The Walls of Woodmyst

by Robert E Kreig

  “Been at this long?” he asked.

  “Long enough,” Francis answered. “How are you holding up?”

  “It’s coming back to me,” the chief grunted.

  “Good,” replied the brawny horse keeper as he watched two swordsmen hack the life out of the last standing Night Demon. “Because this is only just starting.”

  Chief Shelley moved his gaze slowly over the carnage that filled the street in front of the Great Hall.

  Twisted bodies of village men, enemy soldiers and horses lay strewn from the base of the steps, crossing from one side of the street to the other.

  “The serves will have a grand old time cleaning this mess up,” said one of the stable hands. “Won’t they, Francis?”

  “I suspect they will,” Francis chuckled.

  They had crossed the West Bridge and made their way along the wide street that led from the western gate to the Great Hall. In the distance, near the steps of the Great Hall, those at the forefront of the mass saw a number of men moving about.

  “Who goes there?” someone called from the group ahead.

  “It’s Richard Dering,” called a man amongst the approaching mob.

  “Richard.” Chief Shelley stepped forward. “Thank the gods.”

  The chief ran forward and embraced his friend. Richard embraced the chief’s broad shoulders.

  “Good to see you too, Barnard,” he retorted. “It looks as if you’ve had some trouble.

  “No trouble,” Chief Shelley objected playfully.

  “Well,” Richard said as he looked towards the north, “I expect we will have some sooner or later.”

  The chief moved his eyes across the men following his friend. He quickly calculated the numbers of men combined that now stood near the Great Hall.

  “I think we pose a formidable force,” Chief Shelley proposed. “We number near to one hundred strong.”

  “They number at least twice that,” Richard replied. “We couldn’t clearly see the enemy from our position on the south wall, but it did look like a lot more than we have here.”

  “You’re full of optimism, Richard,” the chief replied sarcastically.

  “Do your wife and children know you’re out here?” Richard asked.

  “No,” he replied as he turned to walk towards the steps. Richard joined him as he continued to speak. “I don’t see the point of reuniting until the battle has been won.”

  Richard mulled that thought over for some time. The possibility of winning was a very distant possibility. They had lost so much already.

  Glancing towards the sky, he saw the two giant beasts still circling high above. Their wing tips dipped in and out of the cloud cover as they soared in magnificent spirals.

  Winning?

  He optimism definitely needed improving.

  “What’s your strategy?” Richard asked.

  “To hold the Great Hall,” Francis answered before Chief Shelley could say a word.

  The chief shot a smile to his friend as he sidled up to the burly man standing upon the stairs.

  “Richard Dering,” Chief Shelley said, “meet Francis Lytton. Woodmyst’s stable master.”

  The two men clasped arms and said their greetings.

  “I was really asking for specifics.” Richard returned to the chief. “Where would you like the men?”

  The chief considered this for a moment. He scanned the surrounding area with his eyes carefully and finally lowered his eyes upon the bodies in the street.

  “Right,” he finally said. “Let’s get what archers we can spare onto the roof tops. We can put twenty men here on the steps and let’s say ten around the back near the rear entrance. The passage narrows there and a trap could be set for any of the Night Demons who try for the serves’ door.”

  “Sounds fair,” Richard replied. “Archers to me,” he called to the men standing in the street.

  He started to instruct the men to climb certain buildings surrounding the Great Hall that offered the best vantage points. Before long, nearly twenty men were positioned upon the gables of nearby structures.

  The stable master took his three remaining stable hands and six more men to the rear of the building. They placed an overturned cart upon its end to block the eastern end of the passageway, stacking barrels of flour and wheat with sacks of oats into the gaps between the cart and walls. This would, with luck, be enough deterrence to any invaders attempting to penetrate the rear entrance from that end of the back alley. In turn, the enemy would be forced to enter by the western end of the passage, causing them to pass by the three doors to the kitchens before they reached the tiny door that was used by the serves.

  Francis placed his men inside the three doors. The enemy could enter from the west, be attacked by the hidden men and would either perish or run back the way they came from.

  The hefty man placed a barrel near the tiny door and plopped himself upon it before laying his rusty sword across his lap. He held a freshly baked loaf of bread in his hand and tore off a steaming piece before shoving it into his mouth.

  “Where did you get that then, Francis?” asked one of the stable hands hungrily.

  “From the kitchen,” he muffled through the mouthful of bread.

  “Was there any more?”

  “There was a whole tray in the oven,” Francis answered. “Check on the table. Second door, right at the back.”

  The stable hand ran back down the alley towards the kitchen doors, disappearing inside where he was directed to go.

  “Oy,” he called out after some time. “There’s warm cider in here too.”

  Jumping up from his perch upon the barrel, sword in one hand and bread in the other, Francis ran back towards the kitchens.

  “Cider?” he called as he disappeared through the door to join the hand.

  Seventeen men along with three dogs had been slaughtered during the conflict. Alan and Hugh continued to hold the breach with what force they had remaining. The men were beginning to tire and the dogs were slowing their attack. Fatigue was setting in.

  Still, the fifteen men and three hounds continued to fight as the riders pushed through the gap in attempt to enter the village. Swords clashed and blood was drained upon the mound.

  Several men hacked the body of a fallen warrior as it fell from its steed. It was a pattern that was repeated consistently. The men would take a rider from the charger and introduce their blades to the enemy.

  As they returned their attention to the riders appearing in the breach, Alan saw the way they let their swords hang from their grip; loosely and carelessly.

  Suddenly aware that he was doing the same, he composed himself as he swiped his blade towards an approaching steed. It fell hard and sent the rider toppling. Two of the hounds were there to meet the warrior upon the ground.

  Alan wondered how much more of this he and the men around him could take. He couldn’t imagine the situation becoming much worse.

  Then the trumpet blew a long whining note.

  Peter looked over to Michael, who was buckled over trying to catch his breath.

  “What was that?” he asked as the last of the trumpet note died away.

  The riders in the breach suddenly disappeared back into the darkness beyond the wall.

  “I don’t know,” Michael replied. He glanced to the remaining men and counted nine.

  “Do you think they’re sending the dragons back?” a worried swordsman quizzed.

  “Let’s hope not,” Peter replied. He stared into void. His eyes could barely distinguish the forms of the farmhouses in the meadow.

  A thick white mist had rolled across the ground, like a soft blanket covering the grass. The sight made him feel cold inside.

  “Listen,” Michael started. “I don’t know how to say it, so I’ll just say it. Lawrence is dead.”

  Peter turned his head to lock eyes with his friend.

  “Elara too,” continued Michael. “One of the flying beasts dropped them both and their cart outside the south
wall. I don’t know what else to say.”

  “Did you see the children?”

  “No,” Michael admitted. “From where I was standing, I could only see Lawrence and Elara. But the cart’s a mess and it’s dark. There’s no way to know if they…”

  He stopped talking as he thought of his friend still lying upon the wreckage with his wife. The prospect of the children being amongst the clutter never occurred to him until now.

  “He must have been trying to escape.” Peter turned to face the pastureland again. “Damn fool. We warned him, Michael. We all did. Damn stubborn fool.”

  A terrible thought crossed Michael’s mind.

  “What if the Night Demons took the children?”

  “You think they were eaten?” Peter asked. “Like the missing meat from the scouts’ legs?”

  Michael nodded, ashamed that he could think such a thing. “Yes.”

  “That is a possibility.” Peter gripped the hilt of his sword. His thoughts flashed images of children being tossed upon a fire in preparation for a feast.

  Suddenly, his mind flipped through images of mud huts and crude wooden tables deep within a marshland. Images of blood and fire followed immediately.

  He shook the thoughts away, forcing them out of his mind as he focused upon his current situation.

  “They’ll return soon,” Peter announced. “Let’s be ready for them.”

  The men climbed to the top of the mound, brandishing their bloodstained blades as they waited for the next wave of attack.

  A sudden yelp from one of the dogs caused all the men to snap their heads towards the animal. It fell onto its side, a dark arrow sticking from its ribs.

  “Oh no,” Hugh gasped. He ran towards his pet but fell short as another arrow shot towards him from the blackness beyond the wall, striking him in the ribs just below his armpit.

  He breathed hard, a loud wheeze hissing from his lips as he rolled upon his back.

  “Hugh,” Alan called. He started towards his fallen friend but never made it more than two paces.

  A sudden throng of shafts shot through the air towards the men upon the rubble, piercing their flesh in many places at once.

  The pain was immense as Alan felt countless tiny bites all over his body. He dropped to his knees and screamed a terrible cry into the night.

  His men fell, some dead instantly, others still writhing in pain.

  Arrows continued the stick into them again and again until they moved no more.

  Alan, still screaming, turned towards the dark expanse of the breach.

  There, in the gap, stood lone Night Demon glaring at him.

  Michael crawled across the rubble, trailing blood behind him as he drew near to his fallen friend. Lying awkwardly on his back, Peter stared into the night sky with fourteen arrows sticking from his chest.

  Gripping his friend’s hand, Michael rested his head upon Peter’s shoulder and wept.

  The crunching sound of footfalls upon the rubble caused him to tremble. He heard the breath of the approaching warrior and the creak of the tightening bowstring.

  The loud thwack of the arrow piercing his skull rang in his ears as darkness filled his vision.

  Then he couldn’t hear or see a thing.

  The lone hooded figure approached. It carried a bow laden with a dark arrow, tiny sharp barbs upon its pointy iron head. Fastened to the warrior’s belt was a curved horn taken from the skull of some poor beast. Alan surmised this was the trumpet they had heard throughout the night. He realised this was the commander of the Night Demons.

  “Come to pay me tribute, have we?” Alan smiled as blood oozed from his mouth.

  The warrior removed his hood, revealing himself to the man upon his knees.

  Alan’s eyes grew wide with fear.

  A tear fell from his eye and trailed over his cheek as he recognised the face of his enemy.

  He understood what this was all about.

  It was his fault.

  “By the gods,” he gasped.

  The final arrow passed through his throat and out the back of his neck, sticking there.

  He fell slumped to his side.

  The riders and foot soldiers poured into the breach like released water. They rapidly moved through the streets, drawing closer and closer towards the centre of town. All the Night Demons bellowed a loud call as they approached.

  The sound was like something from a nightmare.

  Chief Shelley shuddered, a cold shiver crawling along his spine as he listened and waited.

  “From the north and east,” shouted an archer on a nearby roof.

  “How many?” called Richard.

  “Can’t say,” the archer called back. “Too bloody many to count.”

  The noise grew increasingly louder and louder as the enemy drew closer and closer.

  Richard tightened his grip upon his sword.

  The enemy was coming.

  He was about to get into the fight.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Twenty men stood upon the steps of the Great Hall awaiting the onslaught of enemy riders and soldiers that ran towards their positions. The thunderous sound of shouting and hooting from the Night Demons was deafening.

  “They’re here,” an archer called from a nearby rooftop.

  “Let loose,” Richard hollered above the din.

  Arrows started to fly through the air, hitting targets hidden from the view of the men in front of the Great Hall. Screams and wails of pain could be heard amongst the roaring call of the approaching enemy. Several arrows were seen flying in the opposite direction, answering the archers’ greeting.

  Richard watched as a few archers upon the rooftops were hit and slid uncontrollably, lifelessly over the sides of the buildings.

  The enduring archers continued to send shaft after shaft into the invaders, thinning the assault as much as they could before it reached the men waiting upon the ground.

  The sound of a hundred footfalls increased as the roaring voices grew nearer. Chief Barnard knew the attack was imminent. The enemy would be upon them at any moment.

  He raised his sword high. “Ready men,” he called. “The enemy is upon us. We will fight and we will win. We must.” He lowered his sword and swept his sword across all of them, pointing to the men around him. “For our wives. For our children and for our people.”

  He lifted his sword high again. “For Woodmyst.”

  A dark arrow streaked through the air with a loud whistle, burying deep into Chief Barnard’s chest.

  “For Woodmyst,” he breathed as he stared wide-eyed into the sky.

  Falling upon his back, he lay sprawled upon the steps watching the dragons float high above the village.

  Arrows continued to fly into the enemy that was still out of view as a great number of them, some upon steeds and others on foot, rounded a corner and bolted for the Great Hall.

  “Hold your ground,” Richard commanded. Some of the archers aimed for the chargers, hitting the horses and sending them into a tumble. The warriors toppled slightly before lifting themselves to their feet and continued towards the men upon the steps.

  “Attack,” Richard called as he ran to meet the enemy. The other swordsmen obeyed and started slashing and hacking at the enemy with vicious energy.

  The men were impeccably accurate with their strikes. Enemy intestines were spilt, limbs separated and lives destroyed.

  In a matter of what seemed no time at all, sixteen Night Demons were left lying in the street. The only losses to the men of Woodmyst were the few fallen archers upon the rooftops and Chief Barnard Shelley who lay upon the steps of the Great Hall.

  Before time was allowed for the men to reorganise, a multitude of enemy warriors appeared from several side streets. Richard realised they had moved some distance away from the steps. The doors were now vulnerable.

  The Night Demons raced towards the men on the ground and they met in a flurry of sword exchanges. The swordsmen blocked, parried and slashed as well as any man
could, taking several of the hooded warriors down as possible.

  The enemy, however, were overbearing and pushed the swordsmen back along the street. Before Richard realised, they were almost halfway towards the Centre Bridge and nowhere near enough to the Great Hall to be of any use to it.

  Several Night Demons climbed the steps with their steeds. Ropes were attached to the saddles and then extended to the large timber doors by foot soldiers. Other cloaked figures lifted Chief Shelley’s body and carried it out of view towards the east.

  Richard couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Why would they want the chief’s body but leave the others lying in the street?

  The horses with ropes attached to their saddles started pulling, pulling.

  The doors started to creak under the pressure.

  “Come on,” Richard cried. Frustration filled his heart.

  He swung his blade wildly, connecting with his foe and sending the warrior to the ground. But where that one fell, another took its place. The enemy intended to keep them at bay until the attack on the Great Hall was complete.

  A small band of seven Night Demons moved into the alley behind the Great Hall, creeping towards the kitchen doors. Their bodies hunched and their footsteps silent, they edged closer and closer to the tiny door that led into the giant structure.

  The lead warrior paused near the first kitchen door. It gripped the handle with its long fingers, scraping its claws against the timber frame. A slow twist to the left then the right informed it that the door was locked.

  Slowly, it moved to the next door and repeated the process. Upon realising the door was also sealed it moved on.

  The last door was open. It stopped dead in its tracks, directly in front of the open doorway and turned to the others behind it.

  Unexpectedly, it disappeared, ripped from where it was and dragged into the darkness of the kitchen. It screamed hysterically before it fell suddenly silent.

  The other kitchen doors were flung open and out burst three stable hands and six swordsmen.

  The Night Demons pulled their curved blades from beneath their cloaks, but it was too late.