The Fragile Fall At Tallow Bridge (The White Blood Chronicles Book 1)

by Mark G Heath

  Ansell Redway, tall and muscular stood at his anvil shaping the orange glowing metal before him, working the metal with a dexterity that was surprising for one of his size. His assistant kept the furnace glowing white hot as he operated the bellows and occasionally darted towards the back of the smithy to fetch something for the blacksmith. Redway raised the still hot metal and inspected it before laying it on the anvil once more and continuing with his crafting. His broad featured face glowed from the light of the furnace, sweat dripping down his nose to pool at the end and then drop with a sizzling sound onto the red-hot metal that he was shaping. He inspected the metal again and gave a satisfied nod before plunging it into a barrel of water. With a hiss steam rose and engulfed the smith, clouding him from Thaindire’s view momentarily. Seemingly content with his work he moved the metal to one side to cool further and laid down his hammer, regarding Thaindire for the first time.

  “ Afternoon Master Thaindire, I am glad to see you able to walk about,” he commented.

  “ Yes, thank you Master Redway, I am taking time to have a look about the village,” replied Thaindire.

  “ Not much to see really. Stores all long here,” he indicated with an expansive sweep of his thick right arm,”church that away, “ he gesticulated to the left “ and over there the most important building, the tavern,” he gave a laugh.

  Thaindire watched the smith’s assistant take up some tongs and move the metal that the smith had been bashing, further into the depths of the smith, where for the first time he could see some of the smith’s wares hanging from hooks on the walls.

  “ What have you done to your wrist?” observed the smith, noting the fresh streaks of blood.

  “ Oh I slipped on the other side of the square and caught my hand in a bush. I am not as steady on my feet as I should be,” answered Thaindire.

  The smith gave a curt nod.

  “ Didn’t catch your cloak then?” he asked pointing a stubby forefinger at the billowing cloak.

  “ No, fell with my hand outstretched,”

  “ Fancy cloak you've got there, those two cousins make it for you?” quizzed Redway.

  “ They did,” replied Thaindire wondering where the questioning was leading.

  “ Funny pair but no doubting the quality of their work. My wife is always nagging me for a new dress from them,” he admitted with a smile. Thaindire glanced again beyond the shoulder of Redway and could see a breastplate on display and beside it a couple of swords along with a shield. Redway noticed where Thaindire was looking.

  “ Something caught your eye Master Thaindire?”

  “ Indeed yes, I have need of a sword. What have you got?”

  “ Long or broad?” asked the smith.

  “ Long,” he replied.

  “ Robert, bring out the two long swords,” called Redway to the boy, who promptly appeared bearing two swords across his arms. Thaindire took one hefting it in his right hand. The hilt was made with a suitable grip and whilst not the custom grip he was used to with his recently lost weapon it was still acceptable. He took a step back and balanced the blade before making two slashing movements and a thrust. It was well weighted and cut the air especially well.

  “ Someone has done that before,” remarked Redway at Thaindire’s display of swordsmanship. Thaindire silently admonished himself for showing off in front of the smith. He leant the sword against the doorframe and then lifted the second blade from Robert’s outstretched arms. This blade was heavy and it moved well also but he did not feel as at ease with this weapon as the first. He handed it back to Robert.

  “ How much for the first?” he enquired.

  “ Forty marks.” came the reply.

  “ Hmmm,” muttered Thaindire, “ thirty.”

  “ Second one you can have for thirty but the one you handle the best is forty,” asserted Redway. Thaindire could tell from his delivery and expression that no bartering would take place here.

  “ Very well,” he answered and reached for his purse. He counted out the money as Robert gave the blade a last polish before handing it to Thaindire. He was pleased to have armed himself but it felt unusual to him not to have his longstanding and blessed long sword with him. Perhaps the village priest would bless it for him? He would have to enquire.

  “ Now if you had had that by your side those wolves might not have bested you,” observed Redway as he passed the marks to Robert who promptly disappeared through a doorway to the rear.

  “ No doubt,” conceded Thaindire.

  “ The tanner will see to you with a scabbard,” offered Redway pointing back along the row of stores. Thaindire nodded, offered his thanks but continued away from the tanner on his exploration of the village.

  He was at the western side of the village now and ahead of him ran a roadway, which had buildings on either side. Opposite him, occupying the corner of the square and the road to the church was a tall, imposing looking building, which had a porch way at the front. Thaindire could see a figure sat on the porch smoking and looking in his direction but he was unable to see more of whom it was as they were hidden behind the balustrade of the porch. He walked on, making his way along the narrow roadway, which remained cobbled as it headed from the square. He passed a farrier busy shoeing a horse and wondered where, if at all, he might be able to purchase a horse, as he needed one if he was to get back to Lancester and decant his knowledge to the Order. The wonderful aroma of baking bread then wafted across to him and he saw the baker’s on the other side of the road. It was on a corner also and he was surprised to see that there was a track leading down the side of the bakery. Thaindire crossed the road and noticed that a number of dwellings followed the track before they gave way to the massed trees. The track sloped downwards and then away to the right, in an easterly direction. He could see wheel marks in the earth and clearly the tracks was often used. He knew however, judging by the steepness of the track that he would not be able to head down and back this day for he did not want to exhaust himself unnecessarily as he needed to commit his findings to the parchment back on his return to the room. An intervening sleep might corrupt the quality of his information. Thaindire turned, admiring the delicious smells emanating from the bakery and made his way back to the junction with the cobbled road. Turning right, he passed a couple of homes and then stopped beneath a statue that rose from a plinth. It was of a knight who leant on a brutal looking sword, the statue easily being three times the height of a man. A similar sculpture was on the opposite side of the road, both knights facing back towards the village. The plinth bore no writing and it was clear from the moss on the northern side of the statue that it had stood here for some considerable time. Thaindire was both surprised and impressed by the pair of statues, which seemed rather ostentatious for a village the size of Aftlain. He expected them to mark the entranceway to some grand house or castle, not a church. Running a hand across the stonework he moved past it and continued along the road, which began to rise, and he realised that he was on a bridge. He halted at the bridge’s apex and looked out and down from it, to the north. The banks of a river stretched out before him, steep and wooded and in a gorge below there was a fast flowing river the water frothing white with its turbulent passage. He estimated that there was a drop of at least a hundred feet from the bridge to the churning water below and the sides of the gorge made passage down to the river impossible. The river made its way after a time to the right, bending westwards and evidently running somewhere behind the Last One Inn. He looked down at the wall of the bridge and saw a plaque bearing the inscription “ Tallow Bridge”. He took in the river for a time longer, watching the flowing water as it cut its way through the exposed grey rock. Thaindire crossed the bridge and noted a similar plaque on the northern side of the bridge bearing its name again. He looked upstream and noted that again the river was a great depth beneath him and it similarly made its way through a steep gorge, preventing access either side before the dark rock gave way to the trees that clung perilously to the sides.
He let his gaze wander upstream and it was as he did so that he could just hear the roar of a waterfall. Maybe five hundred feet away he could see the wall of water which flowed downwards to smash into the river below, a frenzy of white gurgling and swilling beneath. The top of the waterfall was higher than his vantage point so he was unable to see the river beyond it, but he reckoned the waterfall fell at least two hundred feet. He watched transfixed by the frothing water, which no doubt never countenanced any survivor who went over the edge of the waterfall. Subject to where the river flowed from, the body of water bordered the west and north of the village rendering an exit over land most unlikely. He queried whether the track he had seen earlier led down to the riverside and whether it widened out perhaps on the northern stretch, possibly slowing its flow somewhat and made a note to explore this when he eventually headed down the track.

  He walked on over the bridge, descending onto the western bank and found that this side of the bridge also had two statues, though these differed from the two knights. This time, though of similar height, the sculptures were of two women who wore lavish flowing robes and held their hands above their heads as if dancing or conducting some invocation. She had noble features, a proud nose and wide eyes that looked beyond across the road. There was no explanation or description on the plinth on which the statues stood and Thaindire decided he would ask Kathryn about the statues when he returned to the tavern. Ahead of him the cobbles stopped and instead a dirt track made its way up a slope. The forest closed in around the route so that it became narrower and narrower the further one advanced along it, until the road vanished from sight, engulfed by the trees. He could see a tower protruding above the tree line; rising high into the dark grey sky and clearly the church lay beyond. Thaindire did not have the stamina to head up the slope to the church and would return, for he felt that the priest would need to assist him in his endeavours. Hopefully the fact that the church was set apart from the main body of the village meant that the corrupting nature of this godforsaken place was less marked here and he could rely on the holy man to assist him. Indeed, he was eager to learn what the priest knew of the witchery that had wrapped its arms around the village.

  Thaindire suddenly jumped as the sound of the tortured scrape of metal pierced the air. He whipped around, instantly regretting the sudden movement as a stab of pain reminded him of his current limitations. He raised his sword; legs crouched slight, poised to defend him from attack, pleased to at least now be bearing arms. The grating noise came again as a strong gust of wind tore over the bridge following the route of the river. He looked up and there was a metal cage slowly swinging from a wooden scaffold, the rusted metal join between the cage and the screw embedded in the timber protesting at the movement occasioned by the wind.

  Within the cage Thaindire gazed at the skeletal remains of the victim who had been hoisted in the gibbet. The bones were off-white and in places strands of withered, dried flesh still clung to the bones. He could see that several of the ribs were broken and there was a hole in the skull. The skull’s empty eye sockets were unseeing as slowly the morbid ornament swung in the gusting wind. Thaindire walked closer for the gibbet was set to one side, just off the road ten yards or so from the edge of the bridge. He could see that a sword was jammed through the lower horizontal bars of the cage, albeit that the blade was snapped and now a jagged end poked through the bottom of the cage. A crow alighted on the top of the cage and cawed, its beady eyes regarding Thaindire as he continued towards the ghastly exhibit. The bird cocked its head and pecked through the bars at the top of the skull, apparently in the hope of finding some edible flesh still attached to the corpse.

  Thaindire was now stood nearly beneath the gibbet, the cage about twice his height off the ground, a grim reminder to transgressors of the fate that would befall them. He wondered what the inhabitant of the cage had done and moreover who had administered the punishment, as clearly it must have been by the will of the village but by whose authority? He regarded the broken weapon and with a gasp as he dropped to his knees, a sudden weakness overcoming him. The pommel was shaped so as to hold a gemstone, which had clearly been plucked as a grim trophy, leaving an empty half cupped shape behind. The hilt had been fashioned with an unusual set of grooves and there were the two wings that formed the cross guard. Horrified, Thaindire’s view travelled down the broken blade, which thrust out into the air beneath the cage. Two words were visible, one either side of the central groove of the blade. On the lower side was “ Iudicium” and on the upper side “ Sanctus”

  “ By the One True God,” whispered Thaindire knelt beneath the awful spectacle, “ This is Michael Sanctus’ sword.” The crow alighted from the gibbet its cawing mocking Thaindire as he stared up at the skeleton.

  “ Is this him?” said Thaindire aloud as he got unsteadily to his feet. He reached up trying to reach the blade but it was just beyond his outstretched fingers. Sanctus had been sent to Aftlain some time ago but had not returned and this in part precipitated Thaindire’s own despatch to this accursed village. He had no way of knowing for sure if the corpse was that of Sanctus but there was no doubting that that was his weapon. The sapphire ordinarily lodged in the pommel had been pilfered, but the markings on the blade confirmed the ownership of each blessed long sword. The holy blades bore,

  “ Sanctis Iudicium” on one side of the blade and then the name of the requisite witch finder directly opposite, so that those who felt the adamantine edge slashing their damned bodies or thrusting deep inside their unholy souls would be in no doubt as to who was vanquishing them and dispatching holy judgement upon them.

  Thaindire glanced up at the sky, which had grown darker, and he felt the first drop of rain on his face. He lowered his sword and stood head bowed offering a prayer for Michael Sanctus as the rain intensified and began to fall steadily around him bouncing off the dirt of the track and spattering against the rusted strands of metal, which formed the cage. He cut a forlorn figure, his azure cloak rippling in the wind, the twisted and baring trees of the forest bearing down all around him all under the timeless gaze of the female statue behind him. He whispered the words of his prayer, ignoring the sensation of the water forming in rivulets to trickle down his face and instead fought to control his rising anger. Retribution seared through him, the desire to go forth and issue righteous damnation on these ill-governed, ungodly people but he knew that discretion was going to serve him far better. He turned and tugging the cloak tight about him be began to make his way back through the driving rain to the Last One Inn.

  Chapter Eight

  The warmth from the fire lit by Thomas Dromgoole, had soon dried off Thaindire after his return from the gibbet to the inn. The rain, however, had not abated and now rattled against his window, buffeted by the wind, which had not relented all day. Darkness had descended on the village and from his window, Thaindire could see the dotted orange glows of fires and lanterns about the village as the inhabitants sought to keep warm. He had eaten well at dinner, his appetite increased by his walk around the village. He was thankful that the silent Thomas had attended to his fireplace and victuals as he was in no mood for the levity of Kathryn. Thaindire stretched his feet out savouring the flames’ effect on his feet and sipped at the wine that had accompanied his meal. His cloak hung over the rack and he noticed that the rainwater had not soaked into the material but rather had run off it as it if had been treated with some kind of tar. His right wrist prickled a little, the scratch marks made by the nails were visible and he hoped that no poison had been secreted. Thaindire twisted away from the fire and back to face his bed where he had a piece of parchment laid out and was delicately crafting ink strokes as he drew a map of Aftlain. He had created a circle, which amounted to the village “square” which tapered at the eastern and western ends. Carefully he had etched the road leading back to Lancester and the opposing road over the bridge. With delicate dabs of the inked quill he marked on points of interest, the tavern, the seamstresses, the large house with
its unwelcoming plants, the alchemist’s residence and so on. He had also located the apothecary which he had identified as he walked back to the tavern. It was the last building before the bridge on the side opposite from the bakery. It was a low wide building with hanging baskets at its front. He had not bothered to venture or even look inside Thorne’s dwelling, for the weather had become foul and besides he wanted to dedicate the appropriate time to her and her practices. Whilst he was undoubtedly grateful for the poultice, which had aided his recovery from his wounds far quicker than normal, he was not comfortable with being a patient to what he regard as unnatural crafts. If questioned by his Order about his acceptance of the work of Thorne he would point to it as being a means to an end, the sooner he recovered the sooner he could peel back the layers that shrouded this village’s secrets and do something to extinguish them.

  His mind wandered back to the grim image of the skeleton in the gibbet and whether it was truly Sanctus. He knew that if he made enquiry of Dromgoole or his daughter he may get a reliable answer, although their performances concerning the tower did dent his confidence somewhat. If they confirmed his fears, he did not think that he would be able to mask his reaction and thus would expose himself to them, something he could not yet do. He needed to maintain his appearance as a cartographer so he could move about the village and accumulate the necessary evidence to take back to the Order and aid it as it reached its wise decision. Oddly, he considered whether Melissent Priestcote might prove more reliable. Her conspiratorial behaviour in the seamstresses’ that morning spoke of a desire to help him and without the knowledge of her cousin. He mulled over the proposition. Somehow he doubted that she left the confines of her house much, the pair almost seemed to be part of the apparatus that churned out the magnificent clothing and therefore may not know of the body in the gibbet. Furthermore, such was the eerie nature of this village and those who dwelled here, he suspected that he could not entrust any of them as to his true purpose or queries. No, the evidence pointed towards the skeleton being Sanctus but was not completely conclusive and part of him hoped that instead Sanctus’ blade had been used to dispatch the evil occupant of the rusted cage and he had gone elsewhere.