Mordon wiped the blade of his sword on the pant leg of one of the downed men, and stepped back to the stoop. Simper quickly slammed shut the door and leaned against the planking.
“If I were you, boyo, I’d find something to keep this door shut.”
Mordon searched the debris below for anything he could use as a wedge. Drake must have dropped the rafter as soon as he was out of sight of Simper. Nearly in a panic, Mordon walked out onto the broken glass . . . pulling shattered furniture loose from the knife-edged debris. His hands were getting cut from the small shards imbedded in the wood. He finally heaved on the solid leg of an oaken bench. The entire bench broke free into view from his effort; a colorful cascade of broken glass slid away from its surface.
Mordon swung the bench around, and set it upon the rear stoop. Simper leaned away from the door to pick up the bench. “Don’t touch it Simp . . . we can’t afford to lose your sword hand.” Mordon leaped to the top of the stoop as Simper put his back against the door. There were angry voices shouting for the door to be opened just as I slid the heavy bench under the latch. The base of the bench fit nicely into a deep groove just a split second before bodies slammed into the door. The weight hitting the door from the inside caused Simper to be thrown nearly across the stoop, but the bench held fast.
“Hold your feet on the bottom of the bench, Simp. Don’t let it bounce from the groove.” Mordon returned to the pile of glass, and retrieved a heavy stone urn that had been tossed through the windows the night Widley was forever changed. He heaved it to the top of the stoop, and followed, lifting its bulky weight onto the bench above the bottom upturned leg. The old carpenter who had built the bench was getting in a belated swing at the men trying to open the door from the other side. Mordon had watched the man build the bench nearly twenty years in the past. The latch would break long before the men could damage that bench.
I grabbed Simper and pushed him toward the small side gate of the castle. As light as it was, they had no time to circle the castle and climb to the grate. They needed darkness, and in a hurry.
Swallows dove and swooped above them as they raced pass the garden wall gate. There was a small man door leading to steps up to the family level in the castle. It would be unlikely any mercenaries had time to search the castle, other than in a cursory capacity. They had been kept too busy hanging the front doors, or so Mordon hoped. There were several ways out from the castle, but someone would have to know the passages to find them. Anyone unfamiliar with the castle might be surprised to know there were only the two exits. If the woman had been pressuring Scatley in their encampment, the mercenaries might have breathed a sigh of relief at finding only the two entrances.
The sounds of slaughter had diminished greatly. The woman was probably finishing the men who had crammed into the hallway, expecting to escape from the rear of the castle. If she was finished inside, she would no doubt thoroughly search the surrounding bailey, stables, the guard barracks, and anywhere anyone could possibly hide.
The woman might think Simper and he could get back to the cistern tower. She would be wrong in that assumption. Their lives depended on getting into the blackest place I could find.
Mordon raced to the off-set entrance in the outer wall. He pushed Simper into the narrow entrance, leaving bloody hand prints on the man’s leather armor. They moved as quickly as they could through the alley and into the plaza. I kept pulling Simper by the arm, “The tunnel between the two houses . . . we’ve got to get in and close the doors.”
Mordon ran only as quickly as Simper could manage. It took them five minutes to reach the house on Canter. The sun shone brightly just above the hills to the east. Simper was breathing heavily from the exertion by the time they ran into the open doors of the house in which Nolton and his men lay dead.
Finding the basement door took only a few seconds. They descended the wooden steps to the basement in the dark. Mordon found the open door of the cabinet, and waited for Simper to step past him. He quietly closed the cabinet door. With his hands as his guide, he blindly searched for something to wedge into the latch. There was nothing he could find close-at-hand on the tunnel floor. They would just have to depend on their hearing for any warning.
Mordon turned away from the cabinet door, “No light this time, Simp. We will just have to quick-time to the other end, and make sure the door is shut.” Mordon could hear Simper give a grunting laugh.
“Boyo, I’ve had to walk the tunnels below Donderly in the dark countless times. Ha, just try keeping up. If the door is open, I’ll close it. If it is closed, I’ll try to find something to disable the latch.”
“Okay, Simp . . . I lost count of the steps to the other side. I figure it is about 50 yards. I will walk half that distance, and wait for you to come back.” Not going himself was difficult for Mordon. He knew Simp could do what he could do at the opposite cabinet, he just felt the need to protect him. Simper and Wicliff had taught him everything he knew about swordsmanship, and life in general. Now Simp was in his life again, Mordon wanted no harm to come to the man who had helped raise him.
“Be back as soon as I can.”
After that, they kept quiet. Mordon could hear Simper’s footfalls moving away from him in the darkness. He took 30 steps and stood, waiting for Simper’s return. His thoughts were in turmoil. He had a lot of questions, but no answers. Mordon worried about the woman. Would this much killing take, and keep her over the edge of sanity? Would she even try to find him again? In her searching for escapees, would she remember him enough to let him and Simper live . . . if she could?
Mordon could only imagine the scene of her killing spree, and the fleeing of terror stricken men before her wrath. He was incapable of feeling sorry for those in the castle. They had done too much evil to so many. They did not deserve sympathy from anyone, especially him.
Cratty had to be Drake. The mercenaries knew him.
Mordon could hear footfalls approaching in the direction Simper had taken. They were lighter, without the slight thud of a heavy boot sole. Mordon knew there was no place else to run. He started to draw his sword in the tight alley when the woman’s voice came to him.
“You do not need your sword, Mordon of Widley.”
Mordon leaned against the alley wall in relief. Her voice sounded calm and composed. There had been respite in the sound of her voice as well. She was glad it was finished. What of Simper, was he lying dead at the end of the tunnel?
“Simper is hail of mind and body, waiting for us to return.”
Was it he who had gone mad in this city? A tremor ran through Mordon’s body with apprehension. Was he dreaming this in his mind? Maybe the powder had slipped him over into his own insanity. He stood against the wall, not knowing if he was somehow still dreaming in his bed, or if he was really in this dark tunnel listening to a voice that had become his whole life. Was the voice coming from someone alive with their own tale of living, or from the depths of his longing to be normal once more? A strong soft hand took his in tow.
Mordon could not help but step forward in the wake of the hand, drawing him to some conclusion of which he was totally unaware. He stumbled against the narrow walls, feeling as if he were being sucked into something over which he had no control.
He could see bright light coming from beyond the cabinet. Simper was standing with a smile on his face. The black silhouette of the woman was just in front of his leaden boots as he followed her the last few feet of the alley. They came out of the tunnel hand in hand. Mordon was unwilling to let go, afraid everyone would just disappear if he did. The woman was grasping his damaged and calloused hand with equal strength, but for her own reasons.
Mordon looked into the face of the woman as she turned to him. She was again blindfolded. The hood of her black cloak was thrown back. There was a profusion of bright golden hair falling below her shoulders. The smile on her face shown as if the sun had penetrated the stone walls
of the house. There was not a sign of blood, or any indication she had spent the last few moments taking lives. Except for her armored feet and lower legs, the cloak covered her very well. Mordon was finding it difficult to tear his eyes from her face. She seemed so familiar. She would fit right into the castle . . . it suddenly dawned on him. “My god . . . you are Raeah . . . the princess. I . . . I thought you dead.” Such an overwhelming wave of guilt suffused his mind that he could barely remain standing. He had lived, while he had let this woman’s entire family and way of living be torn apart. Numb of body and mind, Mordon kneeled and placed the back of her hand on his forehead. He felt Simper kneeling beside him.
“Now I remember your voice . . . but then I never was able to spend any time with you kids after you grew up. Your father was a good man, and your mother always treated us regulars with respect.”
Mordon let Raeah pull her hand from his. He did not have any right to hold the hand of the princess. Mordon kept his head bowed in thought, he could hear the two others talking, but what they said bypassed coherency.
“Let me have your sword, Sergeant Simper.”
Simper withdrew his sword, and handed it hilt first to Raeah.
“Since I seem to have been left with the only rightful authority here in Widley, I deem it necessary to form a new army. That army needs a leader.” She bent at the waist and felt for Simpers shoulder; his right shoulder came under her hand. Raeah placed the point of Simper’s sword upon his shoulder. “I name you, Captain Simper, captain of our castle guard, and leader of our new militia.” She tapped his shoulder with the blade, and then moved the point to his left shoulder and tapped it once. “Rise, Captain Simper, and accept the responsibility of your new station. Our kingdom and our castle, are now in your deserving hands. I know we will be kept safe with you leading our troops.”
Mordon felt Simper stand. He wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. Simper nudged him with one of his booted feet, bringing him back to the basement. He was not certain he liked this new reality . . . if this was reality. The princess was holding out her hand.
“Your sword, Mordon of Widley… now please.”
She had spoken the last two words softly, pleading with him to comply. What was taking place in this basement? She is the princess. There was no doubt in his numb mind she could do as she wished. But what good would come of improving their status? There was nothing left in Duratia, let alone Widley, except the three of them here in this dank basement, and, assuming from the blindfold, her deranged master. Nonetheless, Mordon withdrew his sword and placed the hilt in her strong right hand.
“You, Mordon of Widley, exemplify that which is good in Duratia. You persevered, where so many have perished. You, and your cohort standing next to you, fought back against insurmountable odds to survive and keep a portion of what King Widley desired most.” She bowed her head for a moment, and then stood proudly before the two men. “My father simply wanted everyone to lead happy lives in his kingdom. That was taken away from us by my master. You gave me the strength to fight back, Mordon of Widley. For that, I owe you my life, my sanity, and a blossoming desire to end his control of me. Therefore, with the power placed in my hands, I pronounce you a Nobleman of Duratia.” She tapped both his shoulders. “You may think what I do now to be hollow, Mordon. But I tell you, I have planted the seed of my master’s destruction. You, my captain, and I are going to find a way to crush his hold on the men who follow him. When we have accomplished that, we will destroy him. But before we start on this endeavor, you both will at last hear my story. If you do not kill me outright after the telling, I will be only further in your debts. Let us be gone from here, and retire to your cistern tower to eat. I am famished.” She bowed her head in the direction of the man she wished she could love, and wondered if he would realize a Nobleman had every right to wed a princess. When he did not move, she leaned down and returned his sword with one hand, and touched his shoulder with the other. “Rise, Sir Mordon of Widley, Nobleman of Duratia, and accept the office you have been given. May you find your rightful place among Noblemen of other kingdoms.”
Mordon stood, not liking his new station in life. But he was willing to die for this woman standing before him, his guilt would allow him to do no less. He knew being a Nobleman allowed him freedom to seek any willing woman in the kingdom. Mordon stood and gently grasped Raeah’s arm, leading her toward the spiral steps. Leaning down slightly he whispered, “I meant what I said that first day in your tower chamber.”
So, he does understand, thought Raeah.
PART II
CHAPTER 1
“I took the pewter mug so you would know I wished you alive,” she lied. Raeah smiled to herself. The mug had been taken as a token; a simple emblem of normalcy. The mug now rested upon her mother’s mother-of-pearl inlaid parlor table in the castle’s attic. Her father had hated the ostentatious little table. But her mother had adored the little piece of furniture because it represented distant elegance. Something her father insisted wasn’t necessary. The little table saw the light-of-day only when emissaries visited, and only in the foyer, far from where any entertaining took place. The mug was as significant to Raeah as the table had been to her mother; the solid metal mug represented straight-forward simplicity. The harsh reality of her present life, and the chaos that surrounded her, was held at arm’s length by a simple pewter mug.
Mordon leaned back, forgetting he was now seated on the barrel, and almost fell over. Simper chuckled at his forgetfulness while he chewed on his salted beef, fruit, and ale. Raeah was still blindfolded, even in this dimly lit tower. Mordon considered he had only imagined her smile, surmising the reason for Simper’s short laugh. It did not matter to Mordon. They could laugh at him all they wanted. The casual conversation, and being here with these two people, was the most normal his life had been for a long time. His bandaged hands were causing him less grief now. All things considered, he felt quite satisfied.
Wishing the woman to be a normal human being was fruitless. Though he longed for it to be so. Listening to her voice still made him want to press her to him and . . . he knew that thought, too, was futile. She had made him a Nobleman just so he felt he had the right to ask such things from her. She had admonished him; her words were not meaningless. But how could it avail them if her words did not change anything? He wanted to let himself love her, but could never truly believe it possible. It would only serve to complicate further a relationship as wispy as the morning fog. He mentally held a tight rein on his feelings. Mordon didn’t truly believe Raeah wanted, and felt the same, as he. He had once read, ‘A wise man looks beyond words.’ If all they had were spoken words, then he would consider each wasted word she gave him. If there was a way he, and now Simper, were being used, then it paid to be cautious. Mordon was more interested in the man he had let into his home than any mug. Mordon cleared his throat, “Who was Cratty?” From the dull light of a distant candle, Mordon could see her shift slightly in her chair before answering.
“I . . . I was finding bodies that I had not slain. Someone had made a good attempt at hiding what they had done. I knew they belonged to Simper’s group.”
Simper leaned forward in the near darkness, “Are you saying Drake, or this Cratty, was killing my men?”
“All I know is someone other than me was killing men. It would be safe to assume, if Cratty was pretending to be Drake, and found the opportunity to do his master’s bidding . . . . Is there anything you remember that would tie Cratty to their deaths?”
With his eyes on Raeah’s blindfolded face, Mordon could hear Simper rubbing his bristled chin with one of his hands.
“When the men went out in search of the ruins, those left in the tunnels would usually sleep. If Drake, if this Cratty, was on guard in the tunnel, it would have been easy for him to sneak out and follow those who had left.” Embarrassment vividly colored his next words, “Mordon, I apologize deeply for bringing such a man in
to your home. It gives me the absolute willies thinking about how many times I slept with him so near.”
Mordon shrugged, “I trusted him too, Simp, up until he didn’t want to help with the rafters.” Mordon tried to pierce what he could see of Raeah’s face. There was no way of knowing, with certainty, what she truly wanted from her words. The sound of her voice carried no falsity or innuendos he could denote. She had not finished talking about Cratty. “Tell us the rest about Cratty, please.” Talking to a princess demanded he be more respectful. He could not pretend to be sophisticated or polished, she knew better, and such refinement could only be approached through education and upbringing, which he did not have.
“If I speak of Cratty fully now, I will leave him out of the story I must tell you both.” The blindfold was irritating the bridge of her nose, but she ignored the irritation. What she had suffered in the past years made the uncomfortable blindfold seem as nothing. When neither of the two men responded, she breathed a quiet sigh and continued, “Cratty was my master’s lackey . . . just as I am. He was jealous of what my master, Poltarc, afforded me, and not him. He must have guessed I would come through here. Cratty lusted after what Poltarc allowed the others to have, but not him. I do not know if my master sent him here, or if he scurried away like the rat he was. He wanted me for himself. I could not have stopped him.”
Just thinking about it made her body cringe, “Poltarc took pleasure in experimenting upon me. One of the side effects of his experiments made my sight allow me to see the heat radiating from our bodies in the darkness. It was one of the things I did not tell him . . . a selfish pleasure I kept to myself. When I was here in the tower last, the third person in the tower had his back to me. This man you call Drake and the man who did not face me, perhaps in fear of your reactions was indeed Cratty. I knew where you, Captain Simper chose to sleep. It is doubtful I could have perceived it was Cratty, even if he stood before me since his face would have registered as just a source of heat, not as a clear picture. His voice coming from outside the garden wall sounded so completely different, I did not recognize it was coming from Cratty. Forgive me, I digress further and further from your question.”
Mordon of Widley Page 16