by K. C. Herbel
Hengest then held out the head to Ergyfel. “For you, Your Majesty. Two heads are better than one.”
Hengest’s gruesome performance increased Ergyfel’s mirth until he laughed uncontrollably. “It’s good to have you here, Brother. No one around here has your sense of humor. Oh, there is one more little problem I want you to take care of, but the little faerie bastard can wait ‘til after we’ve properly celebrated your arrival.”
Hengest dropped Lord Angall’s head and exited the great hall with his brother. “That Lord Angall. Has he always been so headstrong?”
Ergyfel threw back his head and guffawed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sir Who?
Hugh woke with a start. Cold had crept into his bones until its grip shook him from his sleep. A sleep plagued by accusing images of a friend betrayed.
The former knight surveyed his surroundings. The last thing he remembered with any clarity, was ordering a drink at the Blood and Slobber Inn for a Gwythie sergeant who promised not to toss him out if he paid. Now he was in a garbage-filled alley, sitting in muck and ankle-deep water, a bottle of cheap wine in his hand. His head pounded like an angry landlord while his gut pondered the feasibility of ejecting its contents past his thick, pasty tongue.
The filth reeking in the gutter coaxed his stomach in favor of ejection and he fought to keep it down. Hugh brought the wine bottle to his nose, thinking that it might help cover the smell. Like the hair-trigger of a finely crafted crossbow, the odor of stale wine caused Hugh to retch.
With his stomach empty, Hugh pulled himself up and stumbled out of the alley. As he skulked through the muddy backstreets and putrid alleyways of Dyven, his heart wept. The once bustling city-port he’d enjoyed in his youth had become a black, sooty nightmare, and the dreams that had built it—ashes. The smell of burnt timbers which had lingered on the air for days was now faint, thanks to recent rains. Unfortunately, this only made the stench of the bodies more urgent.
Gwythia’s soldiers were still everywhere. They bullied those with anything of value, taking what they pleased, including the innocence of daughters. Anyone who got in their way was severely beaten, or lashed to death in the market square and had their home burned to the ground. The Gwythies banned funerals and burial rites, and forbade starting a fire to all but the occupying troops.
Cruelties heaped upon cruelties as the piles of corpses grew. Each act was more malicious, more savage than the last, until the spirit of Dyven’s people was broken. Captive in their own city, they wandered its dying streets in a trance.
Onto this grim tapestry, shambled Hugh—dirty, faceless, beaten—his wounded thigh still cursing him. He watched from the safety of an alley as several previously human creatures, dressed in tattered rags, picked a fresh corpse clean of all dignity and belongings. He remembered thinking the previous night that he must be in hell. In the grey, rain-streaked light of day, he saw nothing to change his mind.
A few streets away, Hugh witnessed the ghoul-like stripping of another body. The rag pickers flocked around their prey, picking and tearing, circling and bobbing like carrion birds, unfettered by judgments of humanity. They never seemed to consider that the corpse had been their neighbor, or that they might be next. Hugh felt dizzy. He turned and limped away.
Suddenly, a man grabbed Hugh and dragged him into a doorway. The assailant then flung him inside the abandoned building. Hugh struggled, but in his state, it was futile.
“Sir Hugh.” The man’s face was veiled in shadows. “Thank God I found you.”
Hugh squinted, trying to pierce the darkness. “Who?”
The man stepped forward to reveal his handsome, slender face.
“Malcolm … the Magnificent.” Hugh felt indifferent. In truth, some part of him wished the juggler had been a murderer. “What do you want?”
“What do I want?” Malcolm exclaimed. “Not a fortnight past, you were on your deathbed, or so I thought. I awoke to find you gone, along with my dagger. Where have you been? You look … and smell horrid!”
“Don’t worry about me.” Hugh scratched his chin stubble and sat against the wall. “I’m fine. But I had to sell your dagger.”
“Sold? Why?”
The morning he’d escaped the little shack where they had hidden, he’d risen before the sun while Malcolm still slept. The exhausted highlander had done his best to hide the weapons from his suicidal friend, but the veteran warrior knew that he would keep something in reach. It was a simple matter to find the dagger and slip away into the darkness.
“Why? Why did you sell it?”
Hugh still did not answer him. Instead, he stared at his hands. The cuts where he had gripped the dagger’s blade were still angry. A moment’s hesitation, Hugh thought. An infinitesimal moment … to think, to feel one’s pulse. … Then the moment expands, and you are still alive, still breathing, still staring at the means to end all your pain. It would be so easy. Then comes another moment.
“The sun rose at that moment,” Hugh said.
“What?”
Hugh glanced up at his companion. “I hadn’t the courage to use it, so I sold it.”
“You needed money?”
“Aye. Well, not right away. After I was kicked out of the Blood and Slobber, the first time …”
“The tavern?”
“Aye.”
“With the whole place crawling with Gwythies? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Hugh made no comment save a short grunt.
“Good God, man. What’s the matter with you? Why, look at yourself. You’re a stinkin’ mess! You should be making plans to rescue her ladyship, and you’re out drinkin’ and carryin’ on with the damned enemy!”
Hugh glared at Malcolm, but a guilty conscience would not allow him to maintain eye contact. He’s right. He turned away. He’s so bloody right. Billy. I’m a coward. What can I do?
Hugh struck the wall with his fist. When the pain registered, he leaned into the wall. Tears of frustration and self-pity streamed down his face. He felt trapped and ashamed.
“I’m such a coward,” Hugh said into his arm.
“A coward? You’re certainly not that.”
Hugh stood. “No. I am the worst kind of coward. I betrayed the gentlest, most caring person I ever knew, and brought about his death. Me: Defender of the weak.”
“No, my friend, you are the one wronged. I, too, miss the lad. Just knowing that he’s dead; the world seems less bright. But we cannot live in the past. That was yesterday’s battle. Today, we must save Lady Myrredith.”
Hugh started for the door. “I can’t help Myrredith. I can’t help anyone.”
Malcolm stopped him. “You’re the only one who can.”
“Don’t you see?” Hugh wished Malcolm would just let him leave. “Everything I do must fail! I betrayed my friend, and God was watching.”
“No.” Malcolm shook his head.
Hugh’s own words caused his frustration and self-pity to tangle and twist together. They fed on each other, growing and churning. “I am damned. Billy’s blood is on my hands, and I can never make that right.”
“Punishing yourself will not bring him back.”
“God is punishing me. God!” Hugh spun around and smacked Malcolm with a vicious punch. The juggling-master fell to the floor like so many dropped balls.
Hugh started for the door. He looked back and saw that Malcolm wasn’t moving. He crouched down beside him and placed an ear to the entertainer’s chest. The pulse was strong and regular.
Hugh found himself staring at Malcolm’s purse. It was tucked neatly into his belt, but otherwise was free. Hugh sat up and turned away.
“No. I can’t. I won’t.”
Struck by a sudden thirst, he eyeballed the purse. He licked his lips while he pondered how many drinks he might buy with the coins it contained. His mind, unsteady in purpose, began to tread down the road that he had seldom ever glanced.
Outside, the rain increased, and its hiss seeped in
to Hugh’s consciousness. “Drink,” it whispered seductively. “Drink and forget. Forget and find peace.”
Hugh snatched the purse from Malcolm’s belt and dashed out the door. He ran on, driven by the rain. He was not mindful of his destination or whereabouts until he stopped at an alley behind several charred buildings. Fire had gutted all but one in the entire block. Hugh glanced about and noted numerous barrels stacked in the muddy alley. Over the back door of the remaining structure, the painted words “Blood and Slobber,” looked down and beckoned.
Hugh stared at the door as the cold rain trickled over his body. He examined the small pouch in his hand. It clinked as he turned it over. A stroke of lightning illuminated the three gold circles that made up Malcolm the Magnificent’s personal crest. There was another flash, and Hugh saw with his mind’s eye an image of Billy and Malcolm juggling for Lady Myrredith.
Hugh threw the purse to the ground with disgust and collapsed to his knees. He sobbed and fell forward, his hands sinking into the muck.
Hugh straightened and blindly shook his filthy fists at the sky. With his energy spent, he sank back to his knees. He opened his eyes and stared at the mud between his knees. From the corner of one eye, he caught the glimmer of metal and looked over to see Malcolm’s purse. Several silver coins had spilled out onto the soggy earth.
“Silver,” Hugh muttered. “For Judas.”
The rain whispered, “Forget all that. Doesn’t your leg still hurt?”
“No.” Hugh moaned. “I can’t.”
“Wash away your troubles. Drink and forget.”
It would be something to forget. To lose myself, if only for a moment.
“Yes,” the soothing rain whispered. “That’s it.”
Trancelike, Hugh placed the silver back into the purse and put it in his shirt. He used a barrel to pull himself to his feet, and then headed around the tavern and in the front door.
Shortly, there was a disturbance within the Blood and Slobber Inn. The door burst open, and Hugh sailed through it. His feet hit the slick muddy stones of the street and down he went. A husky, ruddy-faced soldier filled the doorway, surrounded by his exuberant comrades.
“I told ya to stay out,” Hugh’s ouster bellowed. “Ya stinkin’ bucket of biswail!”
Hugh pushed up to his knees and spat out a bit of turf. His eyes came up on his assailant as the man stepped out the door.
“He’s spittin’ at ya, Sergeant,” one of the Gwythies said.
The ruffian stepped forward. “I guess ya haven’t learnt yer lesson yet.”
Hugh held up his hands to block the large fists coming at his head, but then the man kicked him in the gut. He doubled over, and the sergeant pounded his ribs and back. The spiteful blows knocked Hugh to the stone paving.
Just then, a buxom woman pushed her way between the men at the door and ran out. “Stop it, stop it!”
“Heather, no!” the barkeep shouted from within.
The pretty barmaid paid no heed to her employer and continued into the street. She put herself between the Gwythie sergeant and Hugh, then knelt beside the latter to give him aid.
“This stinkin’ meddwyn spilled my ale and got his stinkin’ puke all over my best tunic,” the sergeant snapped. “Now he comes back in here stinkin’ and drippin’ filth. The good-for-nothin’ lout should be horse whipped.”
Heather lifted Hugh’s head from the street. She looked up through the rain at the grumbling soldier. Tears filled her eyes. Despite the fresh bruises on her cheek and breast, she was quite luscious. “This is Sir Hugh.”
The sergeant grabbed her chin. “Sir Who?”
“Sir Hugh. He’s a knight … a noble.”
The sergeant released her. “That pile o’dung?”
She stroked Hugh’s hair then said under her breath, “And I love him.”
The sergeant turned to his men. “Hey, lads, this wench says we got ourselves a real hero here. Let me introduce you to the Butcher of Sceula Tor!”
One by one, a score of grim soldiers filed out of the tavern and into the street. They circled around Heather and the fallen Hugh.
“Help me.” Heather looked up at them. “Help me get him up.”
“We’ll help ya.” One of the men grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet.
Immediately, the mob of soldiers tossed Heather over their shoulders until she was outside their ring. Like wolves attacking a sick deer, the soldiers descended on Hugh. Each man struck the former King’s Champion once or twice, shouting “for my father,” “for my brother,” “for Gaelyn,” or “remember Sceula Tor,” then fell back in line to allow the others their turn. The men in back kept Heather on the ground as she struggled to reach Hugh. The brutal, ritualistic beating continued until the sergeant, who remained in the middle of the circle, drew his gladius and pointed its short blade to the sky.
“Gaelyn! Your enemies fall before us.”
Heather screamed out as the sergeant plunged behind his men. There was a moment of silence, and then the soldiers turned their backs on Hugh and filed back into the Blood and Slobber Inn. They laughed and chatted about the rain as if nothing had transpired.
Heather crawled to the body of the king’s former champion. She lifted him up and rested his head in her lap. “Hugh! Why?”
One of the Gwythian soldiers stomped back into the street and grabbed Heather by her hair. She screamed and kicked as he tore her from the body of her secret love.
“Hugh!” Heather shouted again and again.
“Shut up, wench. There be real men inside, an’ you’ve got servin’ to do.”
The door of the inn slammed shut, and a ragged figure of a man appeared at the mouth of the tiny alley across from it. He kissed a small charm hanging around his neck and slipped it back into his shirt. With marked trepidation, the beggar stepped onto the street. The second step was more laborious, as the accompanying walking stick was necessary to complete it. Watchful, the bent man crossed to where Hugh lay.
The beggar prodded Hugh with his stick, then looked up and down the street. He knelt beside Hugh’s body and searched it with haste. He scanned the street again, and then with great difficulty, dragged the body off the street and disappeared into the alley.
CHAPTER NINE
Apprentice
“So, what’s been happening to Tirn Aill has something to do with my mother’s spell?”
“Quite so,” the first Witan said.
The second nodded. “Yes, indeed.”
The third Witan pinched Billy’s cheek. “You are as bright as your mother.”
“Perhaps brighter.”
“Even more so–”
“but it wasn’t really a spell.”
The Witan had been talking around in circles for nearly an hour. Just when Billy thought he was catching up, they would spring a “not exactly” or “not really” or “yes, but” on him, and the whole thing would start over.
“Wait right there.” Billy held up his hand. “Was it or wasn’t it a spell?”
The Witan glanced at each other then back to Billy.
The first Witan scratched its chin. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Yes, quite.” The second added.
The third frowned. “No, it’s not.”
Billy turned to the third Witan. Even after spending three days and a bit with the Witan, he still had trouble telling them apart. “Gwylid?”
“Aye.”
“You tell me.”
“Yes, you tell him, Gwylid.”
“Yes, by all means, Gwylid.”
“Don’t listen to us–”
“we don’t know anything.”
“Please, I don’t mean to offend you, but Gwylid says he can explain it, so I want to hear what he has to say.”
“Thank you, Highness.” Gwylid bowed. “Your wisdom besets your noble brow, as a crown.”
Billy returned the Witan’s bow and gestured for him to proceed.
“You see, Highness, your mother, Queen Eleanor, set
upon you a kind of spell. Not an ordinary spell. Oh no, no, no! And not just one—that is for sure …”
Gwylid looked up at Billy before continuing. “You see, every ruler of Tirn Aill has powers—that is, they can control—their will is absolute! Yes, that’s it. Over all things: flowers, trees, grass, the animals and birds. All Faerie, in fact, is subject to their will.”
“The weather?” Billy asked.
“Oh yes.”
“Quite.”
“Very astute, Highness.”
Billy nodded to them. “So, what’s gone wrong?”
“Well, you see–”
“the enchantment we removed–”
“wasn’t really a spell.”
“Then what was it?”
“A spellbinder,” the Witan said in unison.
“A spell-binder?”
“Very important thing to understand–”
“if you are to weave a lasting spell–”
“a permanent spell.”
“Most mortal wizards–”
“search their whole pitiful lives–”
“but never find it.”
“And my mother knew how?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Taught her, we did.”
“But we never expected … you.”
“Me?”
“Your royal mother must have known that she was to die.”
“So, she placed in you all her power.”
“And bound it to you.”
“In you–”
“all your life–”
“was the power to rule Faerie.”
“And you took it away!” Billy shouted. “Why didn’t you just leave it alone?”
“Use it ... you could not.”
“Locked away it was–”
“like a bird in a cage.”
“We have unraveled her spells and opened the cage.”
“You must catch the bird–”
“and tame it.”
“What? You mean the magic that rules Tirn Aill is ... loose?”
“It’s still here–”
“it’s just …”