The map of the large land masses drew his attention so completely he forgot even his half-filled mug of ale. He searched for familiar names, something that would tell him where Duratia was in relation to all this other indicated land. It took him several minutes before he found Duratia on a rather large island. Another smaller island, Burlund, was located to the west just offshore from the larger. He had never been on the west side of the island. Hell . . . he had never known Duratia was on an island. In comparison to the size of land masses to the east and further to the west, Duratia and even the island was not of substantial size.
Mothport, Haverid, and Sothpern were all even smaller than Duratia on the map. The area to the north was titled Territory of the Pict, and the land mass the Picts controlled was considerably larger than any two kingdoms combined. There was a strait or channel as well, depending where one looked on the map. Whatever it was called, it had to be several miles across. The ocean to the west was huge; spreading from north to south without interruption for what must be thousands of miles.
Duratia was just a small piece of land on a small island of little consequence.
Mordon rubbed his face with his callused hands and leaned back in the chair. He spotted his mug and finished the golden liquid. What he had just learned was he was a small fish in a very big pond. There was a preponderance of places he could go. But just how was he supposed to cross the strait?
Anger suffused through his body. Why had he not sought learning on his own behalf? He had wasted enough time away from the castle and his duties to encompass a vast supply of knowledge. Well . . . things were what they were, right now he was grateful the invading horde had at least left this bit of information for him to find. Mordon planned to spend his moments awake studying these maps . . . for all the good it would ever do him. But if he did decide, or was forced to move from Widley, he would now know in which direction to go.
Sothpern and the other kingdoms were now lodged in his memory where they had been just general directions before now. Mordon kept shuffling through the maps until one with the island he was on surfaced. He found Widley without effort. It was located on the west side of Duratia nearly at the border with Haverid. Both small kingdoms had coast lines; Duratia’s on the east and Haverid’s to the west. Mothport was the southernmost kingdom with a coastline surrounding all but the north, where it joined Duratia and Sothpern.
Mordon frowned. Each king that had held sway over these kingdoms was now more than likely dead.
His thoughts swung back to what he had been studying. Surely Wicliff knew all this, why had he never tried to school him as a boy? Mordon ran the fingers of his left hand through his shoulder length auburn hair. He remembered Wicliff had tried to gain schooling for him within the castle. It was likely Wicliff knew no more than did he. The man had been raised in Widley. Why would Mordon suspect he was more knowledgeable than he was? As a boy, and even as a man, Mordon had respected Wicliff. He always looked up to the man, even when he had to look down at Wicliff’s balding head. It wasn’t right to be frustrated with a dead man who had tried to help him in any way he could. Just pulling him in off the street surely saved his life. Wicliff had treated him like the son he had never had. God, he missed the old soldier.
Mordon threw the empty pewter mug across the tower in frustration and angst. The candles sputtered and spit out their last moments of life in their holders. Darkness took over the cistern chamber as quickly and surely as if someone had taken his sight. The presence entered the chamber somewhere across the pool of water and stood waiting for him to respond. The sour mood he had developed left him less than cordial.
“You come and go as you please from my home. Don’t you think if you desire more than fear, a little respect would be in order? I left you in peace in your chamber.” Mordon drew in a full breath and let it subside slowly, “I apologize . . . my manners have been nearly forgotten from lack of use. Please allow me the moment of frustration as bad timing for your entrance.” The presence seemed to flicker in and out of the cistern chamber like curtains in a stiff breeze; being sucked to and fro from an open window. The silky voice when it came was just across the table and made him jerk with surprise. Mellow laughter came from across the pool of water. Something brushed his right cheek and was gone. A good-natured laugh came from near the hole in the ceiling. Another brush to his left cheek this time made him try to touch in return. What in God’s creation was this female?
“It is dangerous for you to trifle with touching me. I have been without a woman for over two years. Your merest touch has awakened feelings and desires that are painfully hard to control if you come within my grasp.” Mordon’s anger subsided knowing full well he had just threatened the woman. To menace this woman was not his intention; perhaps even deadly. “You still have my word I will not touch you unless asked. Do not torture me just because you can.” Another brush of fingers to his neck enraged him but he brought the anger under control just as quickly. Soft laughter came to him from the landing at the top of his stairs. The door opened and something without shape left the chamber.
Mordon leaped to his feet and ran around the cistern and on up the stairs. The wraith, or whatever it was, attained the higher roof just as he stepped from the doorway of the tower. He ran across the roof of the east wing and with little effort leaped high enough to gain the upper roof. Running to the peak of the ridge, Mordon could see the form just entering the tower he had descended earlier in the day. It took him only seconds to reach the tower and descend into the darkness. He counted the steps as he descended and stopped on the landing. The door was still ajar.
This time he did not pause, and instead stepped into the inky blackness. He was just beginning another step . . . .
“Stop. One more step and you will fall through the ceiling of the hallway below.”
Mordon’s breathing was slightly strained from the running, it still sounded as if she faced away from him, “What game do you play, lady of the dark?” His desire of wanting to talk to another human being conflicted with what he was learning about this voice coming from the inky depths of this attic and the blackness of the unlighted cistern tower. “I felt as if I should be protecting you earlier, but protection isn’t something I can offer. You have taken several lives, why have you not tried to kill me?” Her voice came soft and silky with a tinge of confusion entwining each word.
“Do you wish to die?”
Mordon was taken aback. Of course he did not wish to die, “What I wish is for you to talk to me without all this bouncing around. I have learned acceptance of what is to be the most rational and prudent reaction to anyone I meet. But I must confess you are a mystery. I don’t know whether to carry my sword in hand or not carry it all when in your presence. You confound my feelings and desires until it seems I do not know myself. I entreat you to talk with me as friend or adversary, both conversations could be worthy of our time spent with the other.” Silence greeted his words. Mordon did not know what else he could say to convince her or to prove he intended no harm. Soft weeping came from deeper in the chamber. He would have gone to her, but believed a misstep might be his end if not a severe injury. Her voice came to him off to the right and from somewhere deep within the blackness.
“You know not of what you ask.”
The sobbing words nearly broke the soles of his booted feet free of the planking where she had admonished him to come no further. Mordon calmly voiced, “I do know I like the sound of your voice.” He was willing to stand here until he succumbed to lack of water and exhaustion. “We are talking like normal people, just as they used to do in the taverns and shops of the old city. Ol Sergeant Wicliff used to take me for walks in the city and try to explain what people were doing and why. He opened my eyes concerning a lot of things about life and living. He taught me acceptance of people as they are to be more important than being good at anything. In our walks together, he taught me a great deal about hypocrisy and the evi
l that men do in the name of religion or outside the churches. He taught me to be honest about myself and true to those things that matter; friendship, honor, honesty, to not desire another unless shown it was acceptable, to accept hardships without complaint, always trying to do the best I can no matter what I am doing.” Mordon paused in surprise at his own flood of words. Having someone to talk to must be more important than he realized. “Treachery is not a part of me I have ever experienced. If you wish me gone I will go, but I sense you want contact with me as much as I need contact with you.”
Silence . . . . Mordon stepped straight back and started to turn before she answered. The crying had stopped. The voice sounded tired and a little closer.
“I will not come to you to be handled like a mare in heat with you a stallion rutting his response.”
Mordon turned back toward the sound of her voice, “And I will not come to you like a rutting bull expecting what is his.”
A pleasant giggle came from the dark recesses of the chamber. Mordon heard one additional sob and could almost feel the tears running down the cheeks of the voice from the darkness. “You may stay as far from me as you wish . . . without conditions.” This time the laugh was freed of repressed motive.
“I have many conditions if we are to visit like normal people. If you agree to all my conditions, then I will contemplate my answer. First, you may never attempt to touch me.”
“Granted.”
“Second, our visits must be in the dark.”
“Granted.”
“Third, I will not threaten you, but rather speak plainly of what will happen if you seek to bring me into the light. I will kill you without hesitation. My master controls my actions, if he sees someone I can kill . . . it brings him . . . satisfaction . . . watching another die beneath my knives.”
Mordon shuddered somewhere deep in his soul. He still wondered who and from what this silken voice emanated.
“Do you still wish acquaintance with such as I soldier?”
Plainly asked and needing a plain answer, Mordon wondered if what he was doing made any sense at all. Asking this killer of men to be a confidant might be ridiculous, but he was ready for something bizarre in his life. “I understand being in a desert without water makes a man do crazy things. Perhaps being drunk is near the same. I am neither thirsty for water nor drunk, and I still feel the need to hear the sound of your voice.” Mordon almost took another step forward just to see if this voice could be trusted, but did not. It was not worth the hazard. If he really did cave in the hallway ceiling all would be lost. Mordon stood still and awaited her answer. It was silent for much longer than Mordon expected. Her voice was much closer and off to the left when it came. There was a sense of guarded melancholy coating her words.
“Just as you seem to trust me, I will make the effort to trust you. For now, you must leave, I have duties to perform for my master. If it is still night, I will come to see if you sleep. I will not harm you.”
That was it. She did not seem willing to continue, so Mordon turned and exited the door into the tower stair well. He did not glance back into the chamber. Once outside, he lost himself in thought. He was surprised to find the door of his cistern tower open before him. What a strange woman. She obviously was like no other he had ever found. He doubted they could ever come together as man and woman. Unlike the flash that ran past the door while he was in the library, the figure that he had seen leaving this very door had no legs he could see. If that was the form she used to come into this tower, talk was where it would end. But that was what he wanted right now. And it appeared she wanted the same.
He had lived like a true ghost for two years. The contact he had made with Simper’s men was the last contact he had made in over a year. Simper must think him dead. This thing he perceived as female had agreed to talk. Mordon laughed softly as he looked down into his tower chamber. You can’t make love with a wraith, boyo. If he tried, the prospect of surviving was slim indeed. She made that quite clear. Mordon closed the door but left the bar from the sturdy iron hooks. The moon he had not even noticed was spreading its soft glow down through the hole in the roof.
The damn bats were out again looking for bugs. He no longer felt he wanted their company. But just how was he supposed to climb up there and cover the hole left by the catapult stone? There were a couple of tarps on the shelf below he could use. He would have to cover the hole from the inside rather than outside since the color of the tarp would stick out like a beacon for anyone close enough to notice.
The fallen slate that he had cleaned up was grey, and his tarps were brown. Covering just the hole from the inside would minimize the risk of color change. The hole was about three feet across. The catapult stone had glanced off the wall behind his stairs, and must have gone directly into the cistern. Where ever it was, it was going to stay there for a good long while. Possibly forever.
The heavy cross-beams were sufficiently durable enough to carry his weight. A 30-foot fall onto dung covered roof and into the cistern was an unpleasant thought. He could almost reach the beam by jumping. If he brought up his one chair, it might be simple to grasp the wooden beam and hoist himself up. He could use his cord to pull the tarp up after he reached the beam.
This was crazy to try to plug the hole in the middle of the night, almost as crazy as wanting to befriend a killer. He just could not stand the thought of allowing the bats to be his tower mates for a second longer.
Mordon collected everything he thought he would need, and carried them to the top landing. The chair gave him the proper height. The tarp and wedges came up to him without effort. It took only a minute to move him and the rest of the materials to the hole. Within minutes he had stuffed the tarp over the rafters and wedged the edges of the tarp into the slate support cross beams between rafters with the few small pieces of wood he had saved for emergency firewood. He did not stop to admire his handiwork. In the dim light of the candle, 30 feet below, he could hardly make out what he had done. Within a minute, he was back on the top landing looking up where the hole had been; black on black.
Mordon carried the chair and cord back down to the shelf and sat on the chair after placing it next to his precious maps. Before beginning to search the map, he had studied earlier, Mordon looked up and saw black where he used to see a star-filled sky. He grunted an amused laugh wondering where the bats were going to find a new home. They had plenty of ruins to choose from in the surrounding city. Mordon turned to the map and began studying not only Duratia, but all the lands around his home city.
CHAPTER 6
He did not know how many minutes or hours it took to carefully commit what was on the map to his memory. Nearly exhausted, he dropped his sheathed sword and breastplate near the bed. His clothes went into a large basket he had brought from someone’s home. The stone house was just a pile of rubble, but the basket had somehow managed to escape the falling stone. Filling the small barrel of his shower was short work. His shower made him tremble, but he was soon dry and in his bed. Maybe he was still awake when his head touched his pillow, but then again, maybe not.
He slept more soundly than he had in weeks. It was late when he awoke. Now that the hole was gone, he could only guess at the time, but it felt late morning. The bats searching for a new home made him grin as he swung his legs from the bed. His feet slipped into his heavy boots without hindrance. The breastplate and sword found their home on his body and waist.
He remembered the woman with a rush of adrenaline. Had she come as she said she would? Would she leave something to indicate she had been here? He started to light a candle, but then realized she may be here now and remembered her rule demanding darkness. “Are you here?” A laugh came from the first landing.
“I just wanted to see how bright you are. Congratulations . . . you were serious about staying alive and wanting to visit.”
Mordon felt starved, “If you are hungry there is food in the b
arrels and boxes.”
“I do not eat in this form.” With added bored whimsy, “Perhaps someday I can share a meal with you, but not this morning. Please enjoy your breakfast.”
So, she was the wraith this morning, thought Mordon. It was unnerving thinking a creature like the one he had seen the day before was in the tower, let alone in his very own bunker. And he invited her there. He stumbled around in the darkness until he relaxed and placed his chamber back into perspective in his head. From then on, he walked with precision in the darkness, collecting items until his arms seemed full. He remembered which end of the table was free and set what he had collected on its surface. He pulled the chair to his front and straddled the seat. It felt strange having something like this woman staring at him while he ate. But the hunger won out over his discomfort, so he finished his meal and burped his satisfaction. The voice came liltingly from the top landing.
“In my father’s house, you would have been sent from table for burping like that.”
“This is my house and my eating rules take precedence here,” but he vowed inside he would never belch again if he knew she was near. Mordon knew he did not want this strange woman leaving and never coming back. He may be only a curiosity to her, but her voice was like elixir to his soul. He had been alone far too long. So he grasped at her friendship as a blacksmith might his bellows handle. Her next words dripped with sarcasm.
“Since we are so normal, what exactly do you wish to share in the darkness of your tower?”
Mordon tried to grasp the full meaning of her words and the distinct enmity behind them. He answered her sarcastic question with his, “Why do you deem us less than normal? We are two voices speaking in conversation, no different than meeting at a café and sharing a meal.” There was a response of flooded words and conflicting emotions tormented by experiences fresh in her mind but unknown to him, making Mordon wonder if she was insane.
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