The door burst open and a lanky bowman in a blue gambeson bowed in the doorway like a limp noodle. “Milady,” his tongue wiggled out of his face as he croaked, “Lord Montese has returned!” He licked his lips when he saw Lady Spywater’s prodigious dugs. “His men are battered and fewer than before. They’re just emerging from the village now, leading their horses on foot. Should we open the gate, milady?” For some reason, he slithered his tongue strangely when he finished speaking.
The whole bed jerked like a smacked teat when Lady Spywater sat up. She biffed the heads of the men still fucking her and they rolled away with grumbles to sleep at odd ends of the mattress. “I’ll tell you when to open the gate,” she garbled as she squirmed closer. “I want to see them first. Come, help me out of bed, darling. Take me to the ramparts.”
The bowman offered a hand. She snatched it and yanked. The man found his face lodged betwixt her breasts. She pushed his head in deeper and jiggled her whole body, guffawing. The man tried to scream as he suffocated. “Hhhheeelp mhheeee!” She pushed him away. He was so gangly that he fell to the floor, panting for breath. She sauntered around him and her rump jiggled through the doorway.
Moments later, she was huffing and puffing down the ramparts, exhausted from several flights of stairs. Already, she could hear horses in the distance. Holding her hand up to block the rising sun, she stood next to a crossbowman and gazed through a crenel. It was a blurry mess to her eyes, but it was obvious what she was looking at. It seemed Lord Montese was returning with half the men he had departed with. No horse was mounted. Every man’s gait was depressing. One could say they were revenants from the underworld. Some horses were leaving a trail of blood behind, barely able to walk under those scaled caparisons. Other horses were spry, packing saddles mottled with packs and scabbards.
Lady Spywater brushed some breadcrumbs off her naked belly and hollered, “Open the gate!”
“Yes, milady!” A dozen archers bowed and set their bows down to complete the task.
Bob Redmand was on the left end of the front bulwark, squatting on a stool and polishing his dick-helm. Right beside him was a giant black cannyn, the very one that had taken the head of Jisus.
Once the hardy crossbar was removed, the gate was pushed open. Spearmen stood ready by the gateway as archers on the ramparts gathered to watch. Lady Spywater yawned, tapping a foot. “You,” she glowered at a lad who held an arbalest that was bigger than his torso, “fetch me a jug of wine, and be quick or I’ll rip your pants off and smack your dick around.” The boy blushed. “Give me that first.” She took his crossbow away. “You think I could hit him?”
“Who, milady?” the little man squealed.
“Lord Montese, you idiot.”
“I bet you could, milady. But why would you want to hit him?”
Lady Spywater lowered the crossbow and smacked the man across the face. “Because he won’t fuck me. That’s why!”
The man’s cheek reddened. For some reason, he smiled and his other cheek turned red, too. “I’d fuck you, milady.”
She looked the man up and down. “Do it, then.”
“Here?” he stammered. “In front of everyone? I meant later, milady. Later … in bed.”
She smacked his face again, thrice as hard as before. “Do it, craven! I bet I won’t feel a thing. Or do you have what it takes to make me rumble?” The man’s face was red as a beet now. He looked down at his belt buckle, stammering words that didn’t make any sense. The lady laughed at the wee man. “Get the fuck out of my sight, you pathetic snot! I could fuck your whole body like your mother did when she squirted you into this shithole.”
The lanky man took off his cap to bow, then scurried off, remembering he had wine to fetch.
Several flocks of cackling geese had passed overhead before Lord Montese approached the castle. He was wearing a different helm than before, but his signature armor made it clear who he was. No other black armor had scrollwork fluting like that.
An archer on the ramparts counted seventeen men and nine horses. When Montese was close to the gateway, Lady Spywater hung her breasts through a crenel and called, “Welcome back, handsome beast! Come, come, stable your horse and meet me in the throne room. Just you, Montese, you handsome monster.” She fluttered her eyelashes lazily. “Your men can wash and feast in my halls, but I want you in the throne room immediately, Montese.” She moaned his name when she said it. “I want to hear every little gritty detail of the chase.”
The man in the black, fluted armor looked up at those giant hanging teats and cursed the almighty, but nodded. He gazed back at his men before he looked ahead again. The spearmen he passed could barely see his eyes through that thin visor slit, but he scowled at them all nonetheless. Soon the whole entourage was in the bailey and the gate closed behind them. The stable was filled one horse at a time.
The castle garrison went back to their usual business, chatting over chess boards and patrolling about with wineskins. A few eyes watched casually as Montese led his tired and beaten men away from the stable and into the keep.
An old crone was setting a table for them in the knights’ hall, placing down pewter plates and cutlery. She had been a scullion maid in Castle Spywater for over twenty years. She glared at the knights nervously as they entered the cavernous room. “Lady Spywater has ordered baths for you all,” she announced, making a curtsy. “Water is being drawn for you, but the food won’t be ready for another few hours. And I was told to remind you, Montese, a friend waits in the throne room.”
The knights’ countenances were hidden behind dinted helms. “I think we’ll save the baths for later, miss,” the man in Montese’s armor said. “Bring ale, wine … whatever drink you have stored will do. But I think we both know what that is.”
Raising a brow pensively, the crone placed down the last plate and bowed before she waddled off to fetch some drink.
The lord and his men were finally alone. “Wait here,” said the black lord. “This won’t take long.”
The men seated themselves around the long table as the lord left the hall. The crone replaced him with two jugs of rum in her arms. She stopped in her tracks to glare in wonderment at all the knights around the table. The way they were sitting looked so familiar. Only one thing could explain it. She placed the jugs on the table and slowly backed away, whispering, “Death to King Spiderwell.”
The man in Montese’s armor lumbered up a short flight of stairs and passed some grand oaken doors before he stepped into a capacious throne room. There were many luscious and decorative things for him to look at, but he stared dead ahead because he had seen it all a thousand times before.
Lady Spywater was still completely nude, seated on the lord’s throne with her legs spread wide. She beckoned him to come up onto the dais. “We’re all alone here,” she disclosed, giving a lecherous leer. “I ordered us at least an hour of privacy. Now come closer. Tell me how it went. Give me every detail … slowly. Real slow. Give it to me, Montese. I want to hear it all.” She licked her lips as her last word echoed around their heads. She massaged her robust thighs in anticipation.
The mouse in Montese’s armor put one foot on the dais and withdrew his sword. He rammed it up her cunt and flung off his helm. She screamed at the top of her lungs, then suddenly quieted when she saw his face. The lord and his lady stared into each other’s souls for the last time.
She looked like a woman who had seen a ghost. “Honey, I’m … I’m so …” She was about to apologize but the blade in her cunt came ripping back out to interrupt her. She squealed in agony until a gash appeared on her neck and black lord’s red sword swooped away, flicking blood across a far wall.
Lord Spywater took a step back to examine his dead lady. She was a big, round fountain. He whispered, “I can’t believe I loved you,” then turned with sword in hand to enter the knights’ hall again, holding his helm under an arm.
His men said nothing when he entered. Half of them had removed their helms to drink, knowing th
eir server could be trusted. When the scullion crone saw Lord Spywater’s face, she fell to her knees, begging, “Forgive me, milord. I never supported …”
“You’re forgiven,” he assured her. “Now rise and pour yourself a drink. This castle isn’t taken back yet. Sing these men a song for it may be the last song some of them will hear.”
With fidgeting hands, she poured herself a drink. After quaffing the whole thing, she cleared her throat and began to sing. Spywater sat quietly, placed his helm on the table and filled a cup of his own. It was a cup he had used a thousand times before. He drank long and deep, listening to the crone’s emotional voice. Knights who had already finished their drinks looked to their lord anxiously.
Medgard redonned his helm and rose to check the other halls, making sure no one was around.
Phillick sipped slowly, smiling at the crone with wide eyes as if he had never heard a song before. All singing and staring ended when Spywater rose. Donning his helm, he said, “Alright, it’s time. Follow me, men. The garrison doesn’t suspect us yet. We’ll split into two groups and take the ramparts unawares. I can’t wait to read by my favorite window again.”
At that, all the knights finished their dregs and imitated the black lord, following him out of the hall. When they entered the bailey, no one on the ramparts seemed to mind. Spywater’s men split up into two groups. Jax and the lord himself led one group rightward across the bailey where some stairs would take them onto the ramparts. Medgard, Prestings and Phillick turned left with the other group to do the same on the other side. Simultaneously, the two groups reached the ramparts, taking crossbowmen and archers unawares. It was a methodical slaughter. Archers loosed their arrows at the charging knights but it was hopeless. Blood splattered across stone in all directions as men were thrown off the wall.
On the left end of the front ramparts, Bob heard the fighting and raised his head to see a group of knights making their way towards him. The spearmen by the gate had heard the carnage, too. They were rushing across the bailey and up the stairs to aid their fellowmen. Sentinels up high on the keep’s turrets were hollering and shouting. “We’ve been hacked!” a voice cried from the donjon’s window. “Lord Spywater’s men! They tricked us!”
Bob donned his phallic helm and raised his giant zweihander. Behind him were three other knights brandishing giant swords of their own. Ahead, Bob saw the man in Montese’s armor. He pointed at him and yelled, “Is that you, Spywater? You’ve come back at the worst time. Do you know how many men are on their way here?”
Bob’s voice disappeared over the echoing clamor of clashing swords and no one seemed to care. More archers were tossed off the bulwark as Spywater fought onward. Medgard was way over on the other side of the castle having a jolly good time, or at least it sounded like it from the way he bellowed his banter. Archers raised arms only to drop them in puddles of their own blood.
Bob wasn’t going to let his voice die unheard. He lumbered forward, entering an offensive guard with his sword. “Look at me, Lord Spywater!”
The man in Montese’s armor ripped his sword out of a man’s gut to look ahead. Bob was only twenty feet away now. “Drop your sword, Redmand! Do we really have to do this again?”
“Oink, oink, oink!” Bob made his famous warcry as he charged, leading his bloodthirsty knights. Once again, his voice went greatly unnoticed like the few quarrels and arrows that skittered about the place.
Spywater had never been so happy to look back and see his own men covered in blood. “Our friend Bob Redmand is back,” he informed them in case they hadn’t noticed yet. “He may not look the part, but he’s the new Lord of Castle Redmand. We need to take him alive.”
Jax nodded, as did all the other knights following him towards the four steel-clad enemies rushing their way. Spywater turned to yell at the archers atop the keep. He demanded their surrender as Jax’ sword caught a groove in Bob’s undulant zweihander and sent it wobbling back with a riposte. Bob brought his crossguard up just in time to rebut the riposte and he also rammed the tip of his blade into Jax’ breastplate in the process. That deft stab was tantamount to a spear’s thrust. It dented the plate and sent Jax staggering back.
The three knights following Bob, as well as a few spearmen who had made it up the stairs in time, rushed past him on either side to charge all the knights rushing past Jax. The collision was an eruption of noise that echoed across the castle and startled birds fathoms of miles away. But Bob nor Jax heard a thing. For them, the only things extant in the world were the lyrics rewinding in their heads. They were the lyrics to a song you couldn’t put into words. Their thoughts were, in a way, thoughtless, following routes they had traveled thousands of times before. Counter. Upcut. Dodge. Swivel. Bind. Riposte. Parry. Strafe. Engage. When Jax’ sword finally crashed hard against Bob’s dick-helm, both men cheered. Except Bob’s cheer was more like the cry of a boar, of course. Jax caught himself laughing out loud and stopped to control his breath, to regulate his stamina.
Jax feigned a parry and let Bob’s blade crack against his pauldron.
Bob was so pleased with himself, he howled a monstrous oink and put twice as much energy into the next swing. His opponent laughed when the wasteful swing was dodged. Then dodged again. Again. One last squandered remise was enough to make Bob realize he had been duped. He held his sword menacingly and stepped back to regain his energy, recollecting his father’s wisdom. Bob never stuttered his father’s words. He said them out loud because he could. “There are three types of fighters in this world: the wild beast, the-man-who-thinks, and the-man-who-doesn’t-think.” Jax lowered his sword to listen and Bob went on, “If the-man-who-thinks lacks experience, the-man-who-doesn’t-think will likely win.”
Jax laughed at that. Like Bob, he had heard and said this wisdom a hundred times during his youthful training days. Together, they said the concluding words: “But if the-man-who-doesn’t-think lacks experience, he may find himself facing both the wild beast and the-man-who-thinks at the same time.”
As Jax rolled back his head to laugh, Bob stepped close and feinted a cut. All laughing stopped. Startled, Jax made an instinctive parry motion and nearly stumbled back. Bob feinted again. Jax parried the wind once more, cursing from confusion. When Bob swung his sword a third time, Jax sought to save himself from humiliation and didn’t bother parrying. The humiliation grew tenfold when he realized the third cut wasn’t a feint. Bob’s blade rocked Jax’ helm, rattling the poor brain inside. All reason was out of the door. Anger was the new master of Jax’ mind. He held his blade like a spear and released an ear-shattering warcry. With one hand gripping halfway up the blade, Jax was able to make many quick thrusts with the strength of his entire body behind them. Bob jumped back in bursts to get out of the way, laughing at his angered foe.
When Jax realized he was wasting stamina, he stalled his rush and spat through his visor. He needed to catch his breath and calm his anger. Bob’s mocking laughter made the latter a hard task. “You’re the best of all three fighters, Bob,” Jax compliment his foe scornfully.
Bob stammered with pride, “Father said I’m the-beast-who-thinks-sometimes.” His dick-helm glimmered brilliantly as the sun came out from behind a cloud, just like in the stories of his tourney days. He tried to spit through his visor but it only clogged a breath hole. All it took was a second of silence and his stance became the opposite of mighty. The clatter of swords had stopped. A dozen knights surrounded him. Grumbling, the famous tourney champion chucked his zweihander to the ground. His experience said there was no way he could fight so many men at once.
Spywater budged past Jax and kicked the zweihander further away from its deadly owner. If it weren’t for the few archers hidden atop the keep’s battlements, Bob would’ve been the last foe alive. He fell to his knees before the mouse in Montese’s armor and whispered something quiet under his dick-helm. Spywater must’ve been eager to hear it because he scabbarded his blade to yank the dick-helm off.
The defeated man�
�s eyelids were wrinkled and twitching. One could say he was putting the entire strength of his back into keeping them shut. He whispered to himself, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.”
“I’d cry if I were you, Redmand,” Jax said. “Your hand in this war has been nicked.”
Spywater gave Jax a displeased look and leaned down to put a gauntlet on the defeated man’s pauldron. “Cry if you want, Bob, but your hand won’t be nicked if you join us.”
Bob covered his face with his gauntlets, mumbling words only he could understand.
Spywater rose and shook his head sadly. He yelled out an order to no one in particular, which meant it was for everyone. “Back to the keep! Let’s put our old friend here into the dungeon while we go see if those archers up high have really surrendered.” His men obeyed and grabbed Bob’s arms to escort him. They made their way down the ramparts towards the stairs. Spywater talked on as he followed. “My guess is the archers will try to ambush us in the donjon’s stairwell.”
Hiss bloodied and battered knights understood completely. They met Medgard outside the keep. After a few brief words from Spywater, Medgard agreed to undertake their next task with caution. To his experience, the final push to the top of the keep was the least enjoyable part of any siege.
The keep doors were open like they had left them. Shieldmen led the way in, holding Bob hostage. Every man had their head up in odd directions. So far, everything in the front hall was quiet.
At the mouth of a stairwell that went down into darkness, Spywater pointed. “You three.” The men holding Bob perked up. “Take our friend down below and find a fitting cell. There’s a master key in the gaoler’s office, hidden behind a fold in the back of his logbook. Keep Bob company until I return. If I’m not back in the time it takes to roast a boar, then I’m probably dead or pressed down somewhere upstairs. In that case, try to find us.”
Knights of the Dawn (Arcanum of the Dolmen Troll Book 1) Page 6
