin and two ladies, and slew his manservants. I killed the sixth man as he tried to steal our horses.”
“Killed him?” Brulen repeated, his face drawn in concern. “How, Balin?”
“I beheaded him,” Balin said, pointing with his still drawn sword to the head burning in the fire.
Brulen looked relieved, and Sir Peryn said, “Thank God for that.”
Sir Garnysh threw up his visor, revealing impressively cultivated upper lip hair underlining a long nose and furtive looking eyes.
“Was there a woman with them?” Sir Garnysh pressed.
“I saw no woman,” Balin said. “But I was off by that stand of trees when they struck.”
“Why were you not on watch with your people?” Peryn asked.
Balin felt his face color again and stammered to answer.
“Never mind that! Where did they go?” Garnysh interrupted.
“I saw them ride for the forest,” Balin said, thankful for a way to avoid Peryn’s inquiry. “There is a castle there, a keep.”
They all looked across the darkness, and in that instant, a single yellow light shone like a beacon over the tops of the silver-chased trees.
Somehow, the appearance of that light sent a shiver through Balin’s bones.
“What is that castle? Do either of you know it?” Brulen asked.
“Its name is Aspetta Ventura,” said Balin. “It’s called The Castle of the Leprous Lady. But I know nothing more. Brulen, what is going on? Why are you here?”
“I might ask you the same, brother.”
“We were on our way to Lystenoyse, to celebrate the birth of the princess of that kingdom,” said Balin, seeing no need to elucidate further.
“We are on a quest to retrieve Sir Garnysh’s lady, the daughter of the Duke of Harniel, who was stolen from her bedchamber by some band of villains on the eve of their wedding. We have been a day behind them for two days and finally tracked them here.”
“We are losing time!” Garnysh barked. “Let’s ride!”
Garnysh spurred his horse and went galloping down the road.
Peryn spared them each a look and followed.
“These are not ordinary men, Balin,” Brulen warned.
“What do you mean?”
“One of their party fell back and ambushed us on the road last night. I’ve never faced so terrible a foe. He fought on despite wounds that would have slain you or me outright. He was strong enough to throw Sir Peryn and his horse bodily. His eyes…”
“Your companions will leave us behind if we don’t follow. Go. I will gather my armor and be along.”
“I’m glad to see you again, Balin,” Brulen said.
Balin bit back a thousand questions. Where and why had Brulen gone from Cameliard? What did he know of the painting at St. Stephen’s which Lot had spoken of?
Balin only nodded and slapped the rump of his brother’s horse and watched him go, before returning to his armor.
***
Two hours into the night they rode through Carteloise Forest. Balin discovered an overgrown ascending lane, little more than an animal run, branching off in the direction of the hillside keep.
The forest was dense, dark, and unnaturally silent, lit only by slivers of moonlight and their own torches. The trees were so close together that the path was like a dark cave tunnel.
“I do not like the look of that way,” said Sir Peryn warily, “but I see no other avenue. We know they have gone this way. They cannot but pass us to come back. If a keep waits at the end of this, we should wait and attack at sunrise.”
“And give those villains a night to fortify themselves, a night unopposed with my lady in their power, in their own haven?” Sir Garnysh veritably shrieked. “We go now!”
“Peryn may be right,” Brulen said thoughtfully. “They could lay in wait for us like last night, and this time we are outnumbered.”
“Our horses could stumble in that pitch black.”
“They can see by the torches well enough,” Garnysh argued.
“Then they will see us coming,” said Peryn.
“They already know we pursue them, you fool!” Garnysh snapped.
“Balin?” Brulen asked. “What say you? What course?”
“Count Oduin said the keep was to be avoided at night, but the ladies these fiends took…” Like Garnysh, the thought of Lorna Maeve subjected to some unworthy dishonor by these strange knights brought his blood to a boil. “Garnysh is right. We shouldn’t tarry.”
Garnysh lit a torch and led the way, not waiting to hear Brulen’s course.
Balin fell in behind, and then Brulen and Peryn, the last with a final mutter of protestation.
The path was treacherous in the dark, and though, as Brulen predicted, the horses stumbled, none fell.
It was another hour’s ride up a steep incline before the tangled roof of the forest gave way to a night field of blooming stars, and they came to the foot of the grassless hill atop which the Aspetta Ventura sat like a forgotten pagan idol. Its battlements were crumbling, and some broken blocks lay on the ground where they’d fallen. Its walls were covered in climbing vegetation. Its single leaning tower bisected the bright moon.
The light that shined around it disclosed a stone walled graveyard with one old crypt and nine tombstones, the latter incongruously new and well-tended among the ruinous surroundings. The grass on one grave was short, and they saw that a tenth had been dug recently. The laborer’s spade still stood upright in the disinterred earth like a bare sapling.
The yellow light in the high window flickered, the upper reaches of the keep exposed to the wind that howled mournfully above Carteloise Forest.
They approached the great, solid door. They heard an abrupt groan. It swung outward and a gust of strong, cold wind blew out, upsetting the horses.
Two black armored, bare headed pale figures stood in the doorway, their long white hair whipping about them. One bore an axe.
“Knights! Steer clear of this keep! You are not welcome here and may come no further!” boomed one of them impressively.
“You hold my bride-to-be against her will!” Garnysh yelled back.
“And two ladies and a nobleman unjustly taken on the road!” Balin added.
“The two ladies and the man you speak of are guests of the Lady Verdoana, chatelaine of this keep,” said one of the pale knights. “As for the one who was to be wed, she came of her own volition and is even now with our captain, Sir Guthkeled.”
“Liar!” Sir Garnysh thundered and slammed down his visor.
“Depart!” the second of the pale knights ordered. “Or it will go badly for you!”
“Say you so?” Sir Garnysh said arrogantly and spurred his horse.
The chill wind from the keep kicked up once more, howling, so that they had to lean into it. The two black armored knights bellowed in answer to Sir Garnysh’s rash charge, and leapt into the air as no men possibly could, so laden down in plate. It was as if they were astride the ill wind itself and flew spinning through the very air at them.
Garnysh’s horse balked at this unnatural sight and threw him to the ground, turned, and bolted back into the forest for all it was worth.
The two devilish knights passed over him and instead bore Sir Peryn down from his horse. Brulen fought to keep his mount steady, while Balin atop Ironprow galloped to his aid.
Yet thoug
h it was a short distance, by the time Balin reached Peryn, the two figures atop him had bodily torn his harness from him like paper, and were gleefully rending and tearing at him with axe and bare hands as he shrieked in agony, great gouts of blood and flesh flying over their shoulders like the clots of earth flung back by two digging dogs.
Balin fought his urge to flee in the face of such horror and hewed down, sending the upraised arm of one of the pale knights tumbling into the churchyard still grasping its axe.
The inhuman warrior wailed in pain and surprise and leapt desperately at Balin before he could draw his second sword.
Brulen was there though and swung a spiked flail into the thing’s face.
To Balin’s chagrin, the metal ball smashed like a glass egg and the weapon broke apart in a burst of steel and chain links. The knight was distracted but entirely unharmed.
The leaping knight swept its surviving hand inches past Balin’s face, and he saw long clawed fingernails yellow in the moonlight, heard them scrape against his helm.
The tremendous jump took the knight entirely over Ironprow’s back, and Balin twisted in his saddle to jab at the thing with the Adventurous Sword, suspecting his second weapon would be no avail and remembering that the enchanted blade had passed through its arm easy enough.
The pale knight jumped back, right into the path of Brulen, whose horse reared and struck with its hooves, then came down with its full weight.
The knight thrust out its arm though and gripped the horse’s thick neck, actually holding it aloft for a terrifying moment, long enough for Brulen to tumble off its back in an awkward heap.
Balin swept across the fiend’s chest with the Adventurous Sword, and the keen, supernatural edge sliced it from pauldron to cuisse. It stumbled, and when the terrified horse at last came down, it was because the creature holding it had slid apart in two halves.
There was no time to reflect on the victory or the nature of the enemy though, as Balin felt himself jerked from the saddle by an irresistible hand and flung down on his back.
The second knight straddled him, and the face that loomed in his was the very essence of nightmare. Its bulging eyes were unnaturally black, yet flecked throughout with scarlet like resolute cinders in a bed of ash. Its marble white flesh was spattered in Sir Peryn’s shining blood, and its dripping red lips pulled back from a hellish maw that included a pair of long, wolf-like fangs.
Balin recoiled from a hot blast of rotten breath, tinged with the sharp scent of steel and blood. Its foot pinned his wrist to the ground. Balin could not lift his sword. He struck out with his free, mailed hand, but it was like punching a solid trunk of oak.
Brulen rose over the thing’s shoulder and leapt upon its back, wrapping both arms about its neck, trying to twist its head off, but evidently its bones were as resilient as its flesh.
The thing hooked its fingers in Brulen’s rerebrace and pitched him lightly head over heels to the ground, so that now he lay helmet to helmet with his brother on his back.
Then it leaned in closer, grinning that feral grin of a devil frolicking in hellfire. Its hair was putrid bone-yellow, a color born of diseased follicles.
“Cease!” came a strident woman’s cry from somewhere high above, yet with such vigor that it seemed to make the trees quake.
The pale fiend straightened and looked up, and Balin could not but follow its gaze.
High atop the keep stood a figure even more terrible and harrowing than the diabolic creature that had brought Balin down.
It was female, and the very image of the Queen of Norgales, covered head to toe so that not a glimpse of humanity showed through. Yet where the Queen’s garb had been black, this woman was all in purest white. Her face was shrouded beneath a long white veil and barbette, and even her hands were covered in white fabric.
She was not alone.
Beside her on the roof was Count Oduin, his hands bound behind him, his eyes blindfolded. The woman in white gripped him by the shoulder and called down, “Cease your contest! Each side has forfeited a man. Lay down your arms and enter peaceably, else I will cast this nobleman down to a hard death.”
Balin’s beastly opponent looked down at him, one white eyebrow cocked.
“Do you yield?” it queried.
“I will abide,” said Balin through his teeth, for he had never surrendered to any knight before.
“I agree,” said Brulen beside him.
“Never!” Garnysh bellowed.
Balin strained to look, and saw Garnysh standing where he had fallen, his sword and shield raised.
“Garnysh, you fool!” Brulen hollered. “Your rashness has already cost Sir Peryn’s life! You will not be responsible for another! Accept the offer! If your lady is within, we will treat for her!”
Garnysh lowered his arms with hesitation, but let them clatter, as three more of the black knights marched from the dark keep bearing spears.
The one that pinned Balin stooped down and tried to pluck the Adventurous Sword from his grasp but grunted in surprise.
Balin smiled as it straightened again and called up to his mistress, “This one’s blade is enchanted! I cannot lift it!”
“Leave it in the road!” The woman in white replied, ushering Count Oduin back into her keep.
The evil knight instead grabbed Balin’s sword hand in a Herculean grip and taking Brulen’s arm with the other, hauled them both to their feet. In spite of the gravity of their predicament, Balin’s memory cast back to the misadventures of his childhood with Brulen, when their mother would hoist them up from some disaster and carry them away to be scrubbed or paddled.
Balin looked across at his brother, dangling from the knight’s other arm.
Brulen caught his look and evidently read the memory in his brother’s eyes. The fear slid from his face.
They very nearly smirked at each other.
“Come along, sir knights,” the fiend said with more than a hint of gloating. “Avail yourselves of the hospitality of the Aspetta Ventura.”
As they were pulled rudely along, Balin whispered to Brulen, “What does the name mean? Aspetta Ventura?”
“Expected Fortune,” Brulen answered. “In this case, I expect, not the welcome kind.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
If the pale knight’s jest about hospitality had been misconstrued as anything but a jest, the three knights swiftly found their expectations righted. The black knight flung them unceremoniously down the stone steps of a dim dungeon beneath the keep. The heavy door slammed shut behind them, a lock clanked into place, and the thud of a thick timber bolt fell resoundingly, sealing them within. Balin and Brulen picked themselves up in the dark. Garnysh had dashed his head on a step and was unconscious and bleeding.
Balin tore a scrap of cloth from his padding and bound up the knight’s head.
But for a dim glow that shone through the small barred window in the prison door, cast by the torch sconce in the outer hall, they were in total blackness.
“Have you ever seen anything like those creatures?”
“Never,” Brulen answered. “Not in all my travels.”
“They were devouring Sir Peryn,” Balin said, shuddering uncontrollably.
“No, not devouring. Not exactly. I saw clearly. They lapped his blood like a dog.”
“Well,” said Balin, chuckling nervously. “Then instead of cannibals, they are…what?”
“Baobhan sith,” said a small voice from the darkness that made both of them jump nearly from skin and armor.
They gripped each other’s arms, not full grown men anymore, not proven knights, but brothers trembling beneath their sheets at some imagined goblin at the window, some lurking bodack that reverted to a harmless kindling pile at dawn.
They waited tensely, their own laborious breathing and the steady breath of Garnysh the only sound, so that for a moment, they thought they had imagined the voice.
Then it spoke again, high and small, a child’s voice.
“Are you sti
ll there?”
“Who speaks?” Brulen whispered.
“A prisoner, like yourselves. But I’ve heard of the baobhan sith. The bloodsuckers of the Caledonian highlands. That is what I think they are, though I had thought they were always women. Maybe they are the droch-fhola of The Black Stacks in Hibernia. And maybe they are all the same thing. Who can say?”
“That is no child,” said Brulen. “It speaks in the voice of a child, but in this castle, who knows?”
“I didn’t say I was a child, Sir Brulen,” said the voice. “Just a prisoner like you. Bound in cold iron to a dank wall, caught like some clumsy poacher in these accursed woods.”
Balin heard a clink as of chains shifting from somewhere across the chamber.
“How do you know my name?” Brulen demanded, his voice quavering at having been personally addressed by the dungeon’s unseen occupant.
“Who that knows of knights has not heard of Sir Brulen The Sinister? Who is that with you?” the voice countered.
“Sir Balin of the Court of Camelot,” Balin answered, a bit more curious than afraid now.
“Don’t answer, you fool!” Brulen hissed.
“Of the Court of Camelot,” the voice repeated. “No longer of Northumberland, no longer The Savage? And what of the Knight of The Two Swords? Have you cast aside that appellation as well, finally?”
“Who are you?” Balin asked.
“And who is the third knight I hear breathing?”
“Sir Garnysh of The Mount,” said Balin.
Brulen struck Balin’s shoulder with his gauntlet. The sound was like a gong in the dungeon.
The unseen prisoner sucked its teeth.
“Alas that he has come. He shall not like what he finds here.”
“What will she do to us, this Leprous Lady? This Verdoana?” Balin asked.
“Even I don’t know that,” said the child-voice, “but if these chains were unlocked, we could find out together.”
“You mean to say you could free us from here?”
“Almost certainly,” said the child-voice.
“Don’t be tricked, Balin,” Brulen urged. “This thing screams of faerie. Remember our mother’s stories.”
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