by Lee C Conley
‘Where are we going, Jor? asked Finn.
Jor looked at him then said, ‘The north gate, lad. We’re heading up into Arn. I know some folk up there where we can keep our heads down.’
‘What was that?’ said Nym suddenly.
‘What?’ said Jor still hurrying onward.
Nym stopped and listened. She heard it again. The sound was a pitiful moaning, a call for help. It seemed to come from an alley. She approached apprehensively.
‘Jor, I think there’s someone down here,’ she called out, stepping closer.
He scurried back to usher her onwards. ‘Come, lass, leave them. We need to…’ said Jor. His words fell away, and he stood with his mouth agape at what he saw in the alley.
Nym stood frozen shocked by what she saw emerging from the shadow of the alley before her.
A girl clawed at the floor, pulling herself towards Nym. Her face was in ruin, covered by oozing lesions. Her eyes stared sightlessly, lost behind a two bleeding sores. Blood ran down her chin. She vomited up a stream of gore which splattered on the cobbles. After a fit of coughing, the girl collapsed to the floor, her arms clutching forwards in desperation.
‘Move, girl,’ barked Jor in terror, unable to take his eyes of the bleeding girl. He pushed Nym roughly onwards as he stared and then, clutching her arm, he fled up the street dragging her onwards.
The gate loomed into view, two torches ensconced at either side, and a lone sentry stood guard. He made no attempt to challenge them as they hurried past him and out into the darkness beyond.
Jor meant to take the road that led to Arn’s Marshside, a district of farm slums and warehouses. The road led over drained marshland, now tilled fields, and led into the districts of the city’s southern banks. Still, a scent of stagnant water pervaded the night air. The well-travelled wagon track was a main route for the overland hauling of goods into Arn and was well kept, lined with wooden beams sunk into the soil. Nym tripped and stumbled over a submerged beam. Her toe throbbed where she had stubbed it. It was probably bleeding. She forced back the tears and continued onwards.
They hurried through the fields, careful not to stumble on the dark cart road. Fear still clutched at their hearts as they fled towards the flickering fires in the distance, the lights of the great city-sprawl of Arn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Banners from Eymsford
Arnulf staggered along the seldom trodden trail which led from the town and up the hillside of the valley. Hafgan peered over the rocks watching from a distance, before moving up unseen between the trees. Ewolf followed close by his father. They seldom seemed to speak, and when they did, Hafgan was too far to hear the words that passed between them. Arnulf still cradled the ashen bundle of his cloak closely to his chest. Wrapped within the cloak, rested the ashes and charred bones of his loved ones.
The trail led along a ridge overlooking the lake. The slopes above became steep, narrowing the trail and eventually edging the path in with a stony cliff face. Hafgan had to be careful; he would be seen easily on such a narrow approach. He hugged the rocks closely, keeping his distance.
Hafgan remained ever vigilant of some lurking threat to his lord. He constantly checked behind him, all too aware of his lone vulnerability. Aware, he was perhaps more tempting a target for some foul creature than his lord and Ewolf. He remained vigilant, ever watchful.
The stone cliffside had been carved and sculpted as the trail approached its destination. Impressive stone frieze had been carved into the living rock with images of warriors and of horses, of vanquished foes, of his lord’s ancestors and their deeds.
Hafgan peered around a shallow bend to see the pair had halted before a dark cleft in the cliff. After a moment, they moved inside. Hafgan had seldom been to this place. It was not his place.
He recalled memories of dutifully awaiting his lord to emerge from the gloom of the catacomb after visiting his ancestors. The opening and passageway to the crypts had also been ornately carved. How far the carvings went, he was not sure, for the passage led quickly into darkness, into the realms of the dead. He would not tread there, not without leave from his lord.
The big warrior waited patiently. He thought he could hear murmuring voices from the dark passageway. As time passed, he grew concerned. Hafgan could not see them and dared not follow. Yet, he feared what could unfold in that dark place if Ewolf suddenly succumbed to the madness.
A carved pedestal sat before the mouth of crypts, it bore the sigil of a great axe and was adorned with carved stone skulls. Hafgan leant upon the old stone and looked off into the lake below. Its surface was still and reflected the clouds above.
He heard footfalls echo up from the darkness. He quickly moved to a hiding place beyond the bend in the trail. How he would escape discovery he was uncertain, they would surely see him along the narrow trail.
Hafgan peered around the bend to watch his lord emerge from the darkness. Arnulf looked emotionally drained, a withered shell of the man he knew. He leant upon the pedestal with both hands, just as Hafgan himself had leant moments before.
Arnulf hung his head and stared down into the lake. His son, Ewolf came up beside him. He spoke gently to his father. Hafgan was too far to hear, but they seemed to be soft words of comfort.
Ewolf raised his arm above his head as he comforted his father. He held something. Hafgan’s heart froze. It was a rock. Hafgan sprung forward desperately.
Horns suddenly sounded from across the valley. Hafgan darted bewildered eyes across the valley as he closed frantically upon his lord.
Arnulf’s head snapped up as the horns blew. Ewolf’s attention suddenly focussed across to the opposing hillsides also. His hand lowered at the sudden distraction. The rock tumbled from his fingers.
‘My lord,’ called Hafgan as he approached from behind them. His voice startled Ewolf.
Arnulf swung his head.
The big warrior eyed young Ewolf warily, suddenly unsure. Arnulf had seen nothing.
‘Banners approach, lord,’ managed Hafgan, seizing upon an opportune explanation for his presence. ‘Forgive the intrusion, Arnulf,’ said Hafgan, his eyes fixed unwavering on Ewolf.
Arnulf did not notice and returned his gaze to the approaching banners.
Ewolf had a strange look to his eyes. His look was anxious. Hafgan suspected the lad knew he had seen what he had been about to do. The young warrior watched him nervously.
‘Aye, Haf,’ replied Arnulf, his voice hollow.
Horns blew again. An answering call returned from the Motte.
‘They approach soon, lord,’ said Hafgan.
Hafgan watched the young Ewolf like a hawk as they returned to the Motte. They passed through quiet streets and began the ascent to the gates of the upper palisade.
‘Folk have begun searching and clearing, lord,’ said Hafgan. Seizing this moment, he said, ‘We thought it best to check the wounded again also.’
‘Yes, good Haf. It is probably wise,’ replied Arnulf, trying to pull his thoughts together.
Hafgan addressed Ewolf, ‘Engle told me you took a slight wound, lad?’
As Ewolf turned, he indeed still wore a strange look to his eyes. He was fidgety.
Arnulf gasped.
‘His arm,’ said Hafgan.
‘You are wounded, son?’ asked Arnulf urgently.
‘Aye, Father, but it is fine. It was not bad,’ said Ewolf.
Arnulf turned to Hafgan, a worried look in his eye.
‘You will need that seen to,’ ventured Hafgan.
‘Father, it is fine,’ protested Ewolf.
‘Is the wound clean?’ asked Hafgan as he closed upon Ewolf. ‘Here, let me see,’ insisted Hafgan. He reached out.
Ewolf snatched his arm away. ‘It is fine,’ he protested angrily.
‘Ewolf,’ shouted Arnulf, his voice full of emotion. ‘Son, let him look.’
Ewolf allowed Hafgan to pull back his sleeve and reveal a dressing. The wound beneath was small. It did not look bad. H
afgan was however concerned by the dark veins that had begun to appear from the wound like black tendrils reaching up his arm.
‘I am fine, Father,’ protested the young warrior.
‘There are signs of it, Arnulf,’ said Hafgan gravely. ‘I only hope it is only a rot of the flesh and not of the mind.
‘I hope by the gods you are well, lad,’ said Hafgan to Ewolf.
‘He is well, and he is strong,’ ventured Arnulf. ‘It has not taken him. I believe he will be alright.’
‘I hope so. But lord,’ continued the big warrior, turning to Arnulf, ‘I fear he still must be watched, just in case, and anyone else showing any signs of it, too. Perhaps, they should be locked securely in a house under guard until we can be sure. We must learn what is happening here.’
Arnulf looked long and hard at his son before nodding slowly in agreement.
Hafgan turned back to Ewolf and said, ‘I am sorry. We must be certain you are yourself.’
The young warrior began to protest angrily, but Arnulf cut him short.
‘Go, Ewolf! Do as I ask. It will not be for long, I promise. You are strong so do not worry, son,’ said Arnulf. ‘Remain in one of the houses for me. You will be under guard, but I will have them bring you ale and food. Please go, for me, and be well…please.’
Arnulf watched painfully as his son sullenly walked away towards one of the houses. Hafgan gestured for two of the men to follow.
Hafgan did not have the heart to tell his lord what he had seen. He feared the lad was succumbing to the same terrible fate as the others.
‘Guard him, do not let him leave,’ Hafgan murmured quietly to the guards, and with a glance at Arnulf said, ‘and if there are any changes or he becomes violent, call for us immediately. Do not let him out!’
Ewolf’s anger flared as he became flanked by the two warriors. He turned towards Arnulf. ‘This is wrong, Father,’ he shouted. ‘Get away, you bastards,’ he cursed, pushing one of the men.
One of the warriors seized his arm. Ewolf fought to break free He roared in sudden fury, but the two men held him firmly and led the struggling warrior into a nearby building.
Hafgan watched on with a worried expression, watching young Ewolf apprehensively as he thrashed and fought to break free. Arnulf watched as his son was led away.
Something behind his eyes seemed to break, and Arnulf hung his head. Hafgan had no words. All he could do was stand there beside Arnulf in silence.
***
Hafgan watched the fluttering banners approach. Leaning upon the wooden ramparts of the high palisade’s gate tower, he looked down upon the file of men and glinting steel moving through the town below. The big warrior ran a calloused hand over his shaved pate. They were the high lord’s men. His banners bore the same swooping white falcon as Fergus wore: their family sigil.
Hafgan turned to Arnulf. His lord looked down over the rampart also, but he seemed distant, his eyes unseeing. Hafgan felt a deep sorrow for his lord. His family ripped from him, his home destroyed, and now maybe his son.
Arnulf looked lost in despair. Arnulf fought back a sob and hung his head. Hafgan placed a supportive arm on his lord’s shoulder. The big warrior opened his mouth to speak but could not find the words so he remained silent.
Arnulf took a deep breath and straightened. Hafgan watched his lord’s attempts to steel himself, poorly burying his anguish, yet trying to project some manner of solemnity, of lordly authority. Still, he did not speak. He just looked down upon the approaching soldiers.
Hafgan regarded his lord with a grave respect and nodded to himself with a weak smile. Arnulf was strong, Hafgan knew though he would need to grieve in his own way. The big warrior would be relied upon, he knew. As would Engle, the castellan. They would need to be his lord’s arm in this terrible time. He would do all he could to return life back to the terrified folk of Ravenshold and leave his lord to his grief.
‘Fuck. What is the old bastard doing here?’ said Fergus as he laid eyes upon the honour guard.
‘We sent riders, lord,’ ventured Engle. ‘We were under attack. Surely, they are most welcome….’ He trailed off as nobody turned.
‘Aye,’ said Hafgan. ‘All that steel will certainly reassure the folk down there that they will be safe now, that their lords will protect them.’
‘Aye, Haf,’ said Fergus mockingly, ‘but you don’t have to deal with the old bastard like I do.’ He laughed. ‘Still, I am glad there are so many.’
Still Arnulf stood, not speaking. Hafgan turned his attention to the approaching warriors once more. The mounted vanguard began to climb the Motte’s steep bank towards the keep. Pennons hung from their spears.
‘Open the gates,’ called Hafgan.
The wooden gates slowly swung open and allowed the riders to spill into the Motte’s courtyard. The honour guard rode through in their wake trailing two great red falcon banners.
Angus, High Lord of the Borders, rode from their midst. Fergus’s lineage was apparent in his father’s face. Fergus shared that same mane of red curls, although Angus had greyed, and his hair was only now touched with auburn streaks. They shared the same nose and eyes. He wore a richly embroidered long brown jerkin over a fine chain hauberk, its rings small and light to not offer much weight. The mail came down to his thighs and the jerkin nearly to his boots. A heavy warm looking cloak hung round his shoulders, it was red with a thin trim of expensive looking fine fur. He reined in his horse.
‘Lord,’ called Hafgan in greeting as they descended from the fighting platform. The high lord waved him aside and addressed Arnulf.
‘Greetings, Arnulf. I have heard terrible things. I am so very sorry.’
Arnulf nodded.
‘I did not know if I would find you here, Arnulf. I had word the Watch had been attacked. I trust your post is still manned?’
‘Aye, lord,’ replied Arnulf, ‘the Watch has not been broken.’
Angus nodded.
‘A rider met us on the road this morning. He told us the Motte was burning. I have seen the smoke from miles away. I feared the whole town had been razed.’
He dismounted.
‘Son,’ said Angus with a nod to Fergus as he turned from his saddle.
‘I should have guessed you would be here and not back in Weirdell where you belong. Rushing away from your duties when you have much to do, I’m certain. I make you lawgiver and lord of a great holding, and you ride off at the first excuse. Could you not send someone?’ He paused, ‘Must you always play the fool.’ Lord Angus smirked slightly at his son.
Fergus smiled in reply.
‘Still, you do your friend a great service, son,’ he continued. ‘You did well to ride for the Lord of the Watch so quickly.’
‘Yes, Father. I ever strive for somewhere even close to your wisdom,’ replied Fergus sardonically.
‘Watch your mouth, boy. You’re never too old for a clout `round the head from me.’ He smiled at his son once more. But Fergus did not doubt it. His father was ever critical in his affections upon his children and a stern lord in addition.
‘Arnulf, come,’ said Angus, walking towards the burning embers of the hall. Arnulf followed.
‘What in the gods has happened here…and up in the passes?’ asked Angus.
‘My men were attacked, lord,’ said Arnulf, his face grim. ‘But the watch post is still manned. I lost half a dozen men. We pursued the…enemy into the passes.’
‘What enemy?’
‘Lord, you would not believe it.’
‘Umm we shall see. I did hear some strange words from the last rider we met, Arnulf. The one your man sent out this morning.’
‘Engle, lord,’ said Arnulf.
‘Yes, yes. That rider, whoever sent him. He spoke of the dead…and fell creatures.’ He shook his head. ‘I thought him to be a madman. Now tell me, Arnulf,’ he said, levelling a stern gaze at Arnulf, ‘what is the truth of this?’
Arnulf hesitated, and then said, ‘Lord…I did not believe it myself. My m
en will vouch, any man would. But…I think we saw the dead walk.’
Arnulf recounted the events of the passes, from the strange bell and of the first patrol failing to return, to the attack in the pass.
‘You must have been deceived, Arnulf,’ exclaimed Angus. ‘The dead don’t walk. How do you know they were truly dead? It was some trick.’
‘I thought so, too, lord. But the wounds they took, no man could take such and stand. They shrugged off mighty blows. They looked to feel no pain and just kept coming. I have never seen anything like it, lord. They were dead, without doubt, rotted, some a long time dead. These were no masks or trickery. I checked some of the bodies myself. They were dead, I swear.’
Arnulf shook his head and looked to Fergus. Angus followed his gaze. ‘You saw this, son?’
Fergus nodded as he caught his father’s eye, and then looked to the floor. His father’s expression was not sure whether it was bemused or furious.
‘Seriously, lads, this is no time for stories. You expect me to believe this?’
‘I swear it,’ said Arnulf. He began to doubt his own memories and hung his head. He could hear the words he spoke. It indeed sounded like the ravings of a madman. Had he been deceived? No, there was no doubt. He had seen it. He looked his high lord in the face and said, ‘I swear it, lord’
The high lord looked to his son. Fergus nodded.
‘By the gods,’ gasped Angus, ‘is there more?’
‘Aye, lord,’ nodded Arnulf. He spoke of the farm, of the girl and her brother. Angus’s expression became grave as the tale unfolded. Arnulf told of how Olaf had changed and turned upon them, of the ruins and the campsite they had discovered. He told his lord the tales they had heard upon their return, of the townsfolk changing, and of the great slaughter that had unfolded.’
‘Dear gods,’ muttered Angus. The high lord looked around at the charred ruins of the hall. ‘Did anyone make it out?’ asked Angus gravely.
‘No, lord, all perished,’ said Arnulf.
‘Arnulf, I am so very sorry. The rider…we heard. Many were trapped in the hall.’