by David Welch
A half-hour of screams, swearing, and blood passed before the attackers reached the great hall, but, once they broke through, they streamed in, pushing the defenders back from the confined landing and into the vast chamber.
Now, all the defenders charged in, swords singing for blood as they came down on mail and oaken shields. Gunnar rushed forwards, bowling into an attacker with his shield. He pressed hard, forcing people back towards the passage, but there were too many. His momentum checked, he began stabbing. His sword bit into chain-mail, punching through into soft flesh, skewering a man’s guts. Pulling back, he felt, rather than saw, two blades coming in, and ducked under his shield. The blows hit hard, but he stayed standing and thrust forwards with his sword.
Blue-coated defenders crowded on each side, hemming him in, making it impossible to swing or hack, but he didn’t care. He’d been taught to stab before all else. A stab could go through any armor known to man, a stab was harder to block, and a stab ripped through a man’s groin as Gunnar pressed forwards again.
A shield rammed into him, hurling him backwards. He flew several feet, landing flat on his back behind the crush. He lurched upwards as a tall, black-haired foe came charging at him, hacking down with his sword ferociously. Gunnar managed to get his shield up, but the force of the blows drove him back down. He kicked out with his legs, catching the man’s feet and knocking him to the stone floor. Gunnar was up and on him before he could react, ramming the edge of his shield hard into the man’s face then stabbing through his chest with his sword.
He hurled himself forwards again, jabbing relentlessly with his blade. It punctured and skewered, quickly finding two stomachs to rip through, but around him the defenders fell back, their numbers too few. More black-coats lay on the floor than blue, but it didn’t matter. Ythell had troops to spare. Yestin went down, a sword chopping into his neck moments after he had finished running through a black-coat. The commander pitched forward, blood spurting from the wound.
They fled back across the room to the other stairwell. The blue-coats darted up the stairs, towards the king’s chamber. Gunnar went down instead, his mind dizzying as he descended the steep spiral.
He came out on the second floor; the storage level. Crates of grain and potatoes surrounded him, as did barrels of mead and wine. Salted meat hung on hooks around the room.
Turee crouched in a corner, obscured by a barrel of hardtack. Kerensa had sent her here and told Gunnar of it. He closed the heavy door to the room and then beckoned her to get up. The girl stood and scurried over. Apparently, her confidence only applied to lustful matters, because her face was a pale mask of fright. She wore a simple, linen dress and clutched a dagger to her breast, but it gave her no strength or confidence. She shook visibly.
“Your mother asked me to kill you,” Gunnar said, looking deep into her eyes. She nodded meekly. “I don’t want to, but I leave it up to you. They will come here eventually, and they will take you. So, what do you want?”
She looked away, torn, wrapping her arms around herself for comfort.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered.
“Good enough,” he said, and he grabbed her arm. They darted over to the staircase. Gunnar opened the door, sword and shield ready. It was empty.
“Down,” he said. “Grab some food, and we’ll hold out as long as we can.”
She grasped one of the crates and padded down the stairs in bare feet. Shouts and roars came from above, interspersed with the shrieking clash of steel on steel.
***
If her husband noticed the hell raging just outside the door, he didn’t show it. His eyes had been closed for some hours, but his breathing continued. Kerensa sat beside him on the bed, rubbing his frail hands. Painful screams, muffled by the wall and door, made their way into her room.
She’d considered fleeing upstairs, with the soldiers, making the bastards fight level by level for their prize, but she couldn’t leave Cahdar. When the councilors had begged her to divorce him, to restore ‘honor’ to the throne and prevent a civil war, she hadn’t been able to. When his first wife had threatened her all those years ago, over and over, she hadn’t been able to pull herself from Cahdar’s side. His fingers squeezed gently against hers.
The door to the chamber smashed in, the force of the kick breaking the locks and sending it clattering across the room. Soldiers in black surcoats marched in. She could see a man in blue behind them, dead, his sword still driven into the motionless corpse of his last victim.
“They’re here!” the lead soldier shouted. The cry rippled through the keep, from one voice to the next. The soldiers did nothing, just stood by the door, waiting.
Kerensa kissed Cahdar’s forehead and moved to stand beside the bed, to face the monster.
Ythell stormed in, his wolfskin cloak coated in blood. He pulled off the plumed helmet, handing it to one of his men, and smiled evilly.
“Well, here we are,” he said, his voice light, almost giddy. “Could have saved the trouble of chasing you, if you’d the sense to surrender months ago.”
The man looked at his father and sighed. With a quick motion, he pulled out his sword and thrust it through the old man’s heart. Blood frothed at Cahdar’s mouth. He stiffened and then lay back.
“A few days and you would have been king anyway,” Kerensa snarled.
“He polluted the throne,” said Ythell jovially, “and now his blood has cleansed it.” His evil smile returned, his eyes glancing up and down her body. “As my seed shall cleanse you and that slut you whelped.”
She nodded meekly, but her hands flashed, pulling the dagger from her sleeve. An amused grin came to Ythell’s face at the sight of the knife.
“Careful, boys, this one’s dangerous.”
The grin vanished when, with a quick jerk, she drew the blade across her neck.
***
They descended to the dungeon, in the basement. It was a tall room and half underground, and it was their final refuge. Crates of food lay stacked about, so Gunnar pushed them in front of the doors leading to the stairwells. It would slow down their enemy, but nothing would stop them.
Turee stood alone in the center of the room, next to the well. The keep had been built around it, leaving those inside a constant supply of water. Gunnar walked over to her, slinging an arm around her shoulder to comfort the girl. She moved her feet to the grate covering the shaft, looking down into the dark.
“Would they find us there?” she asked, hopeful and pitiful at the same time.
“They’d shoot arrows straight down and kill us, if we didn’t drown,” he said.
She closed her eyes at the news and slumped against a crate of wheat.
“He’s going to rape me,” she whispered, her voice soft and broken. “He’s going to lock me up and rape me, and the Spirits will curse us to burn for the sacrilege.”
“I don’t think it counts as sacrilege if somebody forces you to do it,” Gunnar said, but the girl didn’t hear him. She buried her face in her hands and wept.
Gunnar sat down next to the well, resting against another crate. He tilted his head back, staring up at the bucket just a few feet above. He didn’t know why it had caught his attention, and he didn’t really care. Muffled shouts reached the dungeon, the fighting getting higher and higher in the keep.
And the defenders becoming fewer and fewer, he thought grimly.
He prayed to the Gods Above, asking for the millionth time that Kamith be safe. He had never expected to live that long after leaving the Langal kingdoms; wanderers seldom did. But the months with her, wrapped in her arms, burying himself in those dark, wavy tresses…
He’d had many women as a soldier – the armor had a way of attracting them – but he’d only ever loved one, and he was soon to leave her alone on the earth.
His eyes focused on the bucket again. A thick rope was attached to it; a very thick rope, as thick as the one they’d used to pull him up to the roof.
Why would they use such a thick�
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A noise caught his attention. Dashing to the well, he saw a dark shape obstruct the dim hole: a head! He grabbed a torch from a sconce on the wall then darted about the crates, frantic.
“What are you looking for?”
“Flint, fire starter!” he said.
The energy in his voice animated the girl. They dug through crates until they found a small box of flints. Striking one against his sword, Gunnar lit the torch. They crowded over the well, the light flickering down…
…onto Kamith’s glorious face. Half of her body protruded from a large hole on the side of the well. She locked eyes with him, a proud smile on her face.
“Found you,” she said.
“You know how much I love you right now?” Gunnar asked. Her beaming smile answered his question.
“Now, hurry!” she cried, disappearing back into the tunnel.
They lifted the grate off the well. Gunnar pulled the bucket down and motioned for Turee to grab on. She put a foot in the bucket, grabbed the rope, and disappeared down the well. Fifteen feet down, Kamith’s hand grabbed her and helped her into the tunnel.
Gunnar followed, dropping the shield, tying off the rope, then sliding down. The tunnel was narrow, maybe three feet across, hewn out of the soil and braced by wooden planks along its walls every few feet. He squeezed in, the sound of the women crawling ahead of him the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. They burrowed like this for half an hour, in darkness.
“We’re close,” Kamith whispered. “I can see the exit.”
A bright point of light appeared ahead of Gunnar, obscured partially by the crawling forms in front of him. The women popped out of the tunnel, then he pulled himself free into the broken sunlight of the forest.
He took a deep breath, his eyes readjusting to the light. Then he pulled his dirt-stained lover into his arms and kissed her hard.
“What are you doing here?” he asked after they broke. “You should be far away from this place!”
“And let you die?” she whispered, wiping away a tear. “Never.”
“Hey!” a new voice shouted.
All three heads swiveled uphill. Fifty feet away stood a man in leather, carrying a spear.
“Hey! They’re escaping, they found a way out!” he shouted back to his fellows.
The three of them ran, scrambling past the cliff, then down the steep slopes. Feet crashed through the forest above, armed men working their way around the trees and brush.
“Where are the horses?” Gunnar cried as they slid down the slope.
“A ways away,” Kamith replied grimly. Turee screamed as she slid uncontrollably, but the girl managed to grab a slender tree trunk. She clutched it fiercely, but Gunnar peeled her away, their foes still tearing through the woods to catch them.
They came to the bottom of the slope, onto the flat bottomland of the Mother River. Forest clung to the base of the plateau but quickly gave way to marshy swamp
“That way,” Kamith said, pointing to the west.
“Wait,” Gunnar said, looking towards the marsh. “I have an idea.”
He sprinted towards the swamp. The women hesitated a moment, heard the crashing of their pursuers, then ran after him. Gunnar dashed into the marsh, swampy trees rising around a sluggish watercourse. The women followed, Turee’s face shocked and appalled as she dashed through muck. The small creek opened into a small pond. A dried-out beaver lodge sat in the center.
“Oh, he is not…” Kamith began.
But he was. Gunnar plunged under the water. He half-swam, half-dragged himself to the lodge and pulled his sword. He chopped into the floor of the lodge, breaking the small hole open, widening it. The women churned up behind him. Kamith pulled Turee under moments before the soldiers dashed up to the pond.
Gunnar thrust Turee’s body upwards, pushing her head into the old lodge. Kamith followed. His lungs burning, he hacked a few more pieces away with his sword then managed to squeeze his head in. Their bodies remained outside the lodge, in the rust-colored water of the pond.
“By the Spirits, it smells awful!” Turee groaned.
“Beats being dead,” Gunnar replied. “Of course, our armor’s gonna rust, now.”
Kamith would’ve shaken her head in disbelief, but, at that moment, her head was jammed tight between Gunnar and a girl she didn’t know.
“By the way, this is Turee. Turee, this is Kamith,” Gunnar said a moment later.
“You’re his wife?” Turee asked.
“Yes,” Kamith replied, though they’d never actually married.
Gunnar smirked. “Turee’s a princess.”
***
The soldiers spent long minutes looking over the pond, searching for their prey amongst the muck, but they found nothing. An hour after entering the makeshift shelter, Gunnar risked leaving, peaking above the surface of the water to look for enemies. None were present.
He helped the others out but stayed low, moving on hands and knees to the swampy shore. Fire raged above as the keep burned. Soldiers shouted and cheered their victory. No doubt they’d liberated the keep of its booze before torching it.
In the afternoon sun, they made their way around the base of the hill, wet and miserable but alive. Turee was the worst off. Her thin, linen dress clung to her body, exposing every curve and trapping every chill. It was no longer a thing of simple beauty; it was now a mud-stained shroud. She shivered as she trudged through the woods, wrapping her hands around her body to stay warm.
They reached Kamith’s secret camp by sunset. The horses were tied to the large oaks below the knoll, loaded and ready.
“You scouted a way out of here?” Gunnar asked.
“Of course,” Kamith replied. “Strike west up the ravine, it comes out a mile or so from the keep. Ride hard west for a few miles, into the lands of the Wandering Star. Then, we can make our way south again.”
“That’s my girl,” Gunnar laughed, jumping up on Thief. Kamith mounted Dash and then pulled Turee up behind her. The girl clung to the slightly older woman, wrapping tight hands around her stomach. Kamith looked a bit uncomfortable at first but shrugged and accepted it.
“Looks like you made a friend,” Gunnar remarked.
They took off through the woods, darkness falling and hiding their escape.
***
A hard night’s ride and fifteen miles later, they found themselves on the shores of the Mother River. Once again, Gunnar found himself looking at a naked Turee. This time, she frolicked in the waters of the great river, half washing, half dancing about with the unexpected joy of being alive.
“That girl takes her clothes off far too easily,” Gunnar remarked.
Kamith strolled over and sat beside him. A fire crackled nearby. They’d set up a hide tent they’d been given by the Duahr over the winter, their buffalo-hide blankets spread underneath. Gunnar frowned as he realized he wouldn’t be able to be with his lover tonight, not with three of them under the tent. He’d have to get another for Turee.
“She’s just taking a bath,” Kamith said, watching the young woman fall backwards into the shallows.
“Yeah, I guess,” said Gunnar, remembering that Kamith knew nothing of Turee and her ‘passionate’ impulses.
The girl finally strode from the water, shaking her body. Gunnar averted his eyes, more for his sake than hers. She crouched before the fire, drying off, and Kamith tossed her sleeveless dress to the girl, who pulled it on after taking a liberal amount of time to dry.
“So,” Turee said, poking at the fire with a stick. “What happens now?”
“I don’t know,” Gunnar said. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” Turee replied. “I-I don’t think I can go back to Starth.”
“You’re a princess,” Kamith said. “Surely there must be people who—”
“I’m a princess but not really a princess,” Turee said sourly. “The people never accepted me, and the nobles certainly didn’t.”
She pulled the stick from the fir
e and drew lazy, charcoal lines in the dirt.
“Do you have any family?” Kamith asked.
She shook her head.
“When my mother went to work in the palace, her father disowned her, said she would just become one of the king’s whores. I don’t know any of them.”
“Then I guess it’s up to you, Turee. What do you want to do?” Gunnar asked.
She stared at the fire for a long moment, a hesitant look coming over her face.
“Can I stay with you guys?” she asked meekly.
Gunnar felt a million voices jumping into his head, explaining to him in great detail why this wasn’t a good idea. But when he looked at Turee, he saw her for what she was under the bluster and lust: a young woman, alone, vulnerable, and afraid.
“I have no objections,” Kamith said. “Gun?”
He sighed, closing his eyes in disbelief as he spoke the words.
“You can stay.”
Turee shrieked and jumped to her feet, scrambling over to hug each of them, one at a time, and then together. Kamith, stunned by the emotion, returned the hugs awkwardly. Gunnar just groaned.
The Carpenter God
“You can’t pull that bow back; I don’t know why you keep trying.”
Gunnar lowered the longbow the Duahr people had given him and glared over at Turee. She loitered near Burden, their packhorse. Gunnar wondered for the thousandth time why he’d let the teenager join them.
“Because he will eventually grow strong enough,” Kamith said. She strapped a final saddlebag onto Dash then continued speaking. “And arrows from that bow will shoot through any armor we’ve ever seen.”
“So, a year from now, we’ll be safe? Great,” sniped the young woman.
Gunnar sighed and drew back again. Weeks earlier, when he’d first tried, he’d only been able to draw it back eight or nine inches. Now, he could nearly draw it to his eye. For a normal bow, that would have been enough, but to get the full effect of the greatbow, you had to draw it past your face, to your ear. He had a few more months of sore arms and back to go before he could do that.
