The Walls of Woodmyst

by Robert E Kreig

  The hands and swordsmen started to cut them down before any chance of a fight began. The six hooded warriors fell lifeless onto the ground leaving a pool of blood where they rested.

  “Now what?” asked one of the swordsmen.

  “Pile them up near the wagon,” Francis ordered. “Could be more coming and I don’t want to trip on anything.”

  “You want help with that one, Francis?” asked a hand.

  “Yeah,” he replied disappearing back into the kitchen. “You take the leg and I’ll take the rest.”

  The stable master re-emerged dragging the body by the arms while the stable hand carried a severed leg over his shoulder by the ankle like a knapsack. Both were thrown onto the pile of corpses near the overturned wagon.

  “How’s about some of that cider?” asked Francis.

  The other men simply nodded and smiled.

  The doors shook violently. Short outbursts of wails and screams filled the auditorium as mothers covered their children’s ears and eyes. The noise of hooves upon stone just outside the entrance along with deep hooting calls and grunts filled each man, woman and child with terror.

  Catherine held Linet. Both were crying uncontrollably. Soothing words escaped Catherine’s lips as she attempted to comfort her tiny daughter, but her own ears paid no homage to them.

  She rocked back and forth as the doors were given another tremendous tug from outside. Dust exploded from the joints and fell from the beams above as the vibration from the sudden jolt reverberated throughout the building.

  Frederick and Edmond approached the large wooden accesses. Two thick beams had been lowered in place across the entrance. They rested upon iron brackets positioned upon the two side jambs and near the centre of the doors themselves.

  Carefully, and as quietly as they could, they inspected the barricades, ensuring that the beams were still secure and not starting to weaken.

  The doors shook again, sending a rumble through the expanse of the room. Puffs of dust sprinkled from the beams high above the nervous people gathered upon the floor.

  Turning towards the villagers, Frederick patted the air with an open hand signalling that it was all right; telling them to stay calm.

  Continuing to rock back and forth, holding her little girl tightly, Catherine whispered calming words as tears welled in her eyes. She glanced towards Martha Fysher, who sat on the edge of her bed with her arms around her two daughters leaning against either side of her. The girls were blubbering as Martha made gently shushing sounds.

  Sybil had wrapped a blanket around herself and her two daughters and snuggled with them upon her cot. They lay upon their sides, mother facing the two girls in an embrace.

  They had heard Barnard outside the doors sometime earlier, shouting and calling. Some of his words made it inside and filled their ears with hope. Sybil believed in her heart that she would see her husband again soon. Perhaps, victory was on their side.

  Then they heard him no longer.

  Some time had passed since his voice filled their ears and hope dwindled soon after. The sound of swords clashing had returned and grew distant just before the noise at the door began.

  The doors rattled loudly as they were pulled again. The lower beam across the door jiggled slightly but continued to hold.

  Several short screams ensued and more children cried. Some asked for their fathers while others wanted to go home. The novelty of sleeping out in the Great Hall had worn off.

  Their mothers tried to tell them they needed to stay, but they were too young to understand the dangers that waited for them outside the doors. War and conflict were incomprehensible to them, as they had never known of it until now.

  Peering around the room, Catherine saw several young female serves had taken to the arms of a number of older women. Still children themselves, they cried, fearing for their safety.

  The mature serves comforted them in a motherly way, assuring them that the men outside would not let the Night Demons harm them. They embraced the young girls, rubbing their backs and rocking gently as they attempted to ease their concerns.

  Believing the words spoken to the young serves as much as she believed her own she had whispered to her daughter, Catherine started to weep. Her hopes had been dashed when she first heard the doors rumbling.

  In her mind, it was just a matter of time before the enemy was inside the auditorium and upon them. With no weapons to defend themselves, she knew their young daughters and sons would become victims to the curved swords of the Night Demons. She believed the elderly and the crippled would be slain before the young serve girls and women of the village would be treated as toys for the enemy.

  Her hopes had been dashed.

  She awaited imminent doom.

  The doors rumbled again.

  The lower beam began to crack.

  In the back alley behind the Great Hall, the men had taken up their positions in the kitchens once again. A clatter from around the corner of the giant structure signalled the approach of enemy soldiers.

  The Night Demons approached casually, possibly not expecting resistance. They were noisy and made loud vocal sounds, communicating with one another.

  They rounded the corner and stopped at the end of the alley. From his position, just inside the open door where the dark shadows concealed him, the stable master saw them holding a discussion. One gestured towards the little door across the thin lane from the horse master’s position.

  The group of hooded figures numbered at least twelve from what he saw. They peered towards the pile of corpses near the overturned cart and pulled their curved swords from beneath their cloaks.

  Francis almost swore. He started to wish he had more men hidden in the alley with him. They were now outnumbered.

  The enemy warriors strode into the alley, heading directly towards their fallen allies. The passed by the two closed doors to the kitchens and paused between the open door where the horseman waited and the second, which concealed a number of his men.

  One of the hooded figures continued past the bulky horseman’s position and crouched near the slain bodies. Turning its head sharply, it barked something deep and raucous to the other Night Demons.

  Two of them instantly turned towards the closed doors and kicked at them with the heels of their boots.

  The doors smashed in with a loud crack.

  Swords flashed from the darkness and caught the intruders in the guts.

  The other hooded warriors recoiled as ten men burst from the tiny rooms, weapons ready.

  Rising from beside the remains near the wagon, the cloaked figure lifted his sword ready to run into the fray.

  The stable master caught him by surprise and brought his own dull blade down upon the warrior’s head.

  Blood spewed from beneath the hood as the figure fell lifelessly onto the ground.

  Francis turned towards the fight. One of his stable hands and a swordsman were positioned awkwardly upon the ground, great wounds in each of their chests.

  He moved upon them, slashing and hacking with his rusty sword putting another two down as he fought his way towards his men. The small troop, in turn, fought just as wildly.

  The sound of clashing swords echoed along the tiny passageway as the men of Woodmyst deflected and circumvented the enemy’s blows.

  The scuffle grew tiresome and the men turned from defending themselves to attacking their foes. Soon, it was the Night Demons who blocked and parried as the stable workers and the swordsmen hacked and chopped into the flesh of their enemy.

  Eventually, when all rival warriors were slain and blood had splashed upon all of them, they met in the middle.

  “We showed them,” said a stable hand. “Didn’t we, Francis.”

  The burly man just stared at the slain bodies of his worker and the swordsman.

  “We should move the bodies,” suggested a soldier, breathing hard.

  Francis Lytton, the stable master, nodded. “Our people get moved inside,” he said, and pointed to the
first kitchen. “Theirs get thrown upon the heap.”

  They moved hastily. Others nearby would no doubt have heard the sound of swordplay.

  As the bodies in the alleyway were cleared, the noise of guttural speech calls could be heard from beyond the western edge of the Great Hall.

  There was no time for refreshments. Not even for a swig of warm cider.

  More Night Demons were coming.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Standing by the mare, Tomas continued to whisper to her and rub her muzzle. She nickered softly as if speaking to him as he comforted her. She appeared to be calmer now.

  Staring through the darkness of the stables, he saw many of the other horses had settled also. Some of the more timid steeds had made their way from the back of their stalls to the food troughs where they munched on grain noisily.

  The sound of battle had moved away from them. Tomas hoped it was all over.

  He was tempted to venture outside to see exactly what was going on, but decided to stay where he was. Surely, adults would eventually come to check the stables. When they did, he would return to the Great Hall where he intended to find his father, mother and sister.

  The mare lowered her head to allow the boy to give her a scratch behind her ear. This was something she had done a few times before. He guessed it was something she liked having done, so he complied and moved his fingers behind the pointy appendage.

  Suddenly, all of the steeds lifted their heads.

  Their ears twitched around nervously.

  The mare snorted and stepped away from Tomas.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked calmly.

  Several other horses disappeared into their stalls, spooked by something the boy could not see.

  The stable door rattled and creaked.

  A revelation that the enemy was here made Tomas look for a place to hide. A ladder hallway between the stable doors and the back wall appeared to be his only chance. It led to a loft above the horses where supplies of straw and oats were kept.

  He ascended quickly as the doors rattled again.

  Squeaking open slowly, the doors let a little more light into the stables as Tomas quietly buried himself in the straw.

  He couldn’t tell how well he had been covered. Hoping it was enough, he lay as still as he could as four shadows entered the building.

  Several horses snorted and stamped their hooves in protest.

  Listening intently, Tomas heard two of the invaders conversing in deep grunts and sounds unfamiliar to him.

  The noise of two stalls being opened alarmed him a little. He hoped his mare would be spared any misdeed these shadows had planned.

  The horses grunted and jerked their bodies about in the stalls as the cloaked intruders approached them.

  Soft clicks and low rumbling noises emitted from the shadowy figures seemed to calm the beasts. Before long, the two horses were being led out of the barn quietly.

  Tomas couldn’t believe his ears.

  He wondered what they planned for the steeds.

  Soon, they had returned for more horses.

  The process was repeated and two more horses were taken from the stables. Then two more were led away, and another two.

  Realising that soon they would reach his beloved mare, Tomas struggled internally with two choices. Should he stay where he was, possibly safe from the enemy, or should he defend his horse?

  Another two stalls were opened and the horses were more willing to be taken. It would seem they no longer feared the cloaked ones.

  Wrestling in his mind, Tomas felt a small slither of sweat trickle over his brow.

  He couldn’t let them take the mare.

  He couldn’t let them near her.

  He jumped from his hiding place, ran for the ladder and started to descend.

  The horses reared and snorted at the sudden appearance of the boy. The hooded heads of the Night Demons turned to watch the lad bolt across the floor of the stable to stand defiantly in front of the mare’s stall.

  “No,” he said. He balled his hands into fists, ready to fight. “You can’t have her.”

  One of the hooded warriors, wearing a curved horn upon its belt, stepped towards him. Tomas pointed to the mare and then to himself.

  “She’s mine,” he said boldly.

  The shadowy figure stopped. It turned its hooded face towards the mare at the rear of the pen and back to the boy. Stepping forward, it reached with a clawed hand towards Tomas.

  Swinging madly with his fists, the boy connected with the warrior’s forearm. Ignoring the boy’s efforts, the figure spun the boy in a half circle and held his fists against the youth’s chest.

  Tomas couldn’t move. He was pinned.

  The cloaked warrior called to one of the others behind him. Within moments, Tomas’ mouth was gagged and his hands had been bound in twine. They dangled in front of him as the warrior moved him to the side, holding him by the scruff of the neck.

  Another cloaked figure opened the mare’s stall and approached her with a bridle. It made soft clicks towards her as it gently placed the restraint over her head. After fastening the harness in place, it called another warrior over. The new figure carried a saddle.

  Tomas was confused. Until now, the Night Demons had merely led the captive steeds from the stables by the reins. They hadn’t bothered with saddles.

  The mare was directed from the pen and brought to Tomas’ feet.

  The warrior, who had hold of the boy, placed his hands under Tomas’ arms and hoisted him upon the saddle.

  Confused, the lad peered at the hooded figure.

  The Night Demon pointed to the horse and then to Tomas.

  The mare is yours.

  Riding upon the horse, Tomas was led out of the stable by one of the hooded warriors.

  He was dumbfounded and didn’t understand what was happening.

  The mare was led outside and the reins handed to a mounted warrior. A small vocal exchange between the two hooded figures ensued before the rider brought his horse to a steady walk, leading the mare away from the stables and towards the eastern wall.

  Around him, numerous mounted warriors led the other captive horses in the same direction. They moved steadily through the streets and towards the breach where the eastern gate once stood.

  Upon the ground, propped up against the wall of a nearby cottage, Tomas saw the lifeless bodies of Peter Fysher and Michael Forde, riddled with arrows. Next to them were the remains of Chief Shelley and the twisted corpse of Lawrence Verney.

  As he continued to watch, the bodies of Hugh Clarke and his own father were placed beside the other council members. The shafts sticking from his body were countless. Tomas imagined a painful death and wanted to know why his village, why his father had to suffer like this.

  The horses were slowly led over the rubble and into the mist-covered lands beyond the wall. The six council members stared after him motionlessly, lifelessly.

  He started to cry as he was carried away into the darkness.

  Viciously and ferociously, the men upon the centre road leading towards the Great Hall continued to fight. They had neither made nor lost any ground but had managed to slay several of the enemy soldiers and lost many of their own.

  Archers upon the rooftops shot bolt after bolt towards the warriors at the doors of the giant building. Enemy archers returned fire and were thinning the numbers of bowmen down to a mere few.

  The riders continued to pull their horses in an attempt to tear the doors from their hinges. The steeds objected, kicking their forelimbs in the air and squealing.

  With arrows bouncing off the steps and clanging swords along the road, the riders did their best to calm their animals. For a moment or two, the beasts would comply, allowing another great heave to be completed. But then a bowman would fall from a rooftop, or an arrow would hit a Night Demon, spooking the steeds once again.

  “Push forward,” Richard hollered. He had done so many times before and small victories were expe
rienced. Soon their triumphs would be quashed as more enemy foot soldiers arrived into the fray, pushing them back to where they started.

  Pushing his blade deep into the hidden face of a foe, Richard’s sword stuck true. He pulled and twisted in desperate attempt to free the blade, but it didn’t budge.

  A dark figure leapt towards Richard from his right, sword arching down towards him. He needed his blade and he needed it now.

  He twisted with all of his might, hearing a horrible crunch and feeling the resistance of bone breaking and tissue snapping. The warrior’s blade was almost upon him when his own sword was suddenly free.

  Swinging the blood soaked steel across his body with one hand he blocked the enemy’s curved sword, preventing his own demise. He lifted his dagger from his belt and buried it into the warrior’s chest.

  Two Night Demon fell, allowing Richard to return to the fight.

  The ringing of clanging swords was tremendous and the smell of blood and spilt intestines was wearing. But the men continued to press in.

  “Push forward,” Richard called again.

  The men stepped into the battle, slashing and hewing the enemy soldiers one by one.

  Limbs were released from torsos, allowing curved swords to clang upon the street’s surface.

  Entrails were freed, permitting hooded warriors to rest.

  The swordsmen were steadily making ground. The Great Hall was still a fair distance from them, but they were drawing nearer.

  The horses upon the steps heaved the doors again.

  Even from his current distance from the building, Richard heard a very loud crack from the entrance as something gave way.

  The women screamed frantically at the sudden sound. The four elders stared disbelievingly towards the doors. Frederick moved towards the entrance gingerly, peering at the source of the noise.

  The lower beam across the door had snapped right in the centre. The upper plank was still holding and with luck would continue to do so.

  But two would have been better.

  Frederick turned towards the other elders.

  “Is there a spare?”