Ironheart

by N. J. Layouni

  “Is anything amiss?” he asked softly, regarding her frowning face with concern.

  Jolted from her reverie, Sylvie seemed almost surprised to see him there. “Hmm?”

  “Does this have anything to do with Lissy?”

  “Lady Lissa,” Sylvie corrected him, but she made no effort to deny it.

  He sat on the bed beside her, and the straw mattress rustled beneath his weight. He was in no mood for a quarrel. “So the gossip is true, then.”

  “Gossip?”

  “That Lissy carries Lord Godric’s child within her belly.”

  “Anselm!” Mother’s pale cheeks suddenly flushed crimson. “Where on Erde did you hear such a tale?”

  “Everyone is talking about it.” Not strictly the truth, perhaps—Richard could hardly be considered everyone. But if that ignorant oaf knew about Lissa’s delicate condition, it stood to reason that other people knew of it too.

  “Oh mercy!” Sylvie pressed her hand to her chest and took a shuddering breath, her reaction confirming his suspicions. But for some inexplicable reason, he needed to hear the words too. “Well? Is it?”

  Sylvie’s gray eyes glittered, and for a moment he thought she would not answer. “Yes,” she said at last. “It is.”

  To Anselm’s annoyance, she refused to discuss the subject any further. Instead, she tucked him into bed and drew the thick down coverlet up about his neck. “Goodnight, my little princeling,” she murmured, pressing a tender kiss to his brow.

  “Oh, Mother!” But his protest was weak for he already felt the pull of sleep tugging at his eyelids. Its delicious weight quickly descended upon the rest of his body, pinning his leaden limbs to the mattress. He yawned, wide enough to split his face.

  “Hush. Time to sleep.” Sylvie stroked his cheek, her tender eyes glittering silver in the candlelight. “Shh.” She slowly backed out of the room, taking the candle with her. Her absence plunged his little room into inky darkness.

  Eyes closed, Anselm listened to the familiar sounds of the night: the clanking footsteps of the night watch, tramping across the courtyard, their quiet voices sharing a jest as they headed for the guardroom, the thud of a distant door, and the distant shriek of an owl on the wing. Then came silence. Only the sound of his own deep, rhythmic breathing remained. The weary muscles in his legs gave a violent twitch as sleep advanced ever closer. He yawned again, and a tear slipped down the side of his face and onto the pillow.

  He would speak with Vadim in the morning, apologize to him if necessary, for he loathed being at odds with his greatest friend. Yes, tomorrow, when they set out on their hunting expedition. Once they were out on the moors, far away from the castle, they would be friends again. After all, what did Lissy and Godric’s affair really matter? After they were wed, as they surely must, everything would return to its usual happy state.

  The far-off sound of barking carried on the night air, and Anselm snuggled deeper into the cool softness of his pillow. Tomorrow.

  Down and down the narrow spiraling steps they went, round and round until he was quite dizzy, but Mother did not pause for a moment.

  They were off on an adventure, and in the middle of the night too. He had seriously misjudged his mother, foolishly believing her well past the stage for adventure. He wished she would tell him where they were going. Holding Mother’s linen sack of unseen treasures in one hand, he clutched at her slim fingers with the other. Despite his rising excitement, it had not banished all of his weariness. But at that moment he heard a sound that froze his yawn and turned the very marrow of his bones to ice.

  Screams. Awful cries of agony that penetrated even the thick stone walls of the stairwell.

  Sylvie stopped dead—so suddenly that Anselm ran into the back of her. By the balls of the Great Spirit! Who was that? Every hair at the back of his neck prickled and stood on end, like the hackles of a dog. He had never heard anything so terrible—even worse than the anguished howls of a woman in the throes of childbirth. But those were not the screams of a woman. Unless he was much mistaken, that was the death cry of a man.

  The abrupt silence that followed was, somehow, equally terrible.

  Sylvie stood motionless, her head tilted to one side. Listening. Anselm felt tension radiating down her arm and into his trembling hand, but he heard nothing more save the rapid pounding of his heart, and his own rasping breaths.

  What on Erde was happening out there? Were they under attack? If so, from whom? Lord Edgeway had no enemies. Besides, who would dare to attack the castle while the king’s cousin was—

  Lord Godric.

  Like a swift, hard blow from a staff to the stomach, the truth hit him hard. He did not need The Sight to know that whatever was happening out there, Lord Godric was almost certainly behind it.

  Who else could it be?

  Now, all the tension at suppertime made sense. Much too late, the meaning of the dangerous undercurrents that had swirled about the great hall betrayed their meaning.

  “C-Come along, my dear,” Sylvie said softly. “We must not tarry here.”

  Once they reached the bottom of the staircase, Mother pressed her ear to the cracks in the door. Satisfied that no one lay in wait to murder them, she turned to look at him again. Cast by the candle, shadows of light and darkness danced about the hollows of her face, reminding him of a skull he had once found, out on the moors. Dark staring sockets in a bleached and empty shell.

  “My dear, sweet boy.” To his surprise, Mother hugged him hard, crushing him to her slender form. “Are you as courageous as I hope, I wonder?”

  “Of c-course I am.”

  “Brave lad.”

  But his words were a lie. His knees trembled and shook beneath him, mocking him for telling such a brazen untruth. The screams haunted him still. Even in the silence, he could hear them—louder and louder until he longed to cover his ears in a futile attempt to block them out. Their current situation, however, demanded that he showed bravery, though he felt a long way from courageous. Still, in the absence of his father, the duty of defending Mother rested firmly with him. As for Father’s fate... No. He dared not think about that. Not yet.

  Taking a deep breath, he pulled back from Sylvie’s embrace and looked up at her. “I will not fail you, Mother.” Good. His voice sounded steadier, almost convincing. But he meant what he said. Even with his final breath, he vowed he would defend Mother’s life with his own. Straightening his shoulders, he stood a little taller and pretended that he was a knight.

  Sylvie nodded and gave him an approving smile. “Good boy.” She placed the candle in a small nook in the wall and blew out the flame. As total blackness enveloped them, Anselm wanted to scream. His heart fluttered in his chest like that of a frightened maiden.

  Stop being so cowardly, he scolded himself. The dark cannot harm you.

  Men, however, were quite another matter. If their paths happened to cross, Lord Godric and his men were capable of doing them quite a lot of damage.

  Hand in hand, they crept from the stairwell, darting from shadow to shadow down the long, silent corridor like timid mice. The wall torches had all been put out, but the full moon lit their way as brightly as the sun. Streaming in through the casements, it bathed the flagstones with narrow shafts of silvery light. But Sylvie shunned the brightness and kept to the shadows.

  The screams resumed, and this time they did not stop. The cries seemed to come from above—from the sleeping quarters, he guessed. So many voices, unwitting souls roused from sleep only to live out their final torment. Men, women, and children. Was no one to be spared?

  Anselm ground his teeth, and a flame of anger momentarily banished his fear. Murdering scum! If only he were a man and not just a boy. He would make them pay. All of them.

  Suddenly, Sylvie clamped her hand over his mouth and dragged him into a deep pool of blackness at the foot of a large roof pillar. Her he
aring must have been more acute than his, for a moment later two armored knights came clanking around the turn in the corridor.

  Anselm’s heart crashed into his rib cage, and what watery courage he had managed to summon now deserted him. Instinctively, he pressed his face into Sylvie’s body, seeking the comfort of her breast. She held him tightly and stroked his trembling back. The familiar scent of lavender enveloped him, soothing him as it had always done.

  A moment later, shame washed over him. What was he doing? If death was coming, he should face it like a man, not like a sniveling baby. So he forced himself to look at the knights as they marched ever nearer, their armor chinking with each purposeful stride. They were almost on top of them now. Surely they would see them, cowering in the solace of the shadows.

  But the spirits must have favored them, for mercifully, the men passed by without giving their hiding place so much as sideways glance. Thank Erde. The moonlight had briefly illuminated their features. Lord Godric’s men—two of the very knights he had so admired at supper. But the moon’s light and shadow had revealed them in their true form. For all their finery, his heroes were naught but grim-faced monsters, devoid of both heart and compassion—terrible inhabitants of the waking nightmare in which they now dwelt, the blades of their magnificent swords bespoiled by their victims’ blood.

  When the sound of the knights’ footfalls had died away, Mother released him from her fierce embrace, and they each exhaled a long and trembling breath. Anselm wiped his clammy hands down his trews.

  Without speaking, they continued down the corridor, hurrying toward the kitchen. The door was ajar, creaking as it imperceptibly moved in the breeze. After taking a cautious peek, Mother led him inside.

  Anselm gasped in shock. The usually pristine room was barely recognizable. Tables and benches lay upturned, their legs pointing to the roof like the headless corpses of animals. Casks and baskets littered the floor, their contents spilling out like entrails onto the flagstones, emptied out of spite or pure devilry, he could not say. What purpose did it serve, to smash everything and leave it to rack and ruin? Surely no rational person would ever engage in such wanton, pointless destruction.

  Hand in hand, they picked a winding path through the detritus. Vegetables crunched beneath his feet, and Anselm slipped several times, but Sylvie did not let him fall.

  Adjoining the main kitchen was the buttery, and that had been ransacked too. Huge ale butts lay scattered over the floor, smashed and ruined beyond any hope of repair. Their great wooden ribs gaped open like the ribs of a dead man.

  Paddling and splashing through puddles of wine and ale, they headed for the door that would take them outside. The liquid had already soaked through Anselm’s boots, chilling his already cold feet until he could hardly feel his toes, but he did not complain.

  The heady scent of grape and grain filled his nostrils, and there was something else too. Something far less pleasant: a metallic, sickly sort of smell combined with the reek of voided bowels.

  Death was everywhere this night, and it had already visited the buttery.

  “Erde!” Mother came to a sudden stop, and she covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh no!”

  “Who is it?” Anselm asked, craning his neck to see around her body, which blocked his view. But Sylvie would not allow it. She spun about and held him to her; his face was crushed into the sweetness of her gown. “Do not look, sweeting,” she murmured against his hair. “Some things are best left unseen.”

  In this awkward fashion, they continued on their way, shuffling and stumbling toward the door. Although their passage was slow, Anselm made no protest. For him, the promised adventure had lost all of its luster; he had no desire to see any more than he already had. At any moment, he hoped to wake up, to escape this horrible dream and find himself back in his bedchamber, safe and snug in his cozy little bed. But with the passing of each moment, the likelihood of this happening seemed ever more remote.

  Stepping over the threshold, he felt the press of uneven cobblestones beneath his sodden boots. The sharp tang of frosty air in his nostrils told him they were outside. He breathed in deep lungfuls of cold air, ridding them of the buttery’s awful stink.

  Mother finally released him and she quickly looked away, but not before Anselm had seen the wetness of her cheeks.

  Frowning with concern, he gently rested his hand upon her arm. “Mother?”

  “Do not fret, my son,” she said, dabbing her tears away with the hem of her cloak. “I am quite well.” But her weak smile did nothing to reassure him. “’Twas the shock of seeing...” She swallowed hard, and her eyes glittered suspiciously. “Well, never mind. Come. We must go on.”

  Keeping to the shadows, they headed in the direction of the gatehouse. Once through its sturdy gates they would at last reach the outer bailey and be that much closer to freedom—if, indeed, escape was what Mother sought. What else could it be?

  With her head constantly sweeping from side to side, ever alert to the threat of unseen danger, Mother reminded him very much of a deer that had scented hunters on the wind. But thankfully, apart from themselves, the cobbled courtyard appeared deserted.

  A sudden thought occurred to him. What about Father? Surely they weren’t going to leave him behind?

  But before he could voice his concern, another chorus of terrified screams shattered the stillness of the night. Then, just as soon as they had begun, like the snuffing of a candle, the cries were put out. Anselm glanced over his shoulder at the towering hulk of the keep, so black and menacing against the inky sky. As he looked up at the casement of his family’s private chambers, he saw fast-moving torchlight from within. A flickering orange glow, hunting for those who should have been tucked in their beds.

  He shivered and felt slightly sick.

  Home was home no longer. It was now the dominion of demons.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Without encountering anyone, they slipped unchallenged through the open gates and into the outer bailey. Here too, all was unnaturally quiet.

  Still and lifeless.

  Anselm shivered. Where were the torches of the night watch? Even on the quietest nights, there was always the sound of men’s talk and laughter to be heard—that, and the clank of their armor as they patrolled the ramparts of the curtain wall. But now only the gentle sighing of the wind remained.

  Clang. Clang.

  The bell in the gatehouse finally came to life, rung by an unseen and desperate hand.

  Clang-clang-clang!

  At last came the summons to take up arms and fight. A warning that came much too late.

  There was a brief unearthly cry of agony, and the bell fell silent once more, cut off as abruptly as the poor soul who had rung it. The final urgent toll echoed about the bailey and gradually faded into the night.

  Mother stopped dead, her eyes wide and afraid, staring at the gatehouse. There was no need to ask her why. Who had attempted to raise the alarm, and more importantly, who had silenced them?

  “Quickly!” Dragging Anselm along with her, she bolted for the cover of an empty wagon that rested beside the curtain wall. Panting with the speed of their exertions, they crouched down, hiding behind the wagon’s sturdy wheels. “Catch your breath while you may, sweeting,” Mother gasped. “I need to think for a moment.”

  Anselm peered out from between the wheel’s wooden spokes. Everything looked so normal, as if the horrors they had witnessed had never occurred. But a thick, menacing silence hung over them, which in its way, was more frightening than the screams. It was much too quiet. Save for the sound of their ragged breaths, there was not a sound to be heard anywhere, not even from the stables. Where were the dogs that usually roamed the courtyard in a loud, unruly pack?

  In the wet, shining cobblestones he glimpsed the reflection of the moon’s bright glow. Then, as he looked around, he gave a sudden gasp of horror. The moon was not the on
ly thing out there.

  Dark lumps lay randomly scattered about the bailey, but they were not heaps of rubbish bound for the midden as he’d at first assumed.

  They were men. Or they had been.

  Once.

  The forms of a dozen men-at-arms lay sprawled out upon the cobblestones. Limbs twisted, faces contorted, their mouths were frozen open in silent screams that described their final agony. Anselm had no doubt that they were dead. His shallow breaths puffed out before him like dragon’s smoke only to be whipped away seconds later by the icy wind. But the only smoke rising from the soldiers was from the steaming moat of blood surrounding their wretched corpses.

  Sylvie must have seen them too. “Do not look, child,” she whispered, hugging him. But it was much too late. No matter how much he longed to, he could not unsee them now. Tears stung his eyes and constricted his throat. Cursing himself for a coward, he swallowed his sorrow, and brushed his sleeve over his dripping nose.

  The windows of the keep were dark and silent now. Not a single torch glowed into the bitter night. ’Twas a house of slaughter—a tomb. They could never go back there; he understood that now. But how could they go on, especially without Father? Was he out there somewhere, wounded or dying? Perhaps he was already dead. No. Anselm shook himself, angry that he had given life to such a terrible thought. Father was a giant—a true warrior. He would survive. None of Lord Godric’s men could hold a candle to his skill.

  One by one, from inside the many huts and shacks of the castle folk—the workers and tradespeople who lived within the protection of the castle walls—a myriad of lights began to appear.

  Anselm’s heart soared. They must have heard the warning bell. Although they were simple people—certainly no match for Lord Godric and his brutish knights—with luck their appearance might allow him and Mother to slip unnoticed from the castle.