by Lee C Conley
‘The hall burned through the night. By the dawn, the remaining demons seemed to have long fled or hidden, only the dead remained, they crowded the gates trying to get in. We used spears from the fighting platforms at the gates to bring them down.’ He held up his hands helplessly. ‘They were already dead. How could they walk again?’
Hafgan heard a strange thud. He turned to see where it came from. The smith named Hale had returned to salvaging what he could from a nearby house, it wasn’t his house either noted Hafgan. There was blood on the floor mingling with the wet mud beside the darkened doorway. Hale had made a pile of possessions on the floor near the door and scurried back inside to gather what he could of use.
Fergus rode up from behind and passed them to catch up with Arnulf. He dismounted beside his old friend. He spoke to him, seemingly trying to offer some consolation. Arnulf gave a sharp reply and continued up the hill.
Hafgan and Engle approached Fergus. The fire haired lord stood with his hands raised and shrugged as they approached.
There was another loud thud, Hafgan’s eyes flicked to the smithy. Both he and Engle obviously heard it as they both turned searching for its source. Hafgan seemed sure now, it was not Hale the smith as he first thought. He watched the smith as he now turned and approached a nearby house. The nearby horses became uneasy, tossing their heads pulling their reins. Their riders suddenly fought for control of the spooked beasts.
‘Have these houses been searched?’ the big warrior asked Engle urgently.
‘I am not sure, Haf. As I say, I did not come out this morning.’
Hafgan turned back to the smith just as he tried the door.
‘No,’ cried Hafgan suddenly, running to stop the smith, but it was too late. Hale opened the door and a figure burst out upon him.
The dead man mauled the screaming smith as he thrashed in the mud. Hafgan skidded to a halt in the wet mud of the street and stood momentarily shocked to a standstill watching the gruesome scene unfold.
Arnulf calmly strode back towards his horse. The horse shied away and seemed to want to rear up but changed its mind, its eyes frantic and panicked. Arnulf, paying the distressed creature no heed, unslung his axe from his horse’s saddle and turned.
He strode towards the dead man. All except himself, seemed to Arnulf to be frozen and not moving, as if petrified to stone. All stood with their eyes fixed upon the blood drenched wreck of the smith. The dead man stooped above, with its head buried into the smith’s torn open abdomen.
Arnulf halted over the creature, his axe hanging down at his side in one hand. It snapped its head up and snarled at the mailed warrior-lord towering over it. The dead man shot out a surprisingly quick arm to grasp at Arnulf’s leg.
With a primal roar, Arnulf swung the axe up over his head, and down in a savage blow to check the dead man’s snarling maw. The axe crunched through bone, it drove deep into the dead man’s shoulder and tore into its chest. Another swing to the neck parted its head from its shoulders, sending the head spinning away into the muddy street.
The axe rose and fell again, and again. A spray of blood leapt from the scything axe. Arnulf’s roar intensified with each blow, a rage filled him. Arnulf chopped and hacked with the axe, screaming defiance until raw emotion began to show through in his cry.
The bodies lay in ruin, savaged by the big axe, crushed and mingled into a single mass of pulped and sundered flesh. The two corpses were difficult to tell apart.
The severed head of the dead man suddenly snarled up at Arnulf, this mouth snapping at him, still somehow alive. Arnulf brought the axe down and cleaved the terrible thing in two.
Arnulf slowed. He began to sob with each laboured blow.
‘Why?’ screamed Arnulf as he struck another blow. ‘Why is this happening to us?’ he roared. The axe descended once more and lifted in a spray of crimson. He broke down, sobbing and cursing, occasionally striking another half-hearted, squelching blow into the remains at his feet.
A hand touched his shoulder.
‘Lord.’
Arnulf ceased his onslaught.
‘Arnulf, it is…gone,’ spoke Hafgan’s voice from behind.
‘Are all the houses cleared, have they been checked?’ asked Hafgan, turning back to the castellan.
‘Aye, I think so, well most. There has been the odd dead one lurking. The changed ones have fled. Some have been found and most of those were cornered and killed. Ewolf led some men out earlier, to check for any others lurking in the town and return them to Old Night.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I think so, Haf, but I wasn’t with them so I can't be sure.’
‘We must destroy all of the dead if any remain. And any who have been bitten or wounded, chain them. They could be dangerous.’
Engle nodded gravely.
‘Aye, some of our wounded turned on us,’ explained Engle, ‘they became changed and cursed. The madness seemed to spread.’ He paused thoughtfully, then said, ‘Yet, some have been wounded and appear to still be OK.’
‘What of the wounded men we sent back?’ demanded Hafgan. ‘Would have been the same day young Erran returned to bring more men to the passes.’
‘Aye, they returned. We thought them crazy, laughed at their tale. Then…then, we saw for ourselves, saw the dead. They were in the hall…’
Engle trailed off as he realised.
‘By the gods, they were in the hall! Lady Aeslin was up there. They went to her as soon as they got here. They were already in there with them all. I did not know at the time. Some of your guardsmen claimed they had been bitten… And we let them up there. I remember, we had to lock up Marsden’s boy after he got back. He fell into a rage. By the gods, I didn’t know. All hell began breaking loose when the gate guards were attacked. It all just seemed to be happening at the same time.’
‘Was it our wounded men who attacked?’ asked Hafgan.
‘No, no, Haf. Word is, the demons attacked the west guard house, and then just started attacking folk in the streets. I hadn’t thought about the wounded being up there in the hall. Was it a trick? Were they with the others all along? What is happening, Haf?’
‘I don’t know, Engle. I wish I knew.’
‘What happened then? Tell me, is there anything else?’ asked Hafgan sternly.
‘Then, when it seemed clear, Ewolf led men out to check the village. That was this morning, then you arrived.’
Hafgan nodded. He looked over at Arnulf. His lord had risen to his feet but stared into the mangled ruin of the smith and the dead man. He must show strength in front of his people, Fergus had no doubt reminded him of this, but still, he was silent, visibly distraught.
‘We’re going up to the hall,’ said Arnulf suddenly. His face splattered with blood, he held an almost vacant expression. Deep behind his lord’s eyes Hafgan saw a terrible despair, and something else, a cold rage which made the big warrior apprehensive, a look he had not seen before. Hafgan simply nodded to his lord, not knowing how to reply.
Engle hurried over. ‘Are you sure, Arnulf?’
Arnulf threw him a withering look.
‘We are still searching for the bodies,’ continued Engle. ‘It’s grim, lord.’
‘Take me to my damn hall, and where is Ewolf?’ demanded Arnulf harshly, his voice breaking, knowing well what lay up there in wait for him.
Lord Arnulf mounted his horse and cast a long gaze uphill to the palisade of the Motte, the smoke clouds rising from beyond its stout walls. He then kicked his horse forward.
The hound he had named Fear padded beside his new master. Lord Fergus threw a forlorn glance at Hafgan as he rode past him to follow Arnulf, riding to catch up with his old friend and no doubt to offer what comfort and counsel he could. Hafgan led his horse and walked beside Engle as they followed the two riders up to the Motte.
Engle lead his small group of warriors back to the safety of the gates. The warriors peered fearfully into the shadows for any sign of a lingering foe. They moved carefull
y and alert but still swiftly, with their shields raised up and ready.
The lead riders approached the lower gates of the Motte’s palisade. There were two palisades enclosing the Motte, one palisade ringing the base of the Motte, entered through the low gate, the other at its summit, entered by the high gate. The high palisade enclosed Arnulf’s hall and the other buildings of the fort behind its high wooden ramparts.
Once inside the safety of the lower gate, they saw the townsfolk of Ravenshold huddled together fearfully on the slopes of the old hill fort. Villagers crowded around the returning warriors. Arnulf scanned their tired faces as he rode past, some wore a look of relief in their eyes, but few cheered. Forlorn faces also stood staring amongst the crowd, their expressions, filled with loss, their loved ones slain or devoured in the flames of the hall above. Arnulf’s gaze lingered on those sad, lost faces as he rode past. Others came close reaching out to him, seeking the protective presence of their returned lord. Folk were trying to talk and shout out to him. Arnulf caught snatches of babbling voices but the words faded away from him, he felt wrapped in a veil of grief. He kicked his horse towards the high gate.
Two of Arnulf’s warriors stood sentry at the ruined gate, their shields red with Arnulf’s axe painted in black upon them. Men stood watching from the palisades fighting platform, looking down from the ramparts upon on the horsemen who were ascending the track to the high gate. The damage to the gate was evident. Arnulf could plainly see where they had chopped a gaping hole through with felling axes.
Arnulf caught a glimpse of his hall, and then with his eyes fixed upon the smoking, charred ruin of his home, he kicked his horse past the sentries and through the gate.
The hall had been reduced to a pile of blackened timber; the nearby buildings were scorched and blackened. The adjoining buildings that made up the rear quarters of the hall had caught also and had mostly burned to the floor.
Yet, the stables stood untouched beside the gates, as did a handfull of minor dwellings clustered across the courtyard, those given to his more important people and warriors. The master smith’s forge still stood intact, not far from the gates and indeed many of the buildings and storerooms built up against the palisade seemed intact if not slightly blackened.
Thick plumes of dark smoke rose from the wreckage of the hall’s frame, some of the timber still blooming with embers. The heat could still be felt emanating from the ruins, but it was becoming bearable. Ash smeared servants picked amongst the cooler areas, searching through the wreckage for the remains of the poor souls who had been trapped inside.
Arnulf slid down from his horse and approached. Wading in amongst the ashes, he stared down at withered and burnt bones. He saw bodies, blackened and withered, shrunken to the size of mere children by the inferno’s fury. He approached what was once the centre of his hall, imagining it as it had been. He came to the place where he judged his seat upon the dais would have been. At his feet, two shrivelled forms huddled together. One, much smaller than the other, that of a child, still clutched in the blackened withered arms of the larger figure. It was impossible to recognise the remains, but he knew. Arnulf was overcome. He knew he had found them. He gently knelt and tried to lift the pair.
‘Aeslin,’ he sobbed gently.
The figures crumbled. Falling to ash and bones, the pair fell from his arms and tumbled to the floor. Arnulf placed his cloak down and began piling on the bones and ashes. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he held the small bones of the child.
He wept.
Arnulf covered the charred bones with the remainder of his cloak and carried it slowly out of the wreckage.
Fergus strode over and placed a comforting hand upon his old friend’s shoulder.
‘I…I am sorry, Arnulf,’ said Fergus quietly with a gesture towards the wrapped cloak on the floor. He then sighed heavily and stared off into the smouldering embers. ‘This is a terrible thing,’ concluded Fergus.
Arnulf sighed, and then said, ‘I need to think…to take all this in. I cannot…’ he fell silent and stared into the wrapped cloak clutched to his chest.
‘Father,’ called a voice.
Arnulf turned, Ewolf appeared through the gate. He hurried to join his father. He wore his mail but had no helmet. Ewolf looked at his father, but something he saw in his eyes brought him to a halt.
He had the same brown hair as Arnulf, wearing it long past his shoulders. He looked so much like his mother. Arnulf was struck by how old he looked, a man now. Arnulf fought back his sorrow as his gaze fixed on his son, his only family now.
Ewolf stared, his eyes wide with grief, at the bundle of fur his father carried. Arnulf placed the bundle carefully on the floor.
‘I am sorry, Father…we tried,’ cried Ewolf, ‘we tried…’ Ewolf fell silent unable to find the words.
‘Son,’ Arnulf exclaimed emotionally and embraced his boy fiercely.
Arnulf held his son and looked at him for a long moment.
‘This will be avenged, I swear it,’ declared Arnulf. ‘I swear it.’
He turned to Engle. ‘I cannot think,’ gasped Arnulf, releasing his son. Visibly forcing back a breaking wave of anguish, he fought to maintain his composure, but his eyes betrayed his leaking sorrow.
‘I must do this first. I will put them to rest and then…’ Arnulf's desperate eyes twisted any man’s heart who met them. His men stood sombre, unable to hold his gaze. He turned to Ewolf. ‘Come son.’ He clutched the ashen bundle tight into his chest and slowly carried it away.
‘Shall I send for the priests?’ ventured Engle.
‘No,’ replied Arnulf without turning. ‘We must do this now. Leave us a short while.’
‘Haf, Engle, begin bringing them out…’ said Arnulf with a gesture to the hall. ‘Start having the bodies cleared. We will not be long, but I must do this first.’
Hafgan nodded.
Ewolf joined his father and placed a hand on his back.
The hound growled. Arnulf turned to the beast. ‘Fear, what is it?’
‘It does not seem to like me,’ said Ewolf nervously.
‘He’s alright,’ said Arnulf. The pair made to leave.
Fear barked at the young warrior and growled.
‘You best stay here, boy,’ said Arnulf speaking to the hound. ‘It’s OK, I will not be long.’
He turned to Fergus. ‘Watch the hound, will you?’ he asked almost absently.
Fergus nodded.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Arnulf to his son, ‘the beast has barely left my side since we found him. He will get used to you.’ He sighed heavily, and then led Ewolf off through the sundered high gate.
Fear continued barking and growling as they walked away. Ewolf threw a concerned look back at the agitated hound and waved it away with a vague shooing motion.
Hafgan could not help but notice Ewolf’s hand. It had been bandaged. Hafgan and Fergus exchanged concerned glances.
Hafgan grabbed Engle by the arm. ‘What of Ewolf? He is wounded?’ asked Hafgan quietly in the castellan's ear.
Engle hesitated before answering. ‘He was bitten, Haf,’ he blurted.
‘Quiet, you fool,’ snapped Hafgan with a glance at Arnulf. ‘Hearing that now could break him.’ Arnulf did not appear to have heard. He slowly moved out down from the gates.
‘Tell me, now,’ demanded the big warrior.
‘It was this morning…while they searched the houses. One of the dead, it lurked in the darkness of one of the houses. I’m told it took him by surprise.’
Hafgan cursed and looked towards his lord once more, a look of pity.
‘I should follow them and keep an eye on them,’ muttered Hafgan.
‘Perhaps,’ replied Engle. ‘Lord Arnulf told us he would be alone. Would you defy him?’ He paused. ‘I am sure the lad is fine.’
‘Don’t be so sure,’ ventured Fergus, ‘Haf is right. I saw it take a man, Olad it was. It was many hours before it took him. I am not sure how many exactly, but he seemed fine well
into the evening, but he was gone by dawn, changed. We should not risk it.’
‘Aye, lord,’ agreed Hafgan. ‘I will keep my distance. Arnulf will not see me. He will have his privacy, but I will not be far.’ He nodded solemnly. ‘I think it is for the best.’
‘I feared the madness would take him,’ admitted Engle, ‘but by the gods, the lad appears to be fine. So do the others.’
‘Who?’ demanded Hafgan.
‘Some were unaffected by their wounds and are back on watch already or are with their families.’
‘Is that wise?’ said Fergus with a glance at Hafgan.
‘They should be watched,’ said Fergus. ‘No, have them check in again. We will check their wounds. I saw the rot, so did some of the others. If anyone has any sign of it, they will be kept under guard until we can be sure. Go, Haf. We will check Ewolf upon his return.’
Hafgan nodded and made his way out after his lord.
Fergus stood watching the big warrior depart after his old friend. As soon as his lord had departed, Engle immediately scurried off to send word to allow the townsfolk up into the Motte. Folk want to search for their loved ones, to bury their dead. Fergus joined his warriors and watched as folk began to ebb through the gate and scrabble through the hot ashes and charred timbers. Fergus shook his head at the harrowing sight. The remains he saw were indistinguishable, shrunken and twisted, charred beyond recognition. Any hope of an individual search for a loved one quickly became a macabre group recovery of any remains they could uncover. The reality of the hopelessness hit the townsfolk hard as they laid eyes on the complete destruction the inferno had left.
He made his way to look out from the gate onto the slopes of the Motte and down upon the town beyond. Guardsmen and warriors from the watch post were searching for family amongst the huddled crowds on the grassy slopes. Some had not seen their loved ones in months. Fergus stood a while and watched them. The reunions brought some measure of joy to this now forlorn township.
Most of the townspeople were still sheltering within the low palisade, fearing the evil that could still be lurking amongst the quiet buildings of Ravenshold. Some, however, had carefully ventured back out to begin clearing the town. Fergus watched a group of armed townsfolk carefully move along the road towards the market square. Engle seemed to have guardsmen and townsfolk on patrol, cautiously treading through the main avenues of the town, while the brave few returned to their homes. Fergus stood a while watching. The town felt quiet.