by Martin Ash
I went to the window and looked out, startled for a moment by the leathery beat of wings and a dark, moving form as a raven took off from a gutter close alongside. There was no sign of the beast that had just exited. But I noticed something strange. The entire castle was dimly visible, the blackness of night held at bay by an unnatural, gloomy green light. I’d thought it glowed only in my chamber, but now it seemed to imbue the very stones and air of Ravenscrag.
I could see figures running across the parade-ground below, willy-nilly, some coming out of the castle wing, others rushing towards it. They were dim and fuzzy in the eerie light. Some appeared to be fighting. And now I heard more clearly their shouts and screams, and that other sound, the dreadful, unearthly howling that came from deep within the bowels of the castle.
With goose-pimples crawling over my flesh I ran from my chamber. The corridor below was deserted, but illuminated like all else by that ghastly viridescence. I rounded a corner to confront a terrible sight. A Ravenscrag guard, screaming in pain and terror, was under attack by a creature whose like I had never seen. The thing, a savage, flapping monster, clung to his face with ferocious talons, stabbing and pecking with a thick, keratinous beak.
I reached for sword and dagger, only to remember that I had neither. Nor was I wearing my belt. In a moment of helplessness I watched the soldier reel back against the wall, blood streaming from his face and head, clawing futilely at his monstrous assailant. Then I spied his bloodstained sword lying on the floor a little way along the passage.
I ran past, grabbed the sword and returned, hacking at the winged beast. My first stroke severed a wing. The creature let out a shrill shriek and turned with huge glaring eyes to me. Releasing its victim it sprang as if to attack, but with only a single wing it flapped clumsily to the ground.
I lunged forward, striking with the sword, and ended its life. As the blood drained from its body I stared in astonishment, for the creature’s form was altering. I found myself gazing at the dismembered corpse of a raven.
Was I still dreaming?
The soldier’s plight prevented me from further consideration of the phenomenon. He was blinded, his head and face horribly gored, his leather jerkin torn and drenched in his blood. I took his arm and helped him along the corridor. A distraught servant came from a doorway ahead of us. I summoned him. ‘Take this man to Dr Markin, immediately.’
I strode on without waiting for a reply. I was making for the cellar, dreading what I might find. But on the next level I was brought up short by another unexpected encounter.
From a side passage some yards ahead of me came Lady Sheerquine. She turned into the corridor and walked towards me, but as she approached I had the distinct impression that she had not seen me, though I made no attempt to conceal myself. She wore a long grey shift, her copper, grey-streaked hair fell freely about her shoulders. In her hands, clutched to her bosom, she held a pale blue pillow. She was exactly as I’d seen her in my dream!
Sheerquine’s movements were stiff and unnatural, as though she was afflicted with a rigor of the limbs. As she came closer I saw her expression, and was shocked. Her jaws were tightly clenched and her lips stretched tautly back in a pained grimace, bringing to my mind the image of a ewe gripped by lockjaw. The skin of her cheeks was deeply seamed, and her eyes, wide, were fixed straight ahead and glared with a shocking intensity.
She moved straight past me, looking neither to right nor left. Her upper torso was inclined slightly backwards; her breath seethed between her clenched teeth. I had the impression that something impelled her forward against her will, like an invisible hand pushing with a strength she could not counter, though her expression and bearing spoke of her striving to. I caught the scent of winter-geranium in the air.
Mesmerized, I followed. I was cautious, mindful of the dream. I half-expected that Lord Flarefist would materialize out of nowhere, sword aloft, and launch himself at me. Lady Sheerquine mounted the stairs leading to the family apartments. She passed the door to her rooms without faltering in her step, and proceeded on. She walked by Hectal’s closed door, and Moonblood’s, and eventually was outside the nursery. Here she stopped. The nursery door was part open. The sentry was sprawled upon the floor, unmoving.
Slowly, stiffly, still as if moving in terrible conflict with herself, Sheerquine entered. I moved quickly to the sentry and felt his pulse. It beat, faintly. His body was locked in spasm and his face bore an expression of white-eyed horror. I passed my hand before his eyes; he made no movement. He seemed to be held in some kind of catatonic trance.
I left him and went to the nursery door. Sheerquine was within, standing rigid before the crib. Yes, the crib stood there in its original position, charred and blackened and ruined by flame. Sheerquine, clutching the pillow, slowly straightened her arms. She began to raise them. Her back arched, her face turned away from the crib, upwards as if straining against something too terrible to confront. Her arms, her entire body, shook.
Suddenly she gave a great cry. It seemed to come from somewhere deep within her tortured self, uttered with all the redoubtable inner strength she could summon. ‘Nnnnnggghhh-ggguuhhh!’
The spell was broken. Sheerquine was propelled backwards, arms asplay, with a violent snapping motion. She was hurled across the room like a rag doll. She collided with the wall and sank limply to the floor, her breath leaving her lungs in a long gasping sigh.
I rushed across and knelt beside her. Her face was obscured by her wealth of copper hair. I brushed it aside and she gave a faint groan. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened; the green eyes rolled, then gradually came to focus. She stared at me uncomprehendingly, frowning, then at the room, and back to me again. Her body stiffened, her look turning to one of alarm. With uncharacteristic fervour she gripped my arm. ‘What did you see?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing? You’re sure?’
‘Nothing that meant anything. You seemed entranced, motivated against your will. You stood before the crib, there, then fell. That’s all.’
Sheerquine stared at me with a searching look for long seconds, then released her grip. ‘I don’t know what happened.’
‘Nor I, but it’s still happening, here in the castle.’
She was regaining her self-control. ‘What are you doing here, Master Dinbig?’
‘I was on my way to the cellar to investigate the source of this dreadful noise. Then I saw you in the corridor.’
Lady Sheerquine climbed to her feet and brushed herself down.
‘Do you require assistance?’ I asked.
‘No, thank you. I am perfectly capable.’ She strode straight-backed from the room.
I made to follow, but my attention was caught by something curious. The pillow that Sheerquine had carried lay upon the floor not far from the door. A dark blot seemed to have formed upon it. I stooped beside it and touched it with one forefinger. The blot was wet, and warm, and in the weird green light it seemed the colour of blood.
~
Sheerquine had gone. I hurried down the corridor, gripping the hilt of the sword I’d taken from the guard, moving downwards towards the source of that hideous wailing. Through a window I glimpsed the parade-ground. Castle folk were fleeing in panic, in their midst were strange creatures similar to the one I’d slain upstairs and the thing that had crawled out of the mirror.
I hurried on, past the kitchens and sculleries, turned towards the passage that took me down to the cellars. Here another strange sight met my eyes. From the opposite direction came Lord Flarefist. He floated above the ground, his head almost grazing the ceiling, his hands and feet slowly flailing like a man drowning in oil. His old face was ghastly in the green light, eyes bulging and mouth agape in an expression of blanched bewilderment.
‘Help me, Disbin!’ he croaked as he was carried past me into the cellar passage. ‘Get me down! Get me down!’
I sensed that I could do nothing. Whatever malign, alien force held sway here at this moment was far more powerful t
han anything I might conjure. And I had the beginnings of a notion that some perverse purpose lay behind what I was witnessing. Lady Sheerquine had been impelled to act in a particular manner, though its meaning was beyond my comprehension. Now Flarefist seemed obliged to play out another scene.
He was borne along the passage, into the shorter corridor that led to the cellar where the monster was entombed. Eight guards stood or knelt in consternation before the barricaded door. Four had crossbows aimed, the others wielded swords or spears. A terrific thumping came from behind the laden sacks, and that awful wailing of a vengeful, maddened beast cut through the air.
With a thin, drawn-out moan Flarefist was pushed forwards, twisting in the air, without volition of his own. Now he was suspended, spread-eagled on the sandbags, looking out so that his terrified eyes stared into the faces of his own men, their weapons aimed at him.
‘No! No! No-oooo!’ moaned the old Lord of Ravenscrag. He tossed his head from side to side. His thin body shuddered with the impetus of the blows that hammered against the sacks from beyond the door. I stood breathless, wondering at the strength of a creature that could summon such force.
The sergeant-of-the-guard barked an urgent order. ‘Put aside your weapons!’
The crossbows were lowered. The soldiers shared fearful glances. Slowly, limply, Lord Flarefist began to sink towards the cellar floor. His legs buckled as his feet touched the earth, and he continued on down, coming to rest at last upon trembling hands and knees. His head was raised towards us, his face etched with shock, confusion and fear.
Then something changed. I wasn’t sure at first what it was. I feared for a moment that I was now under a magical influence, for my vision seemed to be impaired. Then I realized that the green light was dispersing. At the same time the beast in the cellar became silent. The screams from above, which had been faintly audible, faded then ceased.
The only illumination was that cast by the torches in the wall-sconces. The guards glanced around them fearfully, like me taking time to accept this reversion to normality.
Lord Flarefist was still upon his hands and knees. As I watched, his head tipped forward heavily. His knees and elbows folded and he crumpled onto the floor. From his lips there came one last, anguished sound, in a faint voice that I hardly recognized as his own: ‘Mooon-bloood!’
Chapter Twenty-One
I would have said that I did not sleep at all that night, yet at some point I opened my eyes to find myself stretched upon my bed, bright sunlight streaming through the window. I would have said that everything had been a nightmare, a phantasm, but I was soon to learn otherwise.
I lay quietly for a while, going over the events of the night, endeavouring to identify and separate the components of my earlier dream from the subsequent carnage. I recalled how, in the dream, Moonblood had handed me the scroll containing Molgane’s bane, how the words stood out vividely and forcefully. When I read them everything became clear, and at the time I was certain they’d engraved themselves indelibly upon my memory.
But now barely more than scraps remained, and they were vague and elusive.
…the blood of the moon shall be shed once more… the corruption is complete… darkmoon transforms, merges with the Shadownight… then shall my shadow be cast… through the power of the woman’s sin and wound… how Molgane shall know revenge!
These words I recalled, but was that recall reliable? Were the words even relevant, or simply the random, chaotic assemblages of dream?
I rose groggily from my bed, my mind leaden and dense. Standing by the window I was dazzled by the brightness. The morning was near still, and already the heat was stifling. My skin was sore, though the blisters had not worsened. I mentally invoked another healing rapture. The sun’s heat was uncomfortable on my face and arms and I was about to turn away when something caught my gaze.
I shaded my eyes with one hand to focus more clearly out over the courtyards and the parade-ground and castle ramparts. There was no mistaking what I saw. My blood ran cold.
My first response was one of sheer, disbelieving horror, my first instinct to rush headlong from my room. Then reason took charge. What was done was done and could not be unmade; personal feelings were of no consequence. It only remained to confirm the identities of the cadavers that hung from the pair of gibbets that had been hastily erected on the castle wall.
I quickly donned a light tunic and went out, downstairs. The corridors were deserted, but here and there I came upon pools or smears of blood, shed by those who had been slain or wounded in the previous night’s carnage. The corpses had been removed, and I had no idea how many had perished.
Of the bodies of the hideous creatures that had invaded the castle there was no sign, but as I crossed the parade-ground I came upon the mangled, bloody remains of a raven. Then another. And I recalled, with a chill turning of the stomach, how the monster I had slain last night had, in death, been transformed into a raven.
My head a welter of thoughts, I paced on towards the gatehouse. The two gibbets came into view from behind a storehouse roof, above me and to my left. Stark against the sky, they were still too far distant for me to identify the corpses.
I turned to follow the line of the wall, walking quickly in its shadow until I reached a wooden stairway which took me up onto the parapet. The gibbets had been erected where the parapet broadened into a platform, close before a tower at an angle of the wall. A winch and pulley were set here, originally for hauling heavy materials up in the event of assault or siege. The gibbets were affixed to the battlements by dint of heavy iron brackets, which had presumably performed this function on previous occasions.
The corpses were suspended out beyond the battlements, high above the stinking moat and dense green scrub below.
The faintest breeze wafted in from the heights. The two corpses rotated lazily, their ropes giving off a barely audible creaking. A little way off three ravens strutted brazenly back and forth, feathers reflecting metallic green and purple in the sunlight, gleaming round eyes coveting the sight. I eyed them uncomfortably for a moment, then my gaze was drawn back to the two bodies suspended before me.
I stared, moved virtually to tears. Half-consciously I took note of the striking pallor of Irnbold’s flesh. He was devoid of all his former ostentation, garbed in a modest, wheat-coloured under-tunic, stained with saliva on the breast, and dark leather sandals. His spindly limbs looked excessively thin; his bald head was uncovered, exposing his shame.
Alongside him old Elmag seemed tiny and almost doll-like. As with Irnbold, her eyes bulged horribly and her tongue protruded, purple and engorged between her gappy teeth. Her face showed livid bruises which, in death, seemed almost indented into the old flesh.
My ears pricked at the soft slap of a footfall behind me. I turned to see Darean Monsard. He grinned, appraising me, thumbs hooked into his belt, a stem of grass between his teeth. I felt a quiver of unease: Did he suspect my liaison with his wife? But though Monsard’s eyes tested and taunted, there was no wrath, no burning rancour which would surely have been evident had he any inkling of the truth. And I recognized that so great was his arrogance, so pronounced his vanity, as to prevent him from even entertaining the notion of his wife being seriously attracted to any man but him. I disliked him the more for it. I turned back.
‘Who is responsible for this?’ I seethed between my teeth.
‘Don’t fret, Master Dinbig. They won’t be up there for long. In this heat they’ll soon start to stink, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?’
I faced him, struggling to contain my fury. ‘Did you do it?’
‘I merely carried out my orders.’
‘Whose orders?’
‘His lordship’s.’
‘Flarefist? He was taken unconscious to his bed. He was in no condition to order anyone to do anything.’
‘He woke in the night and summoned me to him,’ said Monsard, taking pleasure in my outrage. ‘“Hang ‘em,” his lordship ordered. “On the wal
ls where everyone will see.” “Who do you mean, my lord?” I asked. “The traitors. The deceivers. They’re the ones. They did this tonight. Do not delay, Captain. Do it immediately.” That’s what he said.’ Monsard eyed me disingenuously. ‘His lordship was in a state, could barely contain himself even though he hardly had the strength to sit up. I wasn’t clear who he meant, so I asked him again. “Irnbold!” he shouted, shaking his fist and almost tumbling out of bed. “Irnbold and the witch! They’ve betrayed me and they’ll swing for it. Hang ‘em! Hang ‘em now! Do it!”’
Monsard took the stem from between his teeth and smiled. ‘So I did, though in Irnbold’s case it wasn’t really necessary. He’d been considerate enough to save me the trouble.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When we got to his rooms he was already dead. Impaled himself on a knife. Made quite a mess of his divan. Still, the lordship’s orders were to hang him to set an example, so I did. I thought he’d be good to keep the old girl company, too. Didn’t want her to get lonely up there on her own. I’m not without a heart.’
I almost struck him, but somehow controlled myself. I stood impotently, quivering, rooted to the spot.
‘Shows he was guilty, though, doesn’t it?’
‘It shows nothing, Captain Monsard, except that he was terrified out of his wits. You’re a fool if you believe otherwise.’
He pulled a pained face. ‘Just doing what I was told, Master Dinbig.’
‘And no doubt it grieved you to do it.’
‘Most sorely. But it’s done now, isn’t it.’
‘For these two, certainly; may Moban take their souls. But for Ravenscrag… do you really think so?’
He shrugged. ‘These two are gone, aren’t they?’
‘And what if they were not behind what’s happening here, and in particular what happened last night?’
‘Darkmoon’s past, Master Dinbig. That’s when they were most powerful. Everyone says so. Whatever the curse is upon Ravenscrag, it’s only powerful at darkmoon. That thing in the cellar is quiet now. We’ve seen the worst.’