The Walls of Woodmyst

by Robert E Kreig

  Gripping the side of the bed, she slowed her breathing and tried to bring control back to her body. Her heart started to slow down and return to its regular rhythm. The beat left her ears and the sounds of the world around her were restored.

  She turned her head towards her husband. He was oblivious to the experience she had felt.

  Alan was still lying on his back and had started to snore again.

  Slowly, she lowered herself back down beside him. She wanted to tell him of what she had dreamt.

  Instead, she gently shoved him again. He fell silent once more.

  Outside, the birds gently chattered as she closed her eyes again.

  Chief Shelley reclined in a deep cushioned chair in his upstairs dwelling above the auditorium of the Great Hall. He nursed a book in his lap and read quietly as his two daughters played with dolls on the rug at his feet.

  The fireplace crackled as flames danced upon dried wood as he pored over verses and stanzas written about occurrences throughout the history of the area. He skimmed over stories of kings and queens, knights and warlords and good and bad harvest seasons in an attempt to see if the story from Selidien was similar or shared by any others.

  There were some with vague similarities.

  Short paragraphs about small villages burnt to the ground during winter were few and far between. Linking them to anyone who could be held responsible was fruitless as each story claimed there were no survivors.

  In frustration, the Chief slammed the book shut with a snap.

  “Good grief,” Sybil gasped from the chair beside him. She had been hand sewing small fabric daisies onto a dress for one of the girls. “I almost pierced myself, Barnard.”

  “Sorry, my love,” he said bashfully. “I’m just concerned about our visitors.”

  “You mean the goblins don’t you, Father?” asked Isabel, his elder daughter.

  “Goblins?” he grunted. “There are no goblins, my dear.”

  Alanna, the younger of the two girls swivelled on her rear to face him and crossed her legs. “Dorla said that they couldn’t find any tracks when they tried to find the goblins.”

  “Dorla?” Chief Shelley furrowed his brow. “Who is this Dorla?”

  “Dorla is the daughter of Farris the stable hand,” Sybil replied as she returned to her sewing.

  “The one that looks like a toad?”

  “What?”

  “The ugly little girl with the big wart on her forehead?” Chief Shelley questioned.

  Sybil gave a disapproving cluck and nodded as she rolled her eyes.

  “Well,” said the Chief as he set his gaze upon Alanna, “Dorla ought to keep her stupid thoughts trapped in her stupid head.”

  The girls giggled.

  “Barnard!” chided Sybil.

  “What?” he asked, wide-eyed and innocently. “She is stupid. There are no goblins.”

  “Who are they then, Father?” asked Isabel.

  “Men,” he replied. “Nothing more than men. They ride horses and light torches. These are acts of men. There is no magic or sorcery involved here.”

  “Will you catch them?” Alanna queried.

  “Absolutely. Your uncles Hugh, Richard and Michael are searching for them as we speak.”

  “With the dogs?” asked Alanna with a wide grin.

  “With the dogs.” Chief Shelley smiled.

  “They’re not really our uncles, are they Mother?” Alanna enquired.

  “No,” Sybil replied as she slid a needle and thread effortlessly through the fabric in her hand.

  “Will you kill them when you find them?” Isabel quizzed her father.

  “What sort of question is that?” Sybil rebuked. “Now you have them all worked up,” she scolded her husband.

  Barnard turned red with embarrassment. He wrung his hands together as he thought of something clever to say. Finding himself suddenly speechless, he withdrew to a simple apology.

  “I’m sorry, my love,” he said. “I’m sorry, my girls. I shouldn’t have got you so excited about these terrible things. You’re too young to discuss such matters as these. But to answer your question dear Isabel…” He rose to his feet and held his fist to the sky triumphantly. “We’ll slaughter the bastards!”

  Hugh Clarke walked behind his dogs, crouching under brush and climbing over fallen trees as they made their way through the grove. Richard Dering and Michael Forde, who both brought dogs of their own to help with tracking, closely followed him.

  A small band of warriors weaved their way through the growth a short distance behind. All were searching for any signs of the invaders from the night before.

  There was nothing.

  Not one of them could find a scuffmark from a boot, a stone turned over, a hoof print or broken vegetation from a passer-by accidently brushing against a plant.

  The dogs continued to sniff at the ground coming across several different scents of small game such as rabbits and foxes but nothing of significance to the troop in the undergrowth. Hugh was somewhat frustrated but more embarrassed that his dogs were not living up to the reputation they had for being excellent trackers.

  They seemed to sense his emotion, returning back to him every now and then to lick his palms. He gave them a reassuring scratch behind the ear before they raced off to continue searching.

  “It’s not the dogs,” Michael said. “These things we hunt are devils.”

  “They’re just good at covering their tracks, Michael,” Hugh retorted. “The dogs are confused.”

  “How could they do such a thing?” Richard asked. “Could they be using other scents? Animals and herbs, perhaps?”

  “You think they’re out here cooking?” Michael quipped.

  “I’m just trying to make sense of it,” said Richard as he watched a dog dart from left to right and back again.

  “There’s nothing to make sense of,” Michael said. “We should have found some sign of their existence by now. They were right here. Hundreds of them. I’m telling you, they’re devils.”

  “Stop saying that,” Richard commanded. “We’ll find something.”

  They trudged onwards through the shrubbery. The dogs continued to sniff around, running to the left and right in an attempt to find a scent. Each time, they returned to the middle without any luck.

  The troop had started at the base of the hill in the early hours of the morning and was making its way slowly westward through the grove. The sun was high in the sky by the time they reached an area adjacent to the north-western tower of Woodmyst.

  Stomachs started to growl with hunger and the water-skins were empty. Hugh whistled, calling all the dogs back to him. Eight dogs suddenly appeared by his side and sat obediently waiting for instruction.

  “I think we should call it a day,” he suggested.

  “We haven’t made it to the forest yet,” Michael pointed out. “We might find something there.”

  “The dogs would have picked up something by now,” Hugh replied. “There’s no reason to enter the forest. We need water and food.”

  “Not to mention sleep,” said Richard. “We will be on the wall again tonight and must rest before darkness comes. It is already noon which doesn’t leave much time.”

  Michael peered up through the trees to the glowing orb hanging high in the sky. Logic told him Richard was right. His stomach told him Hugh was also correct. Deep inside, he knew if there were going to be any trail, the dogs would have found it by now. The hunts they had been on many times before had shown him the hounds were reliable when it came to tracking.

  He turned to see the tired faces of the warriors in tow. They all bore the same expression of hunger, weariness and thirst.

  The numbers had it.

  They would retreat to Woodmyst and take rest before the night was upon them.

  The day in Woodmyst was spent in preparation for the night ahead. Chief Shelley had ordered what serves were available to prepare food and dwellings in the Great Hall for the civilians of the village.
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  Bedding was laid out and allocations around the auditorium were arranged for families. Tables were set in the centre of the room on either side of the grand fireplace.

  The kitchen serves peeled potatoes and sliced carrots as they primed large pots of soup and baked many loaves of bread. Plates were cleaned, cutlery was polished and mugs were rinsed.

  Cider was poured into vats and placed over hot coals in preparation for the watchers on the wall during the long night ahead.

  Eowyn, Frederick, Edmond and Nicolas, the four elders of Woodmyst, made their rounds throughout the village reassuring the citizens of their safety within the walls and that there was nothing to fear. Some believed the old men. Others felt different.

  There was a strange heaviness on everyone’s spirits, but an uncertainty to what this meant.

  None that dwelled in Woodmyst had faced an invading force before. The only fighting anyone in the village had experienced was when they were called to the aid of the realm.

  Chief Shelley and the councilmen were the last to see battle.

  It was during a time of great confusion between the realms. The Kingdom of Rhigon was in a period of dissolution. The Great King Khadrr Morno had passed away, leaving no heirs to take the throne.

  Each realm produced potential rulers of its own who believed it their right to take the throne and rule the kingdom. As a result, the realms did battle with one another and many lives were senselessly lost.

  One of the last and greatest of all battles was between the realms of Haoilia and Aroria, to which Woodmyst belonged. Thousands died upon the battlefield, including the two potential rulers.

  In the end, all remaining realms and potential rulers agreed to let the Kingdom of Rhigon dissolve. Each of the realms softened their approach to politics allowing the villages to govern themselves how they saw fit. Most opted to continue to trade and barter goods with one another, maintaining relations with their neighbours as Woodmyst did with her surrounding communities.

  But that was a long time ago.

  Most of the warriors and soldiers dwelling in Woodmyst were too young to remember the war. None was old enough to have experienced real battle.

  Still all but boys, they paraded their armour proudly to adolescent girls, hoping to attract a smile and perhaps something more. Mostly, the method worked.

  But the armour was still fresh and unaccustomed to battle. Their swords had not penetrated more than the flesh of straw scarecrows during training.

  There were only seven seasoned, experienced warriors in all of Woodmyst and each of them felt beyond his prime, complaining more each year as winter came to bite them in their bones.

  Gradually, as the day wore on, people made their way to the Great Hall, filling the allotted bedding spaces supplied by the serves. The sun slowly sank below the trees in the west as torches were lit along the walls.

  Archers took their places and soldiers took watch on the towers. The gates were closed and barricaded as the sheep gathered near the wall once again. They sensed the foreboding dread that was felt inside the village and crammed together for comfort more than warmth.

  A chill breeze swept across the open fields around the village as stars winked to life in the darkening sky. Wisps of purple clouds danced from the north to the south as horses and carts were safely placed in barns.

  The councilmen hugged their children and kissed their wives before leaving them at the Great Hall. Richard and Michael took the northwest tower while Peter and Alan returned to the northeast; the same tower they were positioned at the night before.

  Hugh took position in the southeast tower leaving Lawrence to take watch on the south-western post. Two soldiers armed with bows and arrows and swords also manned each tower.

  The last of the dusk light dissipated and the moon raised her head over the hill at the end of the pastureland.

  Framed by the light of the full moon was the lone figure of a cloaked man on horseback.

  Alan felt a lump in his chest as his heart pulsed faster and faster.

  Torchlight flickered to life from within the grove once again.

  Hundreds of orange flaming lights surrounded the northern border of Woodmyst.

  The intruders had returned.

  Chapter Six

  “Now what?” Peter whispered as they peered towards the blinking lights amongst the grove to the north.

  The ribbon of light flickered between tree and shrub, following the contour of the land from the base of the hill in the east to the forest in the west. Alan counted at least six to at most ten torches from front to back, making the band of light not only well numbered in length, but in thickness also.

  Alan surmised they faced several hundred invaders, and that was if each of them held an individual flaming torch. It may very well be that only a few by comparison held the flickering lights while others did not.

  In any case, the odds were against them. The torches alone outnumbered the men, women and children of Woodmyst by ten to one.

  Peter and Alan shared another concern. They were worried about the men under their command. Not one of them was a seasoned warrior. For the moment, each man wore a façade of bravado and professed a willingness to fight to the death.

  Alan had heard such talk before. Many had declared how they would die for a cause only to turn tail when the battle begun. He hoped the men about him would stand true.

  Peter wrestled with another issue. He moved his gaze along the line of flickering lights before turning to face his friend.

  “What if they plan to just sit there all night?” he asked.

  “Are you thinking they will simply repeat what they did last night?”

  “I think last night was a scare tactic,” Peter replied as he looked back towards the ribbon of light. “It worked. We’ve now assembled upon the wall, armed and ready. I think they were hoping for that.”

  “What purpose would that serve?” Alan asked.

  “I don’t now.” Peter shook his head. “To show our numbers and resources, perhaps?”

  Alan placed a hand against the guardrail on the northern side of the tower and leant into it. He moved his eyes carefully along the northern grove, watching for movement.

  The full moon projected a silver sheen across everything in view. It also caused the shadows to appear darker than usual. It was among these shadows where the flaming torches were being held.

  There were no sounds from the grove.

  No commands were being given by generals.

  Just the sight of flickering orange flames dotted for as far as could be seen.

  Perhaps Peter was correct.

  Perhaps these intruders planned to sit in the grove to simply watch and bide their time.

  But bide their time for what?

  Alan surmised that if the story of Selidien and its destruction was to be repeated here, then perhaps the invaders were waiting to enact absolute devastation upon Woodmyst.

  But for what purpose?

  Senseless and total obliteration simply made no sense.

  What threat was Selidien to these invaders?

  What threat could come from Woodmyst?

  They were a community of farmers, shopkeepers and families.

  “What do we have that they believe they have claim to?” Alan asked rhetorically.

  “Maybe,” said one of the tower guards, “this is a game to them. Maybe this is a hunt and we are the prey.”

  Peter took a long breath as he placed two hands on the guardrail and shook his head. He suddenly believed he understood how the fowl in the woods must have felt when the other councilmen and the dogs surrounded it during their hunt the other day.

  “We could run to the south,” the other tower guard suggested. “I’m not implying a coward’s retreat. I’m thinking more of survival.”

  The men glanced over to him.

  “They have us marked from the north,” he continued. “As far as we know, they have no one watching the south.”

  “As far as we
know,” Alan interjected. “Escape under the cover of darkness is not a good idea. Not for civilians.

  “We may be hard to see, but so are they. It may be the very thing they’re hoping for us to do. The one mistake that could cost our lives.”

  Peter turned his gaze southward and peered across the village rooftops the wall at the far end of Woodmyst. Open fields and orchards lay beyond. Farmhouses dotted the land here and about.

  Eventually, any traveller heading that way had a choice to make; either turn west to enter the forest or continue south or east and climb the mountains. In any case, it was not a journey that could be completed in a night, let alone a single day. With civilians in tow, it would take several days before they could reach the safety of a fortified village.

  “They chose us,” Peter announced. He turned back towards the flickering ribbon of light in the grove. “They’ve been watching us for some time. They know the lie of the land and planned whatever it is they intend to do. We can’t escape.”

  Alan nodded.

  “Then we fight,” he affirmed.

  Soup was served to the villagers inside the Great Hall. The serves had placed stacks of bowls and a collection of spoons onto the tables in the centre of the room earlier during the day. They now brought several large pots of steaming broth through the main doors. Other serves followed closely with warm loaves of bread.

  “Women and children first,” Eowyn called from the base of the platform at the front of the room. “Please make a line to my right. More pots are being heated at the moment, so there is no need to rush.”

  Mothers with their children made their way over to him and formed a queue along the edge of the large rug on the floor. Eowyn turned to see the wives of the councilmen and Sybil, Chief Shelley’s spouse, sitting at the long table upon the platform with their children. Only Martha, Peter Fysher’s wife, was absent. She had opted to help out in the kitchens with the serves.

  “You too ladies,” the Elder insisted. “Your children are hungry also. Line up here, please.”

  “We can wait,” Sybil replied. “Let these people have their fill first.”