by Lee C Conley
The Death Nymph rode sombrely at the head of the group. She didn’t join her comrades in their sport, instead riding hard faced. Arnulf thought, either purposefully ignoring the exchange behind her or genuinely lost in hard distant thoughts, he could not tell.
Arnulf smirked and shook his head. The young warrior made him laugh. Erran was a cocky shit sometimes and funny with it. It was hard not to like the boy. But he was no match for the wit of these renowned vipers. These were not young soft girls who had never left their town; these women had become seasoned weather worn killers. The particular warrior Erran was bandying words with, looked to be one of their best. A weathered woman with tightly woven dark hair, her leather armour looked worn and knowingly modified with patches of mail. She looked like a warrior who knew her business. Arnulf did not doubt she could best the young lad.
Beyond them and the other riders, the remaining warriors and guardsmen trudged in the wake of the horses, tired and drained yet glad to be marching away from the now dreaded passes and their nightmare encounters with the stumbling dead.
Some way behind the loose column, a pair of riders rode as a rear guard. Every now and again glimpses of the other outriders could be seen, galloping between the thickets of gorse and rocky outcrops as they scouted the flanks and the moorlands ahead.
Arnulf sighed and with a grimace turned back to the track ahead.
‘I do not look forward to telling Eadith, the poor woman. It will break her heart,’ said Arnulf.
‘Hagen was good to her. She loved him dearly, a good old maid indeed.’ Fergus sighed, and then said, ‘It’s sad, aye.’
Thinking it best to change the subject, Fergus asked, ‘Still, I bet you look forward to getting back to the Motte.’
‘Aye. It’s been a long few months stuck up there,’ replied Arnulf. ‘I’ve only been back what two, maybe three times, since last winter. Last time was…’
‘Summer feasts,’ Fergus cut in, ‘we drank that whole barrel and Ewolf punched your man Erran for beating him in that arm wrestle. Good night that,’ laughed Fergus.
‘He’s a good lad, Ewolf. He’s grown so fast, becoming a man. Still, he shouldn’t have done that, regardless how funny it was. They will be his men one day, I hope.’
‘I wonder where he gets that from, ha. You’ve got a good boy there, Arnulf. He will do well.’
Arnulf smiled.
‘Like his father,’ added Fergus with a smile at his childhood friend.
‘It will be good to see my girls again,’ said Arnulf.
‘Idony is a sweet little maid, too, full of mischief. I think I’d like a daughter,’ mused Fergus.
‘Well, you know what to do,’ said Arnulf with a sly grin.
Fergus laughed.
‘Aeslin will be glad I’m back. A wife needs her lord…I hope,’ said Arnulf with a grin. ‘I hear she’s done well with the Motte, too, although she’s probably used to it by now though, all those disputes and petitions–pain in the arse as I’m sure you’ve discovered by now–and Ewolf, I’m sure, has helped her in my stead.’
Fergus nodded in agreement.
‘Aye, it will be good to get back to her. I’ve missed her on those cold nights up there,’ said Arnulf.
‘I bet, you old dog,’ laughed Fergus. ‘She’s a pretty one, your Aeslin.’
‘Eyes off, old man, she’s mine,’ laughed Arnulf, ‘Besides she wouldn’t be interested in fat old ginger bastard like you.’
‘Fat!’ exclaimed Fergus. ‘You should speak for yourself.’
They laughed again.
‘Aye, I look forward to getting home. I’ll send someone else up to finish the watch I think, not long now–‘til the snows come anyway–then it’s some other poor buggers turn to command next year’s watch.’
‘Aye, good choice,’ agreed Fergus.
‘I will ride for Eymsford, perhaps tomorrow,’ said Arnulf thoughtfully. ‘I will need to speak to your father. He will need to be told what has happened here,’ said Arnulf. He hesitated then said, ‘I fear he won’t believe me. Would you in his place? If you had not seen what we saw with your own eyes?’
Fergus frowned and scratched his beard, then said, ‘Probably not. He has ever been a serious man…so serious. If you swore on your honour…’
‘Still, he would probably think me a madman.’
‘I will vouch for you, my friend. I was there. Our tale is hard to believe, true, but two of his lords–one his own son and the other, lord of the Watch–both swearing the tale to be true, he would have to believe us, Arnulf.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Arnulf his voice, full of uncertainty. ‘I still fear this could damage us, friend. Damage our reputation, our honour. I will not be mocked or called a liar.’
‘They can ride to the damn pass themselves and the word of the men, our warriors. Too many of us saw it. I will kill any man who calls me a liar,’ shouted Fergus in defiance.
Arnulf grunted, and then turned in his saddle. All eyes were upon them, having heard Fergus’s outburst. He caught Hafgan’s eye behind him, the big warrior nodded. Arnulf knew his warriors would stand by him. The tale would spread. Perhaps, they would all indeed become heroes of legend? Still, his doubts plagued him.
Arnulf looked down to his hound, Fear, as the great grey beast padded along beside him once more. It looked up at him with big yellow eyes framed by a shaggy grey fringe. Arnulf wondered at what lay behind those eyes, what had the beast seen these last days? How had it come to be now padding at his horse’s flanks? He would likely never find out, but the beast seemed content with its new master, content to trail after him as he led it back to the safety of the lowlands. The hound’s attention was suddenly drawn to something in front of them.
Arnulf scanned the land ahead. A thin band of forest could be seen in the distance. They neared the edge of the moors. He caught sight of a distant horseman thundering along the track towards them. As the rider drew closer it looked to be one of their outriders. The woman, her mail glinting beneath her cloak, rode up and reined in.
‘Lord.’
‘What is it?’ asked Fergus, startled by her apparent urgency.
‘Smoke, lord. Somewhere is burning.’
‘Where?’
She hesitated, her eyes flicked to Arnulf.
‘I think it’s coming from Ravenshold way, lord.’
Arnulf gasped and kicked his horse forward.
Fergus called after him, but Arnulf spurred his horse into a gallop.
His heart was in his stomach as he rode frantically towards the trees, searching for the smear of smoke on the horizon. He could hear the thunder of hooves pursuing him. With a glance over his shoulder, he saw Hafgan, Fergus, and several others riding hard to catch up. The hound, Fear, chased him also, hurtling through the undergrowth in his wake.
He plunged into the woodlands that marked the edge of the moors. His horse expertly cantering through the undergrowth, avoiding roots and branches as it picked its path through the trees. Arnulf made for a rise in the woods ahead, knowing it marked the ridge that could be seen from the trail rising over the trees.
He reined in upon the ridge and beheld the wide vista of wooded landscape which lay before him. He could see for leagues over the tree tops, he could see the rise and fall of the wooded valleys and dales, the surrounding hills shadowed against the horizon. And to the southeast, a dark plume of inky smoke that stained the grey skies.
‘No, it can’t be,’ muttered Arnulf.
There was the odd farmstead in that direction but it did indeed appear to be coming from the Motte, from Ravenshold, his home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ashes and Embers
The ancient hill fort, which folk now called the Motte, sat high over the settlement below and commanded the sky line above the large town of Ravenshold. The hill upon which it sat thrust up unnaturally from the floor of a stony valley. The town sprawled at its feet, occupying the remainder of the valley’s floor. Animal pens and tilled allotments were scatter
ed across the town, the people had fitted them here and there in between the round buildings with their low piled stone walls and thatched roofs.
The Motte appeared over the crest of the last valley which obscured the view. Arnulf’s heart sank as laid eyes on his home.
The old fort had once stood as only decayed banks of earth and ditches atop the hill for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, since long before the people of Arnar had made this land their home. The fort had been improved since the old times, the old ditches had been deepened and the earth banks had been raised and built upon. A formidable palisade now enclosed the hills’ summit, built upon those ancient earthworks. This place had kept men safe, a refuge and a fortress for millennia past.
Huge plumes of black smoke rose from behind the Motte’s palisade. The houses of the town seemed intact, although several seemed to smoke ominously. What had happened here?
Tears welled up in his eyes as he kicked his horse into a gallop, racked with panic.
‘Wait, Arnulf,’ called Hafgan’s voice from behind. ‘If we have been raided, the enemy could still be close. We should wait for the others.’
Arnulf took no heed of his chief warriors warning and rode off. He could see the houses below had not been razed. This was no raid, a freak fire perhaps? But what of his hall? What of the Motte?
His thoughts were of the faces of his wife and daughter, of his son, as he rode to find answers, praying to the gods they were safe behind the high palisade.
Arnulf’s ancestors had built the old hall within and the reinforced the old hill fort’s defences. His fathers had managed to keep it for generations, since the wars of forging it had never fallen or changed hands. It had become known as Ravens Motte, due to the town of Ravenshold nestled beneath it. Others called it the old name Anvil Motte.
He had been told as a lad, it was the anvil upon which men were hammered and armies smashed, he was told it was un-takeable and that the gods had given its keeping to his bloodline. Arnulf, however, noticed the name may have been also as likely to do with the many smiths that populated the village below. Arnulf simply always called it the Motte, as his father did.
Ravenshold was a mining town. The mines thereabout brought up iron, copper and tin. It had always been an important place, a village of miners and smiths, of forging and delving. The town’s market and traders supplied metalwork to much of the border lands. An important site guarded over by an important and well-placed fort. The great fort guarding over the northwest of the border region. Chieftains of old had no doubt held their seat here and now Arnulf was lord of these lands.
He could see no flames rising above the palisade on the hill, just portentous thick clouds of billowing black smoke. The land about seemed deserted, no men working the fields. The buildings around the outlying mine heads seemed devoid of movement as he passed. Where had they all gone?
As he rode amongst the squat round thatched houses, followed by the others, there was no ringing of anvils, no clamour of street traders, the avenues leading to the foot of the Motte were near deserted. Livestock had broken free and roamed around aimlessly. Arnulf watched a pig rooting through the mire of churned damp earth as he rode past. Fowl strutted about, bobbing their heads, but fled in a wild panic as the horses approached. The hound chased them, snapping at them as they flapped away. Here and there the wet mud was stained with slick black pools of blood. Tools and possessions lay discarded in the street. A handful of townfolk were emerging from their hiding places, spooked by the arrival of the horsemen.
‘You there,’ shouted Arnulf at a man skulking at the side of the street, ‘what has happened here?’
Seeing his lord, the man ran over and fell to his knees. ‘Oh, Lord Arnulf, you have returned,’ he babbled. ‘It’s too late, too late.’ He began weeping.
‘What happened, man?’ demanded Arnulf.
Hafgan reined in beside him. ‘It’s Hale, lord, one of the smithies.’
Hafgan addressed the weeping blacksmith, ‘Hale, you’re safe now. Tell us, what has happened? Were we attacked?’
‘Aye, Haf,’ managed the man. ‘Lord,’ he then said with a nod to Arnulf. ‘Demons, the dead…’
The man was interrupted by the arrival of armed men. Half a dozen men cautiously emerged into the muddy street, all equipped and dressed for war, their shields raised at the ready. They wore mail and leathers, some wrapped in furs. Most had helmets and they carried long spears. Upon their shields they bore Arnulf’s own red axe. These were his own warriors. The man in the lead, Arnulf recognised instantly. His castellan.
The castellan wore fine armour, a mail coat trimmed with stamped leather. His helmet had cheek guards and was engraved with matching designs to his leather trim. His scabbard was adorned with steel plates and wrapped in red ribbon.
‘Arnulf,’ he said not quite believing his eyes, ‘You have come. We sent a rider.’
Arnulf looked at Hafgan puzzled. The big warrior shook his head.
‘We passed no rider,’ said Fergus from his horse. He and the other riders had now reined in behind Arnulf and sat looking about at the dishevelled street, Erran amongst them, his face shocked.
‘What has happened?’ demanded Arnulf.
The castellan was named Engle, a good man. He generally assisted in the day to day governing of Ravenshold and the Motte. Not a great warrior, but a man of letters with a good mind for logistics. Arnulf was surprised to see him dressed for war and leading his men. He looked strange in the clearly ceremonial armour.
‘We were attacked, lord,’ replied Engle, eyeing Fear nervously.
‘And…who did this?’ demanded Arnulf, his anger flaring.
Engle hesitated.
‘Folk are saying say they were demons, Arnulf. I think they were. They wore the skin of our own kin. They looked like people we knew, but they were not. They killed our own. The slaughter had already begun before anyone realised what was happening.’ He paused, ‘Folk ran to the Motte, they sheltered in your hall. But…’
‘What?’ demanded Arnulf, his voice wavering.
‘Some of them got past the guards. They looked like kin, they just let them in with the others, and before we knew it, they had killed the men inside and the high gates were barred.
‘We were holding the lower gate. We couldn’t get in. We don’t know what happened up in there, lord. They must have killed the guards, and then they fired the hall, with the doors barred, or maybe they locked themselves in. I don’t know.
‘So many were trapped inside, women, the young ‘uns… I am sorry Arnulf, we failed you. We failed them all.’
He began to weep.
‘No,’ muttered Arnulf, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘They were like beasts. They tore people to pieces like animals,’ continued Engle. ‘And the madness…it spread.
‘And that’s not all, lord. Then…please believe me, Arnulf, I have men who will swear to it. The dead began to walk.’
Hafgan gasped and looked sharply at Arnulf. But his lord was silent. He could not comprehend what he was hearing.
‘Someone trapped some of them in a barn and set it alight,’ said Engle as he pointed at a smoking building. ‘There were people in there with them. We heard them screaming.’
Arnulf cut in, ‘Where is Aeslin? Where is my wife, my daughter?’
Engle looked gravely at the floor, not meeting Arnulf’s eye. He sobbed, and then said, ‘I’m so sorry, Arnulf… They were… They were all in the hall.’
Arnulf sank to his knees and cried out in despair. The long forlorn cry broke the silence of the deserted town.
The men were silent and sombre-faced.
Arnulf looked up, tears streamed down his cheeks.
‘Where is Ewolf, does he live?’
‘He does, lord. He holds the palisade and the Motte now,’ replied Engle, his voice grave. ‘He tried to cut through the gate with axes. We eventually did, but he couldn’t save them. None could get near. The heat, it was too great. None were left a
live, everyone was dead or changed. We cleared the Motte and searched but no one survived the flames in the hall, lord. I’m sorry. We lost so many.’
Arnulf knelt on the floor, grief stricken.
The castellan turned to Hafgan and said, ‘Please believe me, Haf. The dead walked, I swear it.’
‘We believe you, Engle.’ Hafgan sighed. ‘We have already seen them. We were attacked in the passes. It is true, the dead are walking. The gods have sent a great evil upon us.’
Hafgan placed his hand on the lord’s shoulder. Arnulf rose to his feet.
‘We must go up there, now,’ said Arnulf looking up at the smoke pluming out from the Motte. He pushed his way past and made his way urgently uphill.
Arnulf gestured for Engle and his men to follow after.
‘More warriors are coming, the rest of the men are on foot behind us,’ said Hafgan to the castellan as Arnulf stalked off uphill. ‘They will not be far behind. Lord Fergus and his warriors rode with us, but many are still walking. We rode ahead of the rest. Lord Arnulf would not wait once we sighted the smoke.’
Engle nodded.
‘Now, tell me all that happened,’ asked Hafgan, quietly nodding at the smoke rising from the fort above.
‘We held a shield wall at the lower gate,’ said Engle, ‘and let our folk through. But it spread. Some changed quickly, others slowly. The wounded…they changed. Families and friends turning on each other, biting, clawing…killing. There has been talk of folk eating people, lord.
‘They threw themselves at us, and many died on our spears. They were our kin. I see now they were cursed, they had become demons themselves.’
Hafgan nodded gravely.
Engle went on, ‘But we held the low gate and then…the dead rose. The demons scattered. We barred the low gate to stop the dead getting in, folk sheltered on the slopes of the Motte through the night. Thank the gods for the lower palisade. Many more would have died without it.