A War of Stones: Book One of the Traveler Knight

by Howard Norfolk

  They soon passed a dead cow, the bones poking up through the hide, with a cloud of flies buzzing around. It lay just off the road, where the pasture ran down to it, and didn’t look to have been butchered, but simply killed and spoiled. Wayland took it as a bad omen, because of what they were now calling him.

  He had seen spoil done before by feuding lords in Tolwind, and also in Marmad and Galfan. It punctuated the great loss of lives and product that had happened here, that happened regularly he had been told, and made it such a cursed and special place to be avoided. A half hour later they passed a tree with a plow stuck through the notch formed by two branches, at least twenty feet off the ground and left it to hang there, its metal blade depending down like a single hungry fang. Lady Tazah rode to join them, and traveled for a moment with Wayland and Sascha.

  “Dis you see what they did back there?” she asked them. “What do you think now of your plan?”

  “It will still need to be seen, as I am the agent, and I have been told what to do,” Wayland said. He had in fact not been given much instruction at all about what he should do, but he thought he could now ply the lord’s stick well enough, with all these men listening to him. What had Captain Tig Morten expected him to do, he wondered? He would go quite far now to achieve his goal, and he was a proven friend to the law, and a survivor with some ability.

  “My plan of attempting a truce may be poorly considered, as you have told me before,” he admitted. “But things are not going to get resolved by sitting in your father’s castle. I will look for an opportunity, as I see it, and that will be my path to talk with these monsters.” She snorted with her nose, perhaps her only flaw in Wayland’s eyes, and then she looked over at Sascha.

  “So what does the great lord of the Krag think? Is there any merit in him doing this, by your reckoning?” Sascha looked over out of his helm at her, his eyes hard to see and read through the shadow made by the partial visor.

  “If the stories can be believed, we’re putting pressure on them while they are trying to fight with someone else,” he said. “A smart commander might give in a little in such a situation, to buy himself time. If this troll was able to figure out how to use hostages to prevent Rydol from going up this hill, and stalled the West Lands from recapturing Fugoe, perhaps he has this all figured out. I think if we come, he might negotiate with us to keep his advantage.” She snorted and looked away from him, then turned her horse around and rode back along the column.

  “My lady,” Sascha added belatedly, as he turned his helmeted head to watch her.

  They reached the village of Kitzy in the late afternoon, sitting behind a high stone outer palisade. The trip had not been without incident, but the small goblin scavenging parties that Tazah had warned them about had avoided the great band of soldiers, and they had melted back into the trees and rocks. Wayland had been on guard, wondering if at any moment one of those parties would return leading out a whole army. It had not happened, with his nerves perhaps their only casualty as Kitzy’s keep blew a horn to them as a welcoming call.

  Kitzy had suffered many small attacks by the goblins, the trolls and the thyrs, but the main host had never come down to it and tried its walls. As the column of riders approached they saw hundreds of crude, black goblin arrows sticking around in the ground, and some unburied bodies lay about, regardless of the danger these represented. The husk of a wagon sat smoldering near the gate, where some trolls had rolled it up and set it afire. It had been pushed aside somehow later, and the gates slowly swung open now beside it to admit them in.

  Wayland stood later and waited for his turn to talk with the lord of Kitzy, after Sirlaw and Halgrim had discussed their own business. He was with Tazah and the others men from Troli, quietly looking over the streets and the keep. The people seemed tired and angry, like what he would expect at the end of a siege. He saw the impact and hurt it had caused, and of how Lord Wenslig’s withdrawal might have made things worse for them. There were a lot of reasons Wenslig had thrown him out of Troli, but he had never considered before that the man might have felt himself exposed, and ashamed.

  Sir Otel was a thin Golok with a long black mustache that seemed to make his whole face constantly frown. Since they had lifted the siege and made all the small war bands fall back, he agreed to go out with them the next day. He knew that Fugoe Castle was the center of all the goblin activity, and so getting rid of their base would cause them all to pull back into the barrens, or down along the shore of Lake Aven.

  They all bivouacked or found accommodations within the village walls wherever they could, in the streets and the barns, their horses consuming a lot of the summer hay that had just been put up for winter. Wayland got some straw in a barn to sleep on, and felt like a lord. He told himself that it was the kind of thing to be expected when on campaign, and ate a stew that they provided, with a thin piece of bread. It proved to be a spicy Golok dish, and almost inedible. Afterwards it made his stomach feel like he was really paying back Tig Morten for his crime.

  There was no attack on the village during the night, and it was agreed upon in the morning that the goblins had pulled all their numbers back to try and defend Fugoe. They rode out in the morning and came about mid day to the remains of the village under Fugoe’s walls, it buildings and streets curling around the east side of the castle to follow a series of dells between the hills, through which flowed a wide, rocky stream. The houses were all burned out, the inn standing now as only as a few blackened stone walls within a larger black outline of ash.

  They milled around, as the wind blew through the trees and the ruined buildings, it carrying the small sounds of things that had gotten loose. The lords put out some horses and infantry to their sides, but there was no one to fight there. A line of burn pits had been dug down the center of one of the streets and wood taken away from the structures to use for fuel. Wayland made the mistake of looking down into one of the pits. He had heard of ashes being used in plague burials to purify them, but was unready for the mass of white and black that he now saw. And as he watched, some of the bodies seemed to still twitch and move. He drew back and spit out to the side in revulsion, to try and get rid of the smell. Tazah came up and looked down with him.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked him.

  “Some seem to still be moving,” he said to her. “That’s unnatural.”

  “That’s because someone has burned thrings in those pits,” she explained. “What you see down there are the remains of fiends, of ghouls, of the undead.” He quickly stepped farther back away from the edge, from the terrible marvel he had witnessed, and then he got back up onto his horse to move away. The smell seemed somehow now worse. He was uneasy, shaky, and he wanted to retch up the spicy stew.

  “Come,” he said to his men. “Let’s go figure out what to do.” He rode away, up to where the three lords now sat on their horses, discussing what their plan was.

  Sir Otel’s men had shields of red with a white bird across the top quarter, and these blended in with Kassal’s troops very well. His horsemen had a good look to them, and most wore a bronze beak up over their helmet visors, this ornament a Mancan custom, now hundreds of years old.

  Wayland had seen expectation that morning in everyone’s eyes, in the village they had left, and from the way they now acted, that this expedition would make a difference. Things would change, the continuous goblin raiding would stop, and resolution and stability would replace the confusion surrounding Lord Wenslig’s withdrawal. He felt something vital in the air, sensing intuitively that this was the moment to make a difference here, before everything got more complicated, or something new happened to make that impossible.

  He didn’t know Countess Sunnil, and had not seen her during his one previous stop at Rydol two years before. He had only read her urgent, scathing ransom letters, and had been swayed to her cause mostly by the way Lord Wenslig and his henchmen had acted. It seemed like a lot of people were plotting, moving around, and hurting others because of h
er situation. It was a hard thing to balance: one noble’s life against those of the warriors in the column with him now, or with the other hostages up in the castle they could now see one gray wall of. Then there were the others, all spread out around Lake Aven. He also wondered how many more people would die or be taken hostage along the Gure River during the winter if the monsters weren’t driven out of Fugoe Castle right now. What would the Captain of Troli say when he received the report on his progress, and he wondered if Grotoy would eventually help him?

  It was time to bring out the lord’s stick again, Wayland decided. Sir Augustus had exceeded his authority during the great raid by fleeing with the countess down across the West Lands. Would Wayland the Cow Knight fare any better then he had, when he started giving his own orders?

  They rode up around to where they could see the castle gate. The fields around were all bare and blasted for several hundred feet, and there was barely any movement seen on the walls. The riders formed a line in the middle, while the infantry and archers grouped to the sides, making ranks. Wayland held up his hand, and he unfurled the white sack banner as he looked out across the field at the main gate of Fugoe.

  It sat behind some neglected, unmanned earthen ramparts. To one side was the blocked up sally port and burned tower that had figured so prominently in the castle’s fall. Perhaps it would again. The knights and lords started moving their horse forward and Wayland moved around to bring himself next to the three lords.

  “Why are you advancing?” he asked. “We don’t know the state of affairs inside Fugoe.”

  “We’ll soon find out,” Kassal said, nodding to the others.

  “I’ll do that for you,” Wayland told them. “Have fifty of your men ride up with me, to just out of bowshot. I will go forward from there with my men and try to talk over the gate.” The lords looked back and forth at each other, their eyes narrowing. Sirlaw shook his head.

  “I had my daughter tell you the way it is,” Sirlaw said. “You must know that you will surely be attacked?”

  “Then we will ride back away, draw them forward from the walls, and then let your men deal with it. Tell them I want them to take some prisoners.”

  “They don’t trade our hostages for their own,” Sir Otel said. “That’s not the way buggers do things.” He was flustered by the seeming shallow thought of the strategy. The others also looked angry, like it was a nuisance before the real fighting began.

  “They aren’t to be traded,” Wayland explained. “If I cannot get them to talk to me directly, then I will release the prisoners back up to the castle one at a time as my messengers.”

  “That’s not a bad idea to try,” Sirlaw commented. They looked back and forth, nodding in consent to his plan, and then they rode off to pick out the men, and get them into position. Sir Byrning approached Wayland then. He now had three potential squires from around Krolo with him, a result of his handling of the duel at the Strike, which he had become a hero of, though he had never unsheathed his sword.

  “Can we join you in the sortie?” he asked Wayland. “These three think they are worthy enough to be my squires, and they wish to show me their bravery.” A blood bath, that’s what they can expect, Wayland thought to himself. But he said something different back to Sir Byrning.

  “They might get in the way of my lance,” he remarked, as he hefted the spear with the white flag now tied onto its tip. “You’re not planning on scaling the walls by yourselves, to go look for that sword, are you? From all accounts, it’s no longer here but taken down into the Dimm.”

  “I have little hope to find it here, yes,” he said, “but we both know that such information is suspect. I do want to get a closer look at the walls, in case my experience with siege is needed.”

  “You may accompany us, but do not do anything foolish,” Wayland agreed. “You must follow my lead.” He was jumping himself up, to say such a thing to an anointed, professional knight, even if the man always smelled like the floor of a tavern.

  Wayland turned around and signaled to the rest of the horsemen. They moved about, and then they all started forward with him across and old field of stubble in a line, moving toward the gate and wall of Fugoe Castle. There were old arrow marks and many broken shafts littering the ground, and the men easily marked the limit of the castle’s archers.

  They stopped there just shy in two lines and waited. Then Wayland and Sascha nodded to each other and they continued forward with Sir Byrning and his three squires. Helms glinted between the merlons over the gate. Shapes darted across the fighting walks on the walls, as they were occupied. An arrow whizzed out and stuck into the ground behind them. Wayland paused for a moment, trying to remember what Tazah had said about the way that goblins fought.

  They did not seem cowed by the numbers he had brought up here to fight them. They were quiet, and perhaps someone on the walls had panicked just now and let the shaft fly. He slowly rode forward again toward the gate.

  Another arrow came by them, and then one popped as it hit on someone’s shield. A cow horn was blown from one of the tower tops, and as he watched, bowmen appeared all along the walls and arrows jumped up into the air, visible as they curved down and fell about them. The gates both began to open up and riders came out of the smaller one mounted atop wolves. From the other gate surged forth a mass of spear and weapon wielding goblins and trolls footmen, and they turned out and dressed into rough lines, and then began to come forward toward them across the ground. Wayland pulled his reins to the side and dropped the spear holding the white flag.

  “Back we go,” he shouted to his companions. “Back we go, for our lives!” They turned and rode around, the arrows still falling down, some going wildly as the archers tried to track their movement. They had only just turned when the wolves attempted to close in on them. Half way back across the field of stubble, the archers of the West Lands began shooting back, the shafts whizzing right over their heads.

  Wolves barked, fell, and crashed into the ground, flinging off their riders. The pack spread itself apart and came on relentlessly. The horses they rode were in a panic. The swarm of goblins and trolls behind moved to follow the wolves, more cautiously, as they came on.

  “They must be hungry!” Sascha wildly yelled out to Wayland, and he drew his long sword out as he rode. The rest of them followed suit. Fewer arrows were coming down now, and either they had moved out of range, or the goblin’s aim was poor. They headed for a small gap left in the line of horse coming forward at them now, from the opposite direction, their lance and spear points lowered to meet the goblins who followed. They moved apart a bit more, to let them pass.

  It was unnerving, having the monsters chasing from behind, the men all with their swords up, turned to cut back if they or their mounts were seized in the withers. And the West Land riders were coming toward them fast, trying to move now and find targets to hit with their steel points. If there had been a weak part to Wayland’s plan, the situation they were now in was its apex.

  As the wolf riders got close, the West Lands blew their horns, and their soldiers all moved their lances about and went past with a flash, and a pounding crash then began, of metal points connecting, of hooves striking, of the ripping flap of tabards and armor. There were howls and sharp cries, as goblins and wolves were carried off into the air on the tips of lances. The wolves in turn jumped onto the horses, knocking them down, causing panic and throwing their riders off. A ferociously melee began, with the riders who had come clear wheeling back around to strike again, or tangling with the first troll and goblins foot.

  Wayland slowed his horse down as he rode clear, and turned back as he saw Sir Otel there on the field, watching the melee.

  “It didn’t work,” he shouted over to the man. Sir Otel looked at him from the depths of his helm and shook his head.

  “They came out because they are hungry,” Sir Otel said, explaining. “That is the way that the buggers are. They want our horses to eat.”

  He had been warned abou
t the buggers’ great hunger, and this was the factor that had developed and caused the battle that took place now in front of the castle. Wayland shook his own head and looked around. Sascha and the knight had followed him, and now he urged his horse around back towards the clash or metal. He had told himself that he would not fight, but he now seemed angry, and possessed to do so.

  He rode forward, and turned his sword down over the chiffron to stiff-arm the head of a wolf with the point. Claws snapped past him as the wolf’s face went by, and the rider struck with a weapon at his shied, which took the hit with a resounding crack. He used the force of the pass to twist and jerk his sword free. A rider’s lance then hit his shield and fouled there, and it was broken free with a crack as the rider disappeared off past him. He hadn’t even been able to tell if it had been a goblin, or a West Lands soldier. He swung down at another goblin running by, and took its head off.

  A wolf jumped up then and raked the side of his horse through the padded blanket. It screamed out and reared up, then began the backward descent that all cavalrymen feared. It began to go back on him, and turn and perhaps roll over. Wayland kicked out of the stirrups and jumped away as its great body fell, and crashed down across the stubble and the dirt.

  He clambered back up and noted how his wound now hurt again like it was fresh. A goblin ran at him with a mace of stone, and he deflected the blow with his shield and stabbed up under it, taking the creature, it giving out a final scream. He pulled his sword free, turned and caught another weapon on his shield, then struck the goblin back along its pig snout as hard as he could with the edge of guard. The creature backed away, blood going everywhere in a spray.