by J P Corwyn
“Hadn’t thought of signaling with it, though.” Valgar’s musing voice brought him back to the moment at hand.
Kaith grinned. He pointed above the lintel where a broad metal sculpture hung. It had been crafted of brass fitted decoratively into iron and made to look like the cup of a rose with its petals unfurled.
“Are we meant to beat that pretty thing when we actually have to sound the alarm?” It was clear from Kaith's tone that he was amused by the idea. The fact that someone would pay to have an alarm klaxon, a large chunk of metal whose sole purpose was to be beaten violently in order to raise an alarm, sculpted and shaped into a work of art worth the value of most villages was an oddment, to be sure. It was the sort of frivolity only a noble would even consider, let alone commission. Still, Kaith could see that the thing was well-crafted, and its creator’s decision to unfurl the pedals wide and exaggerate the depth of the cup would shape the sound it made while it was being beaten. He'd learned about how to shape and dissipate sound from his father before he’d passed. A blacksmith who had done his share of work on both weapons and armor, his father had shown him how, in a warrior’s helm, sound changed based on the angles of the metal as they related to the ear.
Valgar looked at Kaith, then at the giant rose sculpture, then back at Kaith. His eyes were huge. Tentatively; he reached up to his right hand and knocked on the rose. The soft, resonant bong that resulted caused him to recoil, then grinned sheepishly as he looked back at Kaith.
"How did you know?" Valgar asked this with a tone of deep respect and obvious wonder.
Kaith shrugged. “The metal, the position, the overall shape, and so on.” He wasn’t trying to be falsely modest, nor was he trying to belittle the older man. Kaith just knew what he knew. He saw no need to thump his own chest about it.
The wonder left Valgar's face and was replaced with a slow, sly grin. He put a hand on Kaith's shoulder and offered him a nod. "I've come here eleven of the last thirteen years in the Countess's service, and never knew that. Are all smith's sons as bright as new steel, or is it just you?" Valgar laughed.
Kaith returned the grin and then chuckled. "Aye, well we have to do something," he said. "We can't all be born pretty as a maid, like you."
Valgar shoved him playfully but kept his hand prudently on Kaith's shoulder so as not to accidentally send him tumbling off of the balcony.
“By the way, heard some of the knights talking earlier,” Kaith said. The grin hadn’t left his face, though his voice sounded serious enough. “They asked who the willowy woman in the pretty green dress might be. They noted her this morning as she was heading to the jakes, and were curious as to whether or not she was married.”
Valgar looked confused until Kaith reached over and plucked at the other man’s green tunic. It hung long, stretching down to midcalf. It was split down the front to allow him to sit easily in the saddle. Unbelted, however, and from behind, it could certainly have been mistaken for a dress in the early morning dimness.
Kaith laughed at the mock-indignance that sprang to Valgar’s face. A moment later; he struggled to defend himself from the incoming punches that Valgar rained on him. They were halfhearted, more amused frustration than anything else, though his face was red with embarrassment.
“What are you complaining about? I only told one of them which room was yours, and he’s the richest of the lot!” Kaith said.
It was then that they’d heard the screams.
Valgar pulled his dagger from its sheath and began to beat its pommel against the rose, raising the alarm, even as Kaith grabbed up the short-bow and slung its quiver over his head to rest on one shoulder. He knocked an arrow and looked toward where he gauged the screams were coming from.
Squires and men-at-arms came rushing toward the bridge, weapons at the ready. The tattoo of rapid hoofbeats pounded out a hectic rhythm to accompany the scream. It was definitely one scream now. The other had …ceased.
A moment later, the assembled armsmen saw young Robis thundering toward the bridge, his frame bent low over the neck of his horse, riding for all the world as if death itself dogged his heels, and yes: screaming.
The men let him pass over the bridge and into the town without a challenge. They closed up rank behind him, facing the orchard land which lay beyond the grasses to the south of town. Nothing moved. Nothing gave chase.
Valgar stopped beating the rose once Robis was over the bridge.
Kaith heard indistinct shouts and recognize the voices of several of the knights. They had obviously come out of the manor house, swords in hand, no doubt, at the sound of the alarm.
Squinting, his eyes following the line made by his knocked arrow, Kaith saw the unmistakable white flank of a horse lying down in the tall grass some hundred yards south of town. It wasn’t moving.
Hadn't he seen Robis's father on a horse that color? He wondered if, perhaps, something had spooked Sir Reginald’s horse and it had fallen over. If it’d crushed his father, that might explain Robis’s fear. If he’d never seen death before, his father being crushed might be enough to run him mad, temporarily at least.
He opened his mouth to say something to that effect to Valgar when the other man spoke up.
“You have the watch," Valgar said. His voice was somber, and a bit clipped. "I'm for Greggor to see what he'd have of us."
Kaith called his name to hold him up. In short order, he told Valgar what he'd seen, and what he suspected. Valgar thanked him, and entered the guardhouse from the balcony, closing the door behind him.
Ten minutes or so passed before the knights came out to the bridge to question their squires and men-at-arms. In hushed tones Kaith couldn't hear clearly, they told their lords what they’d seen. When, some thirty minutes later, Valgar and Greggor came to find him, they told him the strange tale the young Lord had recounted. Robis’s report had been disconcerting, to say the least. Speak the truth and spurn the treasure. Had it not been for witnesses among the armsmen, nobody would’ve believed the tale.
✽✽✽
THREE
“Sir Reginald and Robis found the man and boy, right enough,” Greggor said, “dead with their throats and stomachs gored.” He spoke simply, his voice calm, devoid of emotion. “A wolf lay within arm’s reach of the pair. Forester’s dagger, his hand still white-knuckled around it, was buried to the hilt in the beast’s throat. What had happened seemed clear enough.”
Kaith’s nod was perfunctory. His desire to go and see Robis – to check on him and offer condolences – was currently at war with his duty to hear and understand to the best of his ability, and to await further orders from Greggor and Valgar. As Greggor continued his tale, Kaith’s duty won out, but it was a near thing.
“Sir Reginald had dismounted, walked over to the nearest corpse, that of the boy, and slung it over his shoulder. He’d turned back toward his horse when the boy began to move.”
At first, they were overjoyed thinking perhaps they’d arrived in time after all. Those hopes, however, were quickly dashed.
“The boy had struggled, and finally managed to push his way up so that he was seated in Reginald’s left arm.” Here Greggor paused, his face betraying a mixture of sorrow and disgust. “According to Robis, Reginald turned his smiling face toward the boy, as if to ask him how he was feeling, but before he could open his mouth, the boy opened his own and buried it in Reginald’s gullet.”
Greggor's voice grew hollow, but he pressed on in spite of his obvious discomfort. "Robis described the boy's skin as shifting to an unnatural blue. He thinks he saw a mouth full of wolf's teeth, and dark-colored nails at the end of his fingers, but that may just be his horror talking. Sir Reginald screams had been cut off very suddenly. He collapsed to the ground with the boy still making what Robis hauntingly describes as wet, gnawing sounds at the soft flesh of the old man's throat." He took a moment to collect himself, cleared his throat in an obvious effort to stave off picking the tale up again, but finally, he seemed to decide that it was best to see
it through to the end and have done. "Robis screamed, attempted to move forward, and both Milton and the wolf's bodies leapt to their respective feet, lunging toward him. As Robis spurred his own horse away; he saw Milton lunge toward Reginald. The wolf was running, hells bent for pudding, on his own heels. Both Forester and the wolf disappeared back into the grass before Robis had made it more than a few yards."
“This last is confirmed by some of the armsmen who stood at the bridge after we sounded the alarm," said Valgar. It was like him to share or utterly give away glory or credit for quick thinking, even when he alone were truly responsible. Conversely, he rarely shared the blame when blame was necessary. "Several of them reported seeing a man and a dog, or perhaps a wolf, giving chase on foot before appearing to trip and fall into the grasslands. They didn't rise again."
“Robis…” Kaith blanched at the grim tale. After a moment; he forced himself to ask what he feared was the obvious question.
“Are we to go and investigate?" He wasn't excited at the prospect but knew it needed to be done.
“No,” Greggor said. “Sir Cedric will take some of his men-at-arms to accomplish that chore. Depending on what he sees...” Greggor trailed off.
“We’ll likely know whether this is a plague or curse.” Valgar said. If Greggor minded the younger man finishing his sentence, he gave no sign.
Kaith furrowed his brow. After a moment during which he tried to answer his own question and found that he couldn’t, he asked aloud.
“How? Moreover, what’s the difference between a plague and a curse, in this context at least?” He wasn’t certain if he should feel like a fool for not knowing, but fool or not, the fact remained that he didn’t know, and, as his father always told him, silence won’t remedy that.
Greggor and Valgar exchanged a look, but Kaith reckoned the exchange served only to determine which of them would answer the questions. After a moment; Greggor nodded and began to speak.
“There's no way to be utterly sure unless you're the one who brings such an evil down on a place or person. Usually, at least according to what you might call old wisdom, a plague requires a wound, usually a bite, from one of the infected. A curse, on the other hand, only requires death in a particular area. In an accursed place, the dead don’t stay quiet, no matter how they die.” He paused, as he often did, to collect and order his thoughts, then finished his explanation in a more businesslike tone - the efficient administrator once again, despite the grim subject matter.
“If they can find bite or claw marks on the wolf itself, that would be a fairly plain sign. If there were birds in the area, they could kill one and see if it stood back up, but as there aren't any, options are limited." He paused for just a moment, looking as if he were mulling something over. At length, he seemed to come to a decision, and concluded, "If they can't make a clear case one way or t'other on their own, it's likely they'll take either a corpse or heads for proving the truth of what we face here. A skilled enough alchemist should be able to determine the difference. So…" He stood up from his hunkered position and turned to go. "I'd better start asking around to see if we have such a one here, or if there's one in a nearby village just in case."
“In the meantime," said Valgar, "sharpen the spears, the glaives, and the bill hooks." With a pale resolve, he added: "We'll want weapons that have reach if it comes to fighting."
Kaith tried on a look of grim determination without much success. He'd managed to adopt the look easy enough, but it felt like it was going to suddenly slip from his face at any moment, revealing the truth. He was treading water, emotionally speaking. Hoping to stave off questions, or worse, coddling sympathy, he'd nodded, gave them both a searching look and then moved off to do precisely as Valgar had commanded.
✽✽✽
FOUR
Valgar approached, pulling him out of his reverie. Sir Valgar, he amended, was a man only a few years older than him at twenty-eight. His long hair and full beard were a sun-bleached blond. His limbs were long and thin, yet there was good muscle there. He put a hand on Kaith's shoulder, his hazel eyes knowing, and full of mirth. Kaith gave him a deep, deferential nod and a quick smile before returning his attention to the small ceremony going on beyond the crowd.
He saw Lanwreigh’s face as the youth of fifteen attached his spurs. He looked uncertain as to whether or not he wanted to find something to stab, or merely to weep. Kaith understood why.
FIVE
Robis’s story had been verified by Sir Cedric of Eastshadow. He had found the grim tableau near the edge of the grasslands without much trouble. Though they’d stayed clear of the fallen Sir Reginald for fear he would awaken with a spark of his old skill, they kept Milton, his son, and the wolf at bay with long spears and lances before removing their heads.
Lanwreigh's father had then undertaken the next grim duty. He took his youngest son, his second squire (Lanwreigh was technically his first) and their three men-at-arms and rode with all haste to the village of Longwheat. It lay a day to the south by cart, but with fast horses, there was every chance they would make it before sundown. Greggor learned that Longwheat had a skilled apothecary amongst its villagers, and so Sir Cedric had taken the three heads in an unlovely burlap sack to be tested through some arcane rootcraft for signs of plague and disease.
Several families had loaded their wagons and left with the Eastshadow party. They didn't want to remain while their home was under such an evil omen. Fourteen men, women, and children followed Sir Cedric's van to the south. None of them had returned, as of yet.
Kaith had spent an unsuccessful hour trying to speak with, and, perhaps, offer some consolation to Robis. Robis would have none of it. He’d simply sat in sullen, shocked silence no matter what Kaith had said or done.
Lanwreigh’d found him, miserable and frustrated at his failures, half an hour later stalking along the inner bank of the moat. They’d spent some time chatting, commiserating, and speculating before the conversation predictably turned to the hybrid subject of fighting, knighting, and arms.
“My father commanded me to remain behind in Westsong. He wanted me to try and “make an impression” upon the other squires, the other knights, and perhaps even the Countess.” Lanwreigh ran a hand through his raven’s wing-colored locks – a habit he’d unconsciously picked up from Robis. “He took my baby brother both to keep him from being under my feet, and to ease his obvious and obviously justified fear.” The chuckle that followed this was sardonic and utterly without mirth. The subtext was plain enough. What about my fear?
Kaith was supposed to be the bridge. Greggor had drilled that into him from almost the beginning. He’d been a free tradesman, a serf, and a professional armsman. Such social mobility was rare, if not unheard of, he knew, and that usually gave him the unique perspective needed to bring people together, or show them things from a different side. This time, however, he’d no idea what to say that would strengthen or comfort the youth before him.
He was spared the trouble of thinking about it over much. The sound of the rose being beaten by the guard of the watch drove out all such long thoughts.
Kaith and Lanwreigh bolted toward the bridge, dim-hands bracing and steadying their swords along their hips as they ran. They skidded to a halt, staring.
The horse that should’ve born Lanwreigh’s younger brother came trotting back over the bridge, its white body covered in flecks of blood and a thin sheen of sweat.
“No…” he breathed. “No, no, no, no, no!”
It’d been little more than an hour since they’d left for Longwheat. Twenty souls between Sir Cedric’s party and the refugees had ridden out to find either answers or a place to weather the storm. Now it was unclear if any had survived at all, let alone made it safely to the apothecary’s village.
✽✽✽
SIX
That had been yesterday. Lanwreigh had held up well. He’d spent the rest of the day and half the night with a practice sword in hand, striking the pell. Kaith more than understood
. Leagues from home, no close kith or kin near at hand to comfort him… Lanwreigh hadn’t had any time to grieve, nor to put either his heart or mind in order.
Every man and most boys are certain that they know how they'd react in a given situation. More often than not, they're sure that they could kill if they had to, certain that they'd be strong in the face of horror and loss. The truth was, those thoughts proved to be so much chest thumping and blustered air, as often, if not more often than they rang true. In the ordinary course of things, there was no guarantee of ever having the opportunity to find out whether those assertions were so much meaningless dust, or were half-buried truths, like iron ore, waiting for fire to shape it and prove its strength. Tonight, in the village of Westsong, the ordinary course of things no longer appeared to hold any sway.
Before the Countess's announcement and the excited hope that it brought, every face had been resigned, every eye full of purpose. It was easy not to be afraid of the dark when the sun was shining. Now that the night had fallen, however, Kaith found himself wondering whether or not their resolve would hold. When faced with the ugly truth of what they were about to undertake, would that resolve proved to be dust or iron? Speak the truth and spurn the treasure; it wasn’t simply their resolve he was worried about, nor was it Lanwreigh’s. Given what lay before them, he was almost as worried about his own.
CHAPTER 3:
OF SILVER AND BLOOD
ONE
Kaith watched as the Countess fought against the instinct to rush through the already shortened ceremony. She accepted oaths of fealty at a determinedly measured pace, even as the lowering night sky was swiftly drained of its splendor and warmth.
