Stronghold

by Paul Finch

  Ranulf ran on. FitzUrz and Tallebois were just ahead but, as the moon slipped behind clouds, they found themselves fleeing through complete darkness. When FitzUrz turned his ankle, it snapped like a stick. He howled as he fell. Ranulf swerved towards him, but before he could reach him another dead thing, gargling black filth but armed with a massive club, ghosted around the trunk of the nearest tree. Ranulf veered away as it commenced to land blow after blow on FitzUrz's unprotected skull.

  Ranulf and Tallebois were now the only two left. Both were fleeing neck-and-neck when they skidded out from the trees onto the open bluff to the west of the castle. Vast numbers of the dead were already gathered there and now - as one - turned slowly to face them.

  Tallebois slid to a halt, his mouth locking open, his eyes bulging. Ranulf grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him southwards rather than straight down the slope.

  "There are too many!" the squire gibbered.

  "Towards the river! Fast as you can!"

  Ranulf buffeted more corpses out of their way as they ran. Claws slashed at them; he had to duck a mighty stroke from a long-handled Dane-axe. But the slope was at last dropping towards the Tefeidiad, the moonlit surface of which glittered just below them.

  The last fifty yards were perhaps the worst.

  "Use your strength, your weight... anything you've got!" Ranulf panted, as the dead closed in again.

  Tallebois still had his dagger. When a woman, whose severed head hung down her back on a few sinews, reached out and caught him, he smote her hand off at the wrist.

  "That's the way!" Ranulf shouted. He himself had managed to pick up a war-hammer. A corpse stumbled towards him and he swung the mighty cudgel, crushing its cranium. Another came towards him and he smashed its forehead - with such force that a soup of liquid brain matter spurted from its eye sockets.

  The river was now tantalisingly close. Though a great mob of the dead were descending from behind, only a relative handful - three at the most - were in front.

  "We can make it!" Ranulf shouted.

  Tallebois was so racked with terror and fatigue that his voice squeaked. "We'll drown!"

  "If you can't swim, just stay afloat. The current will carry us past the castle. We might be able to get ashore on its east side!"

  "Might be able to?"

  "Now you see why we aren't wearing mail!"

  The final few feet of slope were steep, muddy and strewn with loose stones. They skidded and tripped their way to the bottom, blundering headlong into the final clutch of corpses. Ranulf hit the first one head-on, barrelling into its chest, catapulting it backward into the river. Tallebois wasn't so lucky. The other two caught hold of him, one wrapping its arms around his waist and burying its teeth into his naked left thigh, the other looping a skeletal arm around his neck, trying to throttle him. With gurgling bleats, Tallebois hacked with his dagger, but it had no effect. The would-be throttler bought its leering visage close to his tear-stained face. He slashed it back and forth, mangling it, chopping it away in chunks, exposing the grinning skull beneath, but not slowing its attack in the least. Its pendulous green tongue quivered as it hung from the chasm where its lower jaw had once been. It raked its bony claws across his chest and belly, drawing five crimson trails through the sooty grease.

  And then Ranulf took its legs from under it.

  He swept in with a two-handed blow so fierce that both the creature's knee joints were shattered, and the lower portions of its limbs sent spinning into the darkness. It fell thrashing to the ground. The other monster ceased its gnawing on Tallebois's thigh and swung around to face Ranulf. Its nose was missing, along with its upper lip, but its ivory teeth were fully intact and coated with blood. Taking possession of the sobbing squire's dagger, it came hard at Ranulf, aiming a blow that would have skewered him through the heart. He dodged it, spun around and brought the hammer full circle, catching the creature at the base of its backbone, breaking it clean through.

  "Into the water!" he shouted, grabbing Tallebois, yanking him to his feet and hurling him over the last few feet of ground into the river.

  Before Ranulf followed, he turned just once.

  The rest of the revenants were only yards away, looking for all the world like some vast assembly of reeking remains ploughed from a plague pit, yet tottering down through the darkness towards him. The one whose spine he'd just broken was still on its feet, but now the upper part of its body had folded over until it hung upside down - as though it was made of paper.

  Shaking his head at the sheer perversity of what he was witnessing, Ranulf threw the war-hammer into the midst of them, turned and dived into the Tefeidiad.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  "I saw great heaps of munitions, my lord. Nails, chains, piles of pebbles from the river shore. Ahhh..."

  Squire Tallebois gasped as Zacharius inserted another suture through his ripped-open thigh, using a needle that looked like a fishhook. Having washed the filth off with buckets of water from the well, both the squire and Ranulf were now warming themselves at a brazier inside the main stable block. Earl Corotocus, Navarre, du Guesculin and several other senior household knights stood around them, listening to their report. Fiery shadows played on their attentive faces as Tallebois spoke.

  Ranulf, who had pointedly said nothing so far, climbed tiredly into his mail leggings. He and Tallebois had managed to scramble out of the river on the east side of the castle, but only with great difficulty. Having met no more of the dead there, they'd needed to clamber back down into the moat and squeeze themselves along the drain. Thankfully, the earl's men had pulled them up the garderobe chute, but by this time they'd been completely exhausted and the last thing Ranulf had wanted was a face-to-face interrogation.

  "They were restocking the scoop-thrower, as we feared," the squire jabbered, a vague light of madness in his eyes. "By cockcrow tomorrow, I fancy we'd have been facing the iron hail again. All over again! The iron-"

  "But you destroyed the blasted machine?" Corotocus asked.

  "Absolutely, my lord. It can't be used any more, ahhh..." Tallebois gasped again as a particularly gruesome gash was closed with a single tight thread. "But there is something else. They had also piled up colossal blocks of stone, which looked as if they'd been freshly quarried. The sort a mason might use to lay foundations with."

  "And?"

  The squire shrugged. "The dead don't build, my lord... do they? Captain Garbofasse thought they were projectiles. He said this meant they were bringing the mangonels to the western bluff. That'd they'd be ready either later today or maybe tomorrow."

  Du Guesculin sucked in his breath. "My lord, the iron hail would merely sweep the Constable's Tower roof, but from that close range the mangonels will destroy it! We must retreat to the Keep at once."

  Corotocus said nothing.

  "My lord, do you hear me? We should fill the Keep basement with supplies-"

  "We will retreat to the Keep, du Guesculin, as and when the situation demands it," the earl interjected.

  "But my lord, great blocks of stone...?"

  Ranulf buckled his hauberk in place, feeling even deeper scorn for the household banneret than he usually did. It was a pity du Guesculin hadn't been so frantic in his concerns when the south wall defenders had had to face these missiles.

  Earl Corotocus now turned to Ranulf. "What's your opinion of this enterprise? Did it succeed?"

  Ranulf shrugged. "I always said the mangonels would be brought against the west wall in due course, my lord."

  "And the scoop-thrower? It's completely disabled?"

  "I didn't see that. So I can't comment."

  The earl's eyebrows arched. "You didn't see it? How can that be?"

  "He wasn't with us," Tallebois piped up. "He went to find the countess."

  "You... went to find the countess?" Corotocus repeated slowly, his eyes suddenly burning into Ranulf like smoking spear-points.

  "To cut the head off the snake," Tallebois added. "That was what he said.
"

  There was an amazed silence in the stable, broken only by the snuffling of horses and popping of coals in the brazier. Corotocus continued to gaze at Ranulf, a gaze the young knight returned boldly as he adjusted his coif. At last, Navarre stepped forward.

  "You expect us to believe, FitzOsbern," he said, his voice a low, ultra-dangerous monotone, "that a man like you, a sentimental fool who'd take the code literally even to the point of his own death, would murder Countess Madalyn in her sleep?" Before Ranulf could reply, Navarre had thrown down his gauntlet. "This says differently!"

  Resignedly, Ranulf collected his sword-belt from a corner, buckled it to his waist, and reached down for the gauntlet.

  "Pick that glove up, Ranulf, and you cross swords with me as well," Earl Corotocus said.

  "My lord!" Navarre protested.

  "We are all of us engaged in a trial by battle!" the earl shouted. "Or hadn't you dogs noticed?" He rounded back on Ranulf. "But you, sir, have some questions to answer. You say you went to look for the countess?"

  "The only way for us to survive this situation, my lord, is to parley with her," Ranulf tried to explain.

  "And you took that duty on yourself?"

  "You weren't there."

  "You insolent..." Navarre snapped, but the earl raised a hand for silence.

  "It wasn't my initial plan," Ranulf added. "But it seemed like a sensible idea at the time."

  There was another prolonged silence. Earl Corotocus watched Ranulf very carefully. Thus far unscathed by the siege, the earl's smooth, handsome features were pale with anger, his blue eyes blazed - but, as always, he was in full control of his emotions.

  "I take it you failed?" the earl finally said.

  "Yes," Ranulf admitted, truthfully.

  They continued to stare at each other intently, as if both parties were waiting for the other to give something away.

  At last, the earl sniffed and said: "You and Tallebois get yourselves some food, and them some sleep. I want you back at your posts by dawn."

  As Corotocus walked back towards the Constable's Tower, Navarre hurried across the courtyard to catch up with him.

  "My lord, my lord... FitzOsbern is a traitor."

  "I know."

  "You should have let me kill him."

  "And divide the company in two?"

  "He won't have that much support."

  "He has more than you think," Corotocus said. "He's ended the iron hail. He's the man who held the Gatehouse bridge, remember? He's the one who warned us that we might soon be facing our own dead. Even the household men were listening to that."

  "Sire, you are Earl Corotocus of Clun, first baron of the realm. FitzOsbern is nobody. A former wolf-head, a rogue knight who-"

  "The men are frightened, Navarre!" Corotocus snapped, stopping in his tracks. For a fleeting second, he too looked vaguely unnerved. "They are also tired. They don't share our desire to show King Edward that the Earldom of Clun can hold the Welsh at bay." He strode on. "Besides, I'm not convinced that in a straight duel you'd be able to kill him."

  "He'd be the first one to beat me..."

  "There's always a first one, you imbecile."

  They mounted the ramp to the Constable's Tower. Ordinarily there'd be guards on its entrance, but now all available men were on the walls. Corotocus and Navarre's iron-shod feet echoed in the tight, switchback stairwell as they ascended to the battlements.

  "In that case, arrest him while he's sleeping," Navarre said. "Bring charges, make it legal."

  "Much as I'm loathe to admit it, we need his sword. We need everyone's sword." The earl halted again, thinking. "But from now on, Navarre, stay close to him."

  "Of course."

  "Watch his every move." Corotocus smiled coldly, as though anticipating a treat. "When the time is right, Ranulf FitzOsbern will learn what it means to defy my will."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  In the darkest and quietest part of the night, with his assistant sleeping in the wagon, Doctor Zacharius made a solo round of his infirmary, checking bandages and dressings, delivering herbal draughts, either to relieve pain or induce sleep. Most of the casualties were at least comfortable, though the air was filled with coughs, whimpers and soft moans. Once he had finished, Zacharius crossed the courtyard to one of the other outhouses, where a copper bowl filled with water simmered over a brazier. First he washed his hands, using sesame oil and lime powder, and then, one by one, cleansed his surgical implements, towelling each one dry and laying them all out on a fresh linen cloth, which he'd spread on a low table.

  "Doctor Zacharius?" someone asked from the doorway.

  Zacharius turned. One of the earl's knights stood there - in fact it was the young knight who had survived the mission to destroy the scoop-thrower. Zacharius had seen him many times before and, though he had never had cause to treat him and didn't know his name, he had always thought him a sullen fellow.

  "Do you really believe that dismembering one of these creatures will help us understand why they are invulnerable to death?" Ranulf asked.

  Zacharius continued with what he was doing. "In truth, they aren't invulnerable to death, are they? From what I hear, these things are already dead."

  "You know what I mean," Ranulf said, entering.

  He'd finished another late meal in the refectory, as the earl had instructed, but sleep had eluded him for the last hour or so - for two main reasons.

  Firstly, though he didn't think he could have done much more than appeal to Countess Madalyn's humanity, which was well known throughout the border country, he wasn't absolutely sure. He hadn't known the priest, Gwyddon, would be present. That had caused an unforeseen problem. Likewise, the Welsh had discovered that the English were in their camp sooner than he'd hoped. None of these things had been under his control. But couldn't he have reacted more appropriately? Perhaps he should have killed Gwyddon. Perhaps he should have taken Countess Madalyn hostage? It would have been difficult, but maybe he could at least have tried. Uncertainty about this was now torturing him.

  The second reason was Doctor Zacharius and his comments before they had departed - about returning with a captive specimen. Of course, once the mission had got under way that would have been totally impractical, and Ranulf had quickly forgotten it. But now, with the diplomatic door closed, all sorts of wild thoughts were occurring to him. Had he missed another opportunity to turn the tide in their favour? But what did it actually mean to eviscerate something - even something as hideous as these walking dead - to take it apart piece by piece while it writhed and thrashed, purely to learn how it was composed and controlled? Such knowledge was surely not intended for Man; this was what Ranulf had always been told and had always believed. Such things were best left to God - and yet, after what he'd seen here, particularly outside in the rain and the mist, a terrible fear was now taking root inside him. At the end of the day, if God came down to Earth enraged and cast celestial fire on his children, would those children not justifiably seek to escape it - even if it enraged God all the more? Willing martyrs were made of very rare stuff indeed; only now was Ranulf realising this.

  "I can't answer your question," Zacharius said, still cleaning his tools. "But put it this way, I don't believe in sorcery."

  "Even after everything we have seen with our own eyes?" Ranulf asked.

  "Oh, it exists... superficially. But when a man performs acts of 'sorcery', what he's really doing is manipulating the laws of nature in ways not yet known to the rest of us."

  "And you think you can learn about such laws by opening the flesh of one of these walking dead?"

  "The Greek physician, Hippocrates, was convinced that diseases did not afflict mankind as a punishment from the gods, but because the systems of organs that make up our bodies were for some reason malfunctioning. He developed many remedies through his studies of the human body, often after life had expired. He saved innumerable lives and the human race was no worse off for that. The Roman doctor, Galen, produced countless b
ooks containing detailed sketches of human anatomy, which enabled his students to treat a variety of previously serious ailments with simple procedures. My proposal was similar, if not exactly the same - a straightforward investigation, the results of which might benefit us all."

  Ranulf pondered this.

  "Why do you ask?" Zacharius wondered. "Are you planning to go out there again, when the last time only two of you returned alive?"

  "The choice would not be mine," Ranulf said.

  "In which case don't agonise over it. The reality..." Zacharius shrugged. "The reality is that I am neither skilled nor experienced enough to reach immediate and accurate conclusions. I would need the assistance of other learned doctors. In addition, it would take time, which we clearly will have less of once the fighting recommences. I would also need a better place in which to work. Somewhere light and dry to tabulate my findings, collate my samples..."

  "I don't understand any of these things."

  "But you evidently do understand that this battle will not be won by the usual means. You proved that not two hours ago."

  "It wouldn't take a clever man to realise that."

  "No, but it would take a brave one to admit it." Zacharius continued cleaning his implements. "What are you called?"

  "I am Ranulf FitzOsbern."

  "You're one of the earl's indebted knights, are you not?"

  "I am."