Stone Rising (The Graeme Stone Saga)

by Gareth K Pengelly

  Tired though he was from the gruelling morning, the Boy had been in his share of scraps, seeing the clumsily telegraphed swing before the thug himself had even thrown it. He ducked the haymaker, then leapt up, swinging out with his own fist. It connected with the other soldier’s jaw, clean and true, sending him sprawling backwards into his two comrades. The assailant felt his jaw, in astonishment which quickly turned to rage.

  “You piece o’ shit – get ‘im!”

  The bully’s two friends leapt forwards, eager to take their own pound of flesh, but the Boy’s blood was up now, heart racing in his chest. He greeted one assailant with a boot to the midsection, driving the wind out of his sails and sending him to the floor, much to the cheers and amusement of the crowd of onlookers. The second came at him slower, his stance telling the Boy in an instant that here was a skilled pugilist, hands raised high to guard his face. A jab lashed out, just skimming the Boy’s face. Then another, the Boy raising his hand just in time to block. By judgement or luck, he counterattacked with a punch of his own, a satisfying crack as the fist hit home, blood spurting from the nose of his opponent, who stumbled backwards, falling over the wooden bench.

  “Hah!” A quick laugh of disbelief, but then a mass slammed into the Boy, driving him backwards and into the wall. Sharp-steel pricked his throat, blood welling up at the point. Broken-nose glared at him, a trickle of crimson dribbling down his chin from his split lip. Knife held in a practiced hand, he grinned in bloodlust.

  “Not so cocky at the end of a blade, eh, Toff?”

  The Boy had no chance to answer, for an explosion of wood and splinters filled the air, his aggressor falling to the ground in a heap, knife clattering harmlessly away across the crowded barracks floor.

  Will stood there, two legs of the shattered chair held in his hands.

  “Well,” he shrugged. “That escalated quickly.”

  They permitted themselves a shared grin of triumph, looking about the destruction they’d wrought, semi-conscious bodies being dragged away by cheering and jeering men-at-arms. But then a figure caught their eyes, looming large in the background as it leant against the stone doorway that led out to the corridor.

  A sadistic smile on his face, Cooper raised a finger, beckoning them to follow.

  Will glanced at the Boy, face drained of colour. The Boy grimaced.

  “Low profile, eh?”

  ***

  The cell was small, dim, the only light a weak and pale beam of sunlight that forced its way in through the iron bars of the small, high window. The stone was cold, covered in mould and the futile and oftentimes obscene scratchings of previous unfortunate occupants.

  It smelt of piss.

  “Would you stop pacing, even for one minute? You’re making me dizzy.”

  The Boy stopped his walk for a moment, looking over to Will who sat on the sole, low stool in the corner of the cell. Only for a moment, did he stop, then began pacing again, walking from wall to wall as nervous energy and anxiety sought to escape from his limbs.

  Oh god, things had taken a turn for the worse pretty quickly. They should have kept their heads down from the off. Why had he antagonised Cooper back in the wagon on the way to town, sowing the seeds of failure? Sure, he hadn’t known at the time who the scarred giant had been, but even so, on such a stealthy and secretive mission as this, he should have played things safer.

  Why did he always have to go and open his big mouth?

  He could still feel the sharp points of the halberds in the small of his back, as they had been frogmarched to the cells. Still see the sneering face of the Guardmaster as he had stood at the doorway to the cell into which they’d been unceremoniously thrown.

  A day in the cooler will calm your tempers, the brute had snarled, taking obvious relish in the punishments he dealt out. You’ll miss the passing out tomorrow, of course. But I suppose if you clean enough latrines over the next weeks, I might give you a second chance…

  The thud of the slamming cell door still rang in his ears.

  A second chance? No, no they did not have a second chance. The Boy knew that he had taken a risk in coming here, a big risk, more so than Will had realised. But beer and late night banter often led rash and hot-hearted youths to embark on foolish adventures.

  He wished that he could tame his impetuosity.

  No. There would be no second chance, here. With every passing day the chances increased that he would be rumbled. Perhaps Will could remain undiscovered; he came from Blidworth originally, then moved to the forest, so none might know him from Adam.

  But the Boy had been here before…

  True, time had passed. A long time. A hard time. But there remained faces within the keep that might recognise him, despite the changes of the years, despite the maturing of his features from boy to man.

  And it was too big a risk to take.

  “We have to escape.”

  He spoke the words even as he thought them.

  “Thank fuck for that.” Will grinned as he rose from his stool, stretching his arms and back as he did. “I wasn’t really too keen on a fortnight of mucking out the night-soil of those bastards in the barracks.” He swung his arms, loosening his shoulders for action. “Right, how do we do this?”

  The Boy paused, then looked at the door, thinking. It was hewn from thick oak, reinforced with strips of dark iron. It looked as if it could withstand a battering ram; overkill, when it came to keeping prisoners in place. But it had a flaw; no viewing hatch that could be opened to enquire within, the only way of checking on the prisoners being to open the entire door itself.

  “Got your pig-stickers?”

  Will grinned, reaching down to his boots, sliding out his two hidden daggers from about his ankles.

  “Always.”

  The Boy gave a nod, then hammered his fist against the oaken door, calling out into the air, hoping that the guard beyond would hear through the thick barrier.

  “Guard! Guard! My friend has fallen ill!” He hammered some more, the flesh of his hand hurting as it beat against the rough wood. “Summon an apothecary!”

  Silence as they waited. Long moments passed and the Boy began to think that perhaps the guard wasn’t even there, but then the sounds of muttering from beyond the door, the drawing back of a bolt.

  The Boy stepped back, nodding at his companion to be ready. Will spun his daggers about his hands in an expert flourish, tensing himself in eager anticipation.

  The heavy door creaked open.

  “Apothecary my arse. Unless someone’s dying in here, you’re gonna get the butt of my halberd round ya – “

  With a skill and cold precision born of years in conflict, Will’s dagger swept up in a flash, the point burying itself in the guard’s throat even as he poked his head into the cell. A gurgling, choking noise as the man’s airway filled with his own lifeblood, and the Boy grabbed hold of his body, hurling him into the cell proper to lie, dying, on the cold, stone floor, in a spreading pool of crimson.

  The Boy took the dead man’s halberd that had clattered to the floor, looking up to see Will peering out into the corridor, looking left and right.

  “All clear. What next?”

  The Boy joined him, taking his time to look both ways down the corridor. The castle was not a large one, yet as the centre of a large market town, it thronged with life at all hours of the day; whichever way they went was sure to find them bumping into others. They needed a way out without being accosted.

  Perhaps, unwittingly, the Guardmaster provided them with the answer.

  “The latrines…”

  At the Boy’s words, Will made a face, but to his credit he didn’t argue; he knew the precariousness of their situation. He gave a sigh, then nodded.

  “Fair enough. I knew there’d be more shit to wade through before we got ourselves out of this mess…”

  ***

  As stealthily as they could, the duo made their way through the castle corridors, heading towards the barracks, the only p
lace where they knew with any certainty where the latrines might be. Loath as he was to do it, the Boy knew that the slippery chutes down which the castle residents flung their waste would provide the fastest and most inconspicuous route out of danger.

  At least if they were alive, they could always bathe…

  The corridor, now, leading to the barracks. It was afternoon; they had been locked up for merely an hour or two. The guards would be on-duty, the recruits out for yet more ‘training’ at the hands of their sadistic superiors. The route should be clear, safe.

  They made their way forwards, Will with his daggers to hand, the Boy with his borrowed halberd, held heavy and sweaty in his hands. The corridor stretched on twenty yards before them, the dark door to the barracks at the end, but that was not their goal. To the left, halfway between the pair and the barracks proper, an opening, an archway that led out to the latrines.

  And freedom.

  Escape tantalisingly close, their pace increased, but then their hearts stopped in their chests as the door at the end suddenly swung open, figures striding forth, deep in conversation, before stopping and staring at the pair before them.

  Cooper stood there, bulk all but filling up the doorway, clad in dress uniform of bright tunic overlaid with a mail shirt. His face was mixture of puzzled confusion and snarling rage as his eyes took in the duo. Behind him, three of his most veteran and senior guard, all looking rough, tough and armoured, weapons ever to hand in defence of their masters.

  The figure by his side was smaller, leaner, yet dressed even more ostentatiously, his clothes of fine, soft leather, his hat just-so with a spray of dyed feathers and gold buttons. His neatly trimmed moustache and beard framed a face that looked middle-aged, yet strong still; cheeks free from scars, a healthy colour that spoke of rich food and easy living. And eyes, keen, intelligent and cruel.

  Eyes that fixed on the Boy’s and frowned, head cocking to one side as though half in recognition.

  A shudder of fear went down the Boy’s spine and he yelled out as he sprang forward.

  “Run, Will!”

  The two launched into a sprint, aiming to reach the entrance to the latrines. The guards and Cooper lunged forwards, in an attempt to cut them off, the figure they chaperoned hanging back, a smile part-way between confusion and amusement playing his features.

  Even as the two parties drew near, the Boy could tell that they weren’t going to make it. A judgement call, his arm drawing back and hurling the halberd like a spear. The weapon was heavy, unwieldy, the targets moving, but the Boy’s arm was strong and his aim true.

  The lead guard took the top of the weapon clean in his stomach, the keen edge of the point driving hard through the leather and piercing his flesh deeply. He screamed in pain, stumbling backwards and barring the way for his comrades with his flailing form.

  The two seized their chance, Will darting through the doorway into the latrines first, the Boy hot on his heels. The stench of the room hit them, even as they entered; amazing how people in towns could live like this, thought the Boy, as they darted towards one of the holes. Will stopped, staring down into the chute through which light could be seen some twenty feet below.

  “Really…?”

  A call from behind as the guards burst into the room and the Boy pushed hard on Will’s back, sending him toppling over forwards and down, head-first, into the grimy chute. Will’s scream receded as he slipped and spat his way to freedom. Feeling the breath of his pursuers on his neck, not daring to turn around, the Boy leapt up, then dropped, feet first into the chute.

  A snagging feeling, and he was jerked to a halt, the tunic about his neck tightening as though something of great strength had grabbed him, arresting his flight. A voice, dark, menacing and full of pent-up rage snarled into his ear.

  “Where d’ya think you’re goin’, toff…?”

  Chapter Eight:

  Green eyes flashed open, wide with terror. Gwenna bolted upright, sitting on the floor, head still spinning from exertion as the cold wind blew in from the window, causing her pale, naked form to shiver.

  With a cold feeling of dread, it all came back to her; the crying out of the spirits from outside had warned her, given her moments’ notice. She had risen from the bed she had shared with Virginie, bedsheet wrapped about her slim form, just as the robed figure of Francois had burst into the room, crossbow in one hand, bloodied sword in the other. She remembered his face, a mask of horror and rage as his eyes took in the two women, his mouth wrinkling in disgust at an act his holy book no doubt condemned. She remembered the snarl as he’d raised his crossbow, finger pulling the trigger, barbed death leaping her way.

  She’d raised her hands, calling forth upon the spirits of earth to save her.

  Then blackness.

  Shaking her head free from the dizzying effects of spirit-sickness, she looked down to the cold floor upon which she sat. There, two feet away, the blunted, broken shape of the crossbow bolt. She nodded in relief; the spirits of earth had seen fit to answer her, to lend her their unyielding strength, though for what purpose she didn’t know.

  She was only grateful that they had.

  Panic suddenly struck her as she saw the empty bed, Virginie’s thin dress gone from where it had lain at the foot of the bedframe. Where was she? How long had Gwenna been out? She reached out with her shaman senses, following the still-fresh link between the girls. It was stretched thin and growing thinner each moment; only on horseback could the two, the girl and her kidnapper, be making such progress. She had been unconscious for mere minutes.

  Every moment would count.

  The shaman rose, then fell again, leaning against the bedframe for support. She took a moment to catch her breath then, weary of limb but chest quivering with fear and anger, she clothed herself, before stumbling out into the corridor.

  ***

  Arris gazed down in horror at the weak and groaning form before him. The orange embers of the dying hearth served only to highlight the unnatural paleness of Pol’s face.

  “You fool,” whispered the shaman as he looked down upon his friend. “Always rushing in, always so headstrong and spoiling for a fight.”

  A hand on his shoulder, soft, trembling.

  “How is he?”

  He turned to looked up, the kind face of their hostess Felice gazing down upon him, tanned skin creased with worry and fear.

  “Not good,” the lad answered, gesturing helplessly to the crossbow bolt still embedded in his friend’s chest. “How’s your husband?”

  She glanced backwards over her shoulder, to where James sat on a stool at the bar, wrapping his bloodied arm in a linen bandage. The Englishman saw their scrutiny, giving them a thumbs up, grimacing.

  “He’ll live.”

  It had all happened so fast, thought Arris. The man had barged in from the night air, swathed in black robes. He had thought he’d recognised him from before, from the market place in one of the villages previous.

  Francois, that had been his name.

  This time, however, he seemed to be in worse humour. Crossbow nooked in his arm, the man had scanned the room with desperate urgency. When James had wandered over to offer the man hospitality, his only reply had been the slash of a sword, whipping out from beneath the man’s robes. In a flurry of black fabric, the man had turned and departed, leaving the shocked room. As the others had tended to the fallen bartender, trying their best to stem the flow of blood, Arris had darted out to chase the intruder, but the assailant had vanished down one of the corridors.

  That was when, out of the corner of his eye, he had seen Pol, sprawled on the ground just outside the door.

  Now, having been brought inside, the youth looked pale, sickly, the loss of blood great. With his shaman-sight, Arris could tell that his life was fading and fast. There was nothing he could do, not here, not now. He was never that confident in his skills as a healer, to begin with, not compared to the likes of Pol himself, or Gwenna of course.

  Gwenna! Where w
as she? In the panic, he had forgotten that she hadn’t been in the room with them. He rose, turning, to make his way to the door, but stopped.

  There she was; she looked weary, supporting her petite form with one arm against the doorway, a look of desperate sadness mixed with urgency on her face as the breeze from the outside door rustled her curly red hair.

  “Gwenna,” it was Felice that spoke, striding over to put an arm on the shaman’s shoulder, worried from the looks of her that she might be injured herself. “Are you okay?”

  A tired nod from the girl was her only response.

  “Bon. Have you seen ma cousine, perchance? I would very much like to know that she’s safe…”

  A shudder seemed to pass through the shaman, her eyes closed, then when she opened them, they were full of fiery anger.

  “She’s gone. Taken.”

  Felice stepped backwards, hand to her mouth in shock as James pulled himself up from the bar and strode, painfully, to her side.

  “Taken?” he enquired. “How do you mean? Was it that man? Who was he?”

  It was Arris that answered.

  “His name was Francois. He is a bon-frère, or so he had us believe.” The others all turned to look at him. “We saw him in the last village through which we travelled before we reached here. Apparently he used to have feelings for Virginie. She rejected him. It was a long time ago.”

  Gwenna snarled, the menace in the sound causing those about her to start.

  “It seems old feelings die hard.” The diminutive shaman seemed to grow as she let herself be filled with vengeful purpose. She turned to the rest of her troupe who sat about the inn, still half in shock over such an attack at such a vulnerable time. “We go. Now. We find her and rescue her from the clutches of this man.” She turned, now, to Felice. “They are on horseback – where can we find steeds to speed our way?”