Mordon continued down the steps until his feet met the solid stone flagging of the shelf. He made his way to the descending ladder and climbed down into the familiar darkness. Eight steps at the bottom of the ladder led him to the grate; it was secure. He retraced his steps and climbed out into the cistern chamber and lit another candle. There was no one visible in the dim light. The presence was still absent. Mordon stood near the new candle and inspected everything he could see in the murky light of the chamber. This was the same home he had lived in for the past two years, and, at least to him, it looked untouched.
Crossing to the bench, he replaced the new candle in the holder and inspected the half-burned candle. The wick extended from the wax and seemed fine. Mordon grunted his curiosity and laid the candle next to the new. The only thing he could think of that might have extinguished the small flame was a sudden gust of wind; maybe from a bat collecting a bug close to the candle. But a bug would have to look unusually tempting for a bat to come so close to a flame.
Mordon set about his nightly routine of bathing and shaving. He had gotten used to the cold water a long time ago. He would have much appreciated hot water for his shave, but smoke from a fire would be difficult to disperse. Simper and Nolton used fire all the time. He had seen smoke rising from both Donderly and the north many times. That was a big disadvantage when needing to think and act as if you were a ghost. If he made himself be invisible, then he could create nothing visible. When he needed to cure or smoke venison he did so with Simper’s permission, in Simper’s territory. He hadn’t been in the area of Donderly for over a year. Scatley was used to seeing smoke coming from Donderly.
Scatley used to have his men advance double-time to where any smoke was coming up from the rubble. The fire and men the mercenaries expected were never where the smoke was located. If the mercenaries tried to find entrance to the room or chamber beneath, everyone there using the fire was long gone. Traps were always set as Simper and his men left the chamber. Scatley had come so often, Simper would build a fire just to draw Scatley’s mercenaries into a newly devised snare. Mordon knew all this from contact with Simper in the past.
Mordon filled a large wooden bucket with a single splash into the cistern and carried it to the shelf drain hole. He had built a rather simple shower. Overhead was an old ale barrel. There was an uncomplicated system of levers blocking the flow of water from the barrel; one pull on the handle at his chest moved a wedge under the barrel and brought forth water in the proper amount to wash and rinse. Three buckets of water was the standard quick shower.
The water drained into the hole next to the chamber wall and went . . . somewhere. Just where it went and why the hole never filled up was a mystery to Mordon. When he had first discovered the small hole, and thought of a shower, he had half expected the flow of water to show someplace in the courtyard but it never did. Whoever had constructed the cistern chamber must have devised a system to drain the chamber to the shelf level for maintenance. It could have drained into the stream for all Mordon knew.
Mordon showered under his make-shift contrivance and began drying with a rough towel. He had a well-ordered pile of tattered towels stacked on a wooden shelf he had constructed. If it had not been for Wicliff, he would have become a carpenter. The sergeant often had to retrieve him from ol man Trunchon’s cabinet shop for weapons practice. Wicliff had never berated him for wanting to learn about woodworking. In fact, Wicliff had encouraged his interest in the craft, “Never hurts, boyo, to know another trade. Working with wood is much like be’n a soldier; both take practice to be proficient.”
Mordon rinsed his dusty jerkin and pants of the same material and hung them to dry on the single clothesline. The line was suspended between his shower structure and the nearest support post of the stairs. It was simple, but did the intended job.
Never willing to accept complacency, Mordon dressed in fresh clothing. Leaving his leather breastplate next to his sword at his bed side, he lay down on the bed and contemplated the day’s events. It was much cooler in the chamber than outside. His bath and the temperature caused him to draw a light comforter across his body. The bedding he had collected supplied him with warmth no matter what time of year it was. As he lay on the bed trying to understand the new occurrences, the incident at the cross street kept coming back to haunt him.
If there is a different contingent making their presence known within the city, why would they let him escape their grasp? They had to have seen him as he strode across the intersection. They had killed at least three men; perhaps as many as five. The two where he had hidden this afternoon and the sod in the street this evening made up three for certain. The sounds he had heard tonight could have been three separate killings. What stayed their hand at executing him? If Simper was getting tired of hiding on Donderly, maybe he was becoming more proactive. Simper was smart enough to play that game. But would Simper start taking such a chance at all hours of the day or night? The man and soldier he knew as Simper would not intentionally seek out another’s life unless in necessity.
Mordon had no idea how many men Scatley had at his beck-and-call. He had seen at least fifty at one time. But he would have to have a number of support people; cooks, messengers, hunters, spies . . . . Mordon had found and dispatched three of Scatley’s men spying on Donderly. It was possible Scatley was being sent a steady number of replacements for the men he was losing. Maybe this new contingent was one of the replacements? But it still did not answer the question of why they had let him live, or at the very least had not at least tried to slay him.
Mordon’s thoughts left him unable to sleep. For the first time in two years, his chamber did not feel like the safe refuge it once was. Was the elusive figure he had caught a glimpse of the same individual killing indiscriminately throughout the city? Maybe it wasn’t indiscriminate at all. Maybe the new group was from a defeated city just like Widley. It was possible.
He had only twice set foot beyond the city. Widley was the seat of authority in the small kingdom of Duratia. Both times he had left had been with the small army of King Widley to reinforce the northern borders. They had joined soldiers from Haverid. The Picts had forced the issue by raiding beyond their territory, just asking the two northern kingdoms to respond. There had been enough fighting and killing to force the unruly Picts back into their mountains on each account.
Mordon sat bolt upright on the bed. His thoughts had brought about a memory of the invaders who sacked Widley. He had not thought much about that dreadful night until just this moment: he desperately wanted to forget the image of seeing his friend die before his eyes. Now that he thought of it, he realized there had been Picts mixed in with the other army. The more he considered those last moments before he crept into the tower, the more he could see that last vision of confusion and wildness before his eyes as clearly as if he was presently witnessing it all over again. The frenzied invaders had been a mix of soldiers from four different kingdoms. The lion insignia of Haverid adorned more than one shield. The blue bear of Sothpern had stood out on several shields. Mothport was in attendance with the bleached horsetail rising from their helms. The Picts were fewer in number, but the furs and tattooed faces of three stood out in his mind in bold memory.
Whoever was leading the armies of four kingdoms must be quite an individual. How had he managed to bring them all together? More importantly, why did he give free reign to slaughter everything in their path? And why would they listen?
Sothpern and Mothport were in good rapport with King Widley, or so everyone believed. Their kings and emissaries had regularly visited the castle, like old friends. It was rumored Widley’s daughter was to wed Prince Sadon of Sothpern. But that was two years in the past, and since somebody was clearly out for revenge against King Widley, it was likely they were both dead.
In earlier times the soldiers of both kingdoms had mixed with the garrison in the castle with little friction. There had been the usual drunken f
ights in a few of the taverns, but that was to be expected when men relaxed under such conditions. There had never been any killings. Men of different uniform took up their tankards and sang songs together after the brawls. Mordon had liked several of the soldiers he had met. None of them seemed the type to kill without reason, especially guiltless women and children. If they were the same men, something had to have taken any sense of morality from them, willingly or otherwise. It was as if the men who had come to Widley had been corrupted into evil. Mordon clamped his jaws together in thought. Several seconds went by before he relaxed his grim expression. Question after question arose and he was unable to answer any.
Mordon tried to relax and drift off into sleep, but his mind wouldn’t let go of him. No matter how powerful a leader was, he needed to lead by example. Armies did not blindly follow inept kings. Often, royal blood meant little, if anything, to a strong general. It had happened at least once in the last twenty years. Prince Sadon was the son of a general-turned-king. The Picts changed kings as often as one lost or gained strength.
If the Picts were in fact the leader in this massacre, this new king or general had already subjugated five kingdoms. How was anyone going to survive outside his grasp? If their intent was to kill everything wherever they went, there would be no one left but creatures like him and Simper. Just how long could they survive? If the combined armies returned they could completely flatten everything. The thought of their coming back sent a shiver up his muscular back.
Knowing the lands were already under the sway of such a man would bring little comfort to any who had survived. There would be nowhere to run. Mordon realized how little information he possessed about the area in which he had lived his whole life. He had been so sheltered by the castle and Wicliff he never felt the need to know more. That needed to change. He made plans with himself to reenter the castle and find what information he could about the land in which he lived. Maybe traveling by night to a new distant land would provide succor. Maybe there was somewhere to run.
There used to be a good size library in the west wing. He had never been allowed the privilege of using any of their books. Wicliff had supplied what he learned to read through a lady friend at the Blue Frog. The woman had brought each book to his friend on the sly. He never learned where those books came from. Once he had read the book, it disappeared back in the direction it had come. Perhaps one of the lady’s clients was more affluent and had brought the books to her as an extra incentive.
Tomorrow he would search the castle’s west wing for the library. He had only a vague idea where it could be. Mordon had seen a few people coming and going from one doorway with books. If he could make himself forget the people who were now bones scattered about the flagging of the castle, he would search there first.
Right now, he needed sleep. Mordon pulled the comforter back over himself and tediously cleared his mind of all the questions he had been asking. The sounds of the bats had subsided. All the little brown creatures were out looking for their meal. Daybreak would bring a rush of fluttering up next to the holed roof. Mordon thought briefly again of Tracy, and then nodded into sleep.
CHAPTER 4
As expected, it was the returning bats that woke Mordon. There had to be more than a hundred nesting beneath the old roof. Considering the amount of bats, there was very little of their waste on the shelf. Most of the bats seemed to be congregated over the roof he had constructed above the cistern. Keeping the shelf clean had occupied his time on many nights. The wooden roof he had constructed over the cistern and bed was nearly white from the droppings. He had mulled over the idea of closing the hole while the bats were out, but deemed the effort would be more dangerous than it was worth. The water kept replenishing itself and seemed clean. The incoming water at the bottom was strong enough to make the surface of the cistern move about. Anything landing on the surface was soon swept to the side and out the scupper at the base of the stairs. Where the overflow went was as mysterious as his shower drain. Plus, the bats were his only company.
Mordon dressed quickly when he got out of bed. The breastplate was soon over his head and tied at the side. The Wilson blade in his old sheath slipped into his waist belt at his left hip. Mordon worked on the cheese and some of the crackers he had stolen from Scatley; ale washed it all down.
Early morning sunlight filtered down from the hole lighting his chamber much more effectively than his single candle had the previous evening. Mordon was deciding whether to enter the castle from the roof into another wing, or exit through the ally and grate. What had happened yesterday gave him little desire to expose himself more than necessary. He decided the roof then would be a better choice for his foray into the castle.
Mordon finished his ale and stalked up his stairs to the door. He did not like leaving the door unsecured, but there was no help for it. Sliding the bar loose, he leaned it against the thick jamb and pushed the door open. He half expected to catch a flitting glimpse of someone moving from his view, but there were no surprises this morning. There would be time later to check out the body he expected to find in the street. The missing mug no longer concerned him. If trouble came his way because of it, he was confident his response would be as swift as any attacker.
Stepping through the doorway, Mordon looked at the morning sky and inhaled a breath of cool morning air. There were a few clouds floating in the early sky. A robin was collecting spiders where his mug had disappeared. Swallows had taken over the space vacated by the bats. There was a mist hanging above the fallow lands beyond the northern, as well as the western, borders of Widley. The rapidly warming air would soon erase the light mist. Smoke was rising from three cooking fires in the west, signaling Scatley’s men would soon be fed their morning meal.
Mordon felt safe enough crossing the roof on the walkway. The castle’s walls would sufficiently hide his movement from anyone within the broken city. He treaded the planking until reaching the higher wall of the central building. This slightly higher section of the castle ran north and south. The castle had been constructed in the shape of a cross with the longer leg extending to the north, as though it were reaching for the heavens.
Mordon reached up and grasped the edge of the low parapet surrounding the main section of the castle. He heaved his body up and over the stone of the low wall and crouched down until walking to the center of the roof. Mordon was another 12 to 15 feet higher as he stood on the central roof of the castle. From here he could see the entire outer city of crumbled stone works. Not being able to see the buildings still standing, close within the inner city and the castle, presented a scene of terrible desolation and destruction. For nearly a year, searching the ruins had been an all-consuming passion. This second year living in the cistern tower was as comfortable as he had been able to make it. His survival had depended upon what he could find . . . out there amidst the rubble. Absolutely nothing of use had been left within the buildings still standing.
His eyes sought the surrounding green fields of tangled vegetation and the mix of broad leaf forests. They looked inviting to the eye. Mordon wondered again if there was a man in Simper’s militia who could survive in the wild. Anyone straying out there needed to have the necessary skills to subsist without stone walls. Feeling secure in his fighting abilities within the city was one thing, knowing how to stay out of trouble in a forest was another. The situation would have to be dire indeed if Mordon had to leave the comforts of his cistern chamber. Although he knew deep down the step he was taking today was leading him in that direction.
The library was beckoning him. Surely the king or his scholars would have found the need to keep records of the surrounding land. If he was lucky, the invaders had left something he could find. The one time he had attempted to search the castle, he had not made it past the large entry foyer. Bodies had been strewn across the stone flagging and on up the wide steps to the king’s family quarters. It had been too poignant a moment. Friend and faces he recognized
lay in pools of dried blood. He had left the upper reaches of the castle unsearched.
As hungry as Mordon had been after three days in the tower, it was his stomach alone, not his mind that had led him to the kitchens of the castle. It had been a bleak sight once he entered. The cooks, and what helpers they had, were all there right where they had been slain. But his hunger had overridden the sight and smell to search every nook and cranny of the kitchen area. He had been exceedingly lucky finding food in bins and storage chambers missed by the invaders. The shortest route from the kitchens to the cistern chamber took him a day and a half to transfer everything he needed into the safety of his hiding place.
Mordon knew their flesh would be long gone by now, but he prayed his mind would not reflesh the bones he knew were inside. Mordon hoped deeply that he was unable to visualize the faces that went with the bones inside the castle. However tough a soldier he had turned into, since that day it still bothered him contemplating even this brief sojourn to the castle’s interior. He knew it was something he just had to do, no matter how challenging and distasteful the task.
Mordon headed to the northwest turret, which kept rising higher and higher as he approached. The access door was the only one he had found leading down into the castle. The door, when he pried it open, creaked in opposition of its opening. There was ample lighting from the slits in the stone outer wall of the tower. Cobwebs and litter confounded his attempts at silence. Spiraling downward the stone of the steps showed no indication of use, except for the tracks of vermin.
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