by Veras Alnar
“Amis!” a shout, and a sting across his cheek.
Blinking in the low light of the very early morning, Amis fought to see with his open eyes. His body collapsed limply on the cold floor. It hurt so much, dawn's growing light, he must have mumbled as much because after feeling his limp body being wrestled into a bed the shutters were shut tight. Darkness overcame him in blissful cooling until his heavy eyes finally focused on Lord Guain's back at the dim window. The strange things Fulk had told him seemed all the more impossible and the night had been just a terrible dream, Lord Guain had let loose his curled blonde hair and was looking at Amis with the utmost concern and care, the very opposite of the picture he had been painted by Fulk's stories.
“Can you hear me now?” Lord Guain said.
Lord Guain looked ordinary and like himself, if rather worried.
“Yes,” Amis said, hesitant.
There had been no wine at dinner and perhaps no drug. What had brought him here, then? How many schemes were afoot; was it Fulk or Nethir or Lord Guain, or perhaps the paranoia of himself pushing him to strange conclusions?
It was difficult to focus on anything, Lord Guain had pressed his hand to his forehead. The rings felt cold against his head and were almost comforting.
“You're very hot,” Lord Guain said, “how are you feeling?”
“Bad,” Amis managed, his eyes were fighting to stay open.
“I fear the fever never left you,” Lord Guain said, “that you're still in the throngs of sickness.”
“No,” Amis said, “no, I saw the devil and he nearly took me away.”
Lord Guain laughed a little, “there's no devils in this castle. Only you and I and Fulk though I would understand if you mistook Nethir for one of the diabolical fold, he does have a way with himself that is most off putting.”
“I saw a great bat,” Amis said, his forehead breaking out in a sweat, “and there were battles all around and beasts growling in my ear.”
It was with some concern that Lord Guain looked at him and leaned over, touching his hair against his sweating forehead.
“Shall I get my brother,” Lord Guain said, “he has some medical knowledg-”
“No!” Amis said, eyes clenching, “No, it's not death I'm afraid of.”
It would be worse to say his fears out loud, that they too could be devils of the pit come to torment him in an endless nightmare. Amis felt strange and dreamy, blinking painfully in the light. And he was thirsty, so very dry from all his screaming.
Lord Guain reached beyond him to pull up the coverlet and Amis saw his pale, strong wrist near his face. So white and milk colored with translucent veins, and he lunged at it and bit.
Lord Guain made a sound halfway between a yelp and a gasp. Amis could feel his teeth easily meet through flesh like biting into bread but the heat and taste was indescribable. It was like being resurrected from the dead, breathing in easily the warmth of Lord Guain's noble blood. The great beating wings of a bat were next to his head but what should have been a terror was now nothing but a soft welcome sound, companion to his drinking.
Some time passed and Amis could have let it go on forever, pressing his tongue against the wound and feeling warmth spread through him.
“Amis,” Lord Guain's voice was calm and focused, “you must let go, now.”
It was a feeling as close to love as Amis had ever known and he didn't want to let it go, not ever. Gently, with a firm press against his brow, Lord Guain loosened Amis' grip around his wrist and pushed him away. Confused and bereft, Amis tilted his head.
Something red was reflected in Lord Guain's normally green eyes but Amis couldn't make sense of it, they looked like they glowed as a lake did under torchlight. Lord Guain was handsome and strong, his curled blonde hair spilling over and nearly touching the red coverlet and the muscles of his arm were taught as he held the wooden bed post and panted from exertion. But there was something more to the man than Amis could ever put to words, it wavered in and out of his vision like a face within a face.
“I wish I could be you,” Amis said, quietly, blood sticking to his tongue, “and think my way out of this place, forever.”
Roughly, Lord Guain grabbed Amis' hair in his hands and pulled him in. It was a heated, biting kiss that tasted of blood. The warmth of another man's mouth wasn't as strange as it should have been and the burning, insistent press between his thighs caused by Lord Guain's other hand was sinking into an indistinct, pleasing smear. But it was so very like the caress of the dreaded beast that had touched him in the secret passage, Amis began to feel a stab of fear.
“I love you,” Lord Guain whispered in his hear, hot breath tickling him, “love you, love you so much....you have no idea...”
The great scaled tail of the beast slithered past Amis' thigh and the clawed hands dug into his scalp just as the hot tongue pressed into his mouth. And there was more than one bestial form in the room; several others whispered by the bed curtains, their great massive hands lifting the velvet and causing the low candle to sputter and gutter out. If it was a man who was making love to him or a beast, he couldn't tell and welcomed their touch in such overwhelming dark that even the morning's first light couldn't chase it away. Blearily, he felt the wet and heat pull away. Snarling he lashed out to bite but his face was caught in Lord Guain's grip.
When the light fell in from behind the curtain just a bit, it hurt his eyes and he hissed in pain.
“Go to sleep,” Lord Guain told him, “when you wake up, I'll still be here.”
Amis' head hit the pillow released from the Lord's grip, and he knew no more.
The light came dappling in the window and Amis stirred from his rumpled bed. The bright light of an afternoon assailed his sore eyes and he rubbed them fitfully. Opening his eyes, Amis snapped awake. He was in Lord Guain's room again, its red curtains and carved bed hard to mistake for anywhere else. When Amis threw aside the curtains he was greeted with the same Lordly portrait he had seen before but this time, the picture seemed more sinister in some way. The eyes of the lord weren't entirely brown, he noticed but a strange cadmium red. And the little scratched devil in the corner looked like it had been put there by a claw dipped in ink and not a brush. Amis pressed his hand to his forehead; it was cool. Had it been a dream, or something more?
The day was late and Amis staggered from the bed and threw open the shutter. Down below on the castle grounds Amis saw the Bishop Nethir burst through the still open gates on their only horse, it seemed he was in a hurry and was leaving Garstwrot as fast as he could. From the first floor Amis could hear the gate being closed shut and he wondered if Fulk was helping Lord Guain close it up. It was an unsettling, thunderous sound that made Amis feel not so much secure, as hopelessly trapped. Staggering backwards from the bright light of day, Amis pressed his hands to his clammy forehead feeling the start of a headache. And had it been real, that strange night? Had Lord Guain really said those wonderful things to Amis, as no one had before. Even his parents had never told him that they'd loved him, it seemed at most a wild fancy and at the least impossible, it's not like they had known each other well.
After all, surely if he had done what he had dreamed some mean leavings would be behind somewhere on him. He recalled Durgia the day after they had first made love, she had slapped his thigh while he was waiting for Fulk outside the inn and winked at him.
“I can hardly walk this morning,” Durgia had smirked, “you naughty boy.”
And yet, in the morning light Amis felt nothing, not so much as a twinge. There were no great scratches on his thighs or bites or anything at all that would suggest the remotest injuries. He felt fine, or rather, he would have besides the headache.
After cleaning up and dressing in his own room, Amis went downstairs to the great hall. Through the kitchen doorway Amis heard Lord Guain humming a familiar tune; the song of Ulfsr, it was cheering and bright. The smell that wafted from the large pots and boiling contents was unusual, extremely spiced.
&nb
sp; “What are you doing?” Amis said.
Is this the makings of a poison? Amis couldn't help but wonder.
“Oh, good morning, finally awake I see,” Lord Guain said, “I'm boiling down the stock in blood pudding, it's an old trick. It helps the stores to last and adds nutrition. Something you sorely need after your fever last night.”
Amis turned red to his neck but it was clear, Lord Guain was nonplussed about whatever had happened the night before. When Lord Guain leaned over a pot and stirred, Amis noticed he was wearing a bandage over his right wrist.
“What happened to your wrist?” Amis asked, his throat nearly choked.
“This? I burned it this morning,” Lord Guain said, “it's been many a year since I've had to cook for myself, not since leading knights some years ago.”
Amis turned away, his cheeks flaming. Just dreams and nothing made of the day, that's what it had to be and, most importantly, there was no mark on Lord Guain's neck at all. But then Lord Guain took a moment from his stirring and turned to Amis and touched his hair in such a way that an intimate lover might, and a shy and handsome smile slipped across his face. The overwhelming smell of roses permeated him, it overtook the smell of cooking until there was nothing else. When Lord Guain saw Amis' clear discomfort he stopped and turned back to his stock pot. Amis had nearly stopped breathing, he was so nervous.
“It smells good,” Amis said, then turned quickly away, while doubting everything.
Something had indeed happened, some romantic overtures of a sort he was sure. His nighttime fevers, the dreams had perhaps made his memories dubious and perverse. But it wasn't a wrong thing for a man to lay with another man, particularly when it was a Lord who was so high above his lowly station. It was even seen as something advantageous and had been a political move as far back as Albin and Gamwyd's time. But Amis didn't want to think about political ladder climbing, he wanted a sword, he wanted an escape. He'd rather be fighting contesting armies for his village than facing the burning humiliation of his mind running on sinful threads over his strange nights. Regardless, there was one thing that Amis could count on and seeing as they were shut up in a tower by themselves, he knew it was a good idea to do what he could to protect himself.
Out in the yard there was a small barracks that was dusty and overgrown with weeds, it hadn't seen extended use in quite some time. A few swords were scattered here and there, abandoned by mercenary knights who had long since left. Since Garstwrot could go for a century without seeing battles inside its borders, the army was drawn from the peasantry and only during a serious matter would gold be expended to fill its ranks with professionals from foreign lands. Although Amis had never fought in a proper war, he had heard their general explain their position many times.
“We leave the real fighting to the professionals,” Conrad had said, the aged general who had been hired by Lady Anna many years ago, “you lot are as good as cannon fodder in a real battle.”
Conrad had been very old and very bent, worn to waste by his long and many campaigns but his mind had still been sharp and even has he had leaned on a crooked stick as curled as his back for support while barking orders, the man had known what he was doing. But he had never particularly liked Amis and had always given him the worst jobs when they had run their practice and Fulk had been in constant argument with him over what they should be doing.
“The bow is all you're good for, you long limbed turd,” Conrad had shouted at Fulk during a day he felt particularly vexed with them, “never you mind what I'm doing with the wastrel! He has a horse and you don't, that's all there is to it!”
The sword sitting on a barrel by dusty heap of tarnished amours seemed sufficient, it was big and two handed, while not overladen with metal work on the halberd. Hauling out an abused mannequin and pushing it to the center of the yard, Amis set himself up a few striking ranges.
“Fulk what are you doing?” Lord Guain's voice rang across the courtyard.
“Hauling bags from the town, my Lord,” Fulk replied.
“You weren't to leave the gate for town without telling me,” Lord Guain said, testily, “how in the devil did you open the gate by yourself?”
“I didn't, my lord. I came in and out through the bricks like our friend, over there. There was something I had to make good on this morning,” Fulk said, “besides, your payment was hardly sufficient for the back breaking work I've done.”
Lord Guain looked both annoyed and considering, at once.
“When I say we must all converge here and remain,” Lord Guain said, sharply, “that is precisely what I mean. Don't go against my orders again grave master or I will find some way to reprimand your actions.”
Amis glanced at Fulk who was carrying a large, lumpy sack overladen with bits of goods. It was typical and pathetic of him all at once. He turned his attentions back to a much more worthy cause; the chopping up of a bag of sand and straw.
Raising his arm above his head and pulling his shoulder back, he felt the bones in his arm creak and crack and bend. Amis may have been out of practice and in poor shape but he knew how to strike, he was determined to prove he could still use his sword even if just to himself.
With a cry he hit his mark; one blow and the sand dummy was cut in half, another blow and it had lost its wooden head with a dramatic spin spraying sand everywhere.
Laughter greeted him afterward, a mean sound from Fulk who had lingered to watch along with Lord Guain who was absolutely staggered by Amis' performance with the blade.
“I told you,” Fulk said, “it's all he knows to do but he does it better than any other.”
“How,” Lord Guain said, “have you possibly accomplished that?”
“What do you mean?” Amis said, “It's a standard right handed swipe, just as Conrad taught us in the town square.”
“I should think the dusty Conrad couldn't have taught you that,” Lord Guain said, “not the way you cut them in half. I can't imagine what that does to a real man.”
There were heaps of hay stacked in the yard and Fulk had set himself up on one in a laconic fashion, leaning back with his arms supporting his head like a boy on a lazy fishing raft.
“It strikes them down,” Fulk said, while chewing on a piece of straw between his crooked teeth, “into two pieces. Neat like, not an entrail spilled. Their heads come off just as easy but those are messy and spray around great gobs of blood. Anyone who knows this man's sword tries to ride around him. One hit from him and you're good as dead.”
“I don't like the sight of innards,” Amis said, “they're upsetting.”
“I had no idea you were so skilled,” Lord Guain said, “I should have heard of it, in a town like this such a skill would make anyone else famous.”
“That was general Conrad's doing,” Fulk said, “the man had a serious dislike for him.”
Fulk spit out the hay and got down from his perch with a swagger and crooked grin that Amis hated him for.
“Shut up!” Amis snapped.
“He'd put him first in line each time, hoping he'd be done in,” Fulk said, “and give him the oldest, beat up helmet he could find. But no one could best that swing, every time the knaves would come from the south or west hoping for an easy score against a river town, they'd be sent packing.”
“I can imagine why,” Lord Guain said, “I'm hardly unpracticed and I could never swing that well. I must press you into teaching me, if you can.”
“I really can't,” Amis said, “I have no idea what I do different. Though many have tried to imitate.”
“None the less,” Guain said, “I want to test you against myself.”
“No,” Amis said, horrified, “not for the world.”
“Why not?” Guain pressed.
Fulk began to laugh again, high and nasal in pitch.
“Will you tell him, or will I?” he said, crooked teeth grinning like a skeleton's.
“Is there some difficulty?” Guain said.
“Yes,” Amis said, through gritted
teeth, “I can't control it. I either kill or nothing at all. I'd cut off your head by accident as soon as parry a blow.”
There was a long and rather uncomfortable pause.
“And has this happened before?” Lord Guain asked.
“Oh yes,” Fulk said, grinning, “killed Conrad's old friend, a bargeman who worked in town and the odd man or two who wouldn't let him alone. That got him into quite a bit of trouble, his father had to pay off the families great piles of gold to not go to court.”
“Shut up,” Amis screamed, “Shut up!”
“Should have seen him at the inn,” Fulk said, “no one sat near him for two years, too unpredictable in temper. While his punch is pathetic, put a bit of metal or wood in his arm and it's a different story. He's been his own company more often than anyone else for as long as I've known him. You might say, I'm the only friend he has after all the trouble he's caused with that impressive swing.”
“Then I shall forgo any lessons,” Lord Guain said, “and only say I wish I had been able to cultivate such a skill.”
“No, you don't,” Amis said, darkly.
It took little imagination to hear the screams and see the blood arc high into the sky in a wicked fountain. Amis wished sometimes he felt more ashamed but those swipes and the pounding of horse's hooves, it all made him feel so strong. And that was something he more often than not, never felt at all. It had been his only hope to leave Garstwrot by his blade but now, it seemed that hope was gone and any skill he had was a bittersweet reminder of his failures.
The late afternoon sun slipped itself behind a cloud and cast a shadow across the courtyard. It fell straight on Amis and bled its darkness across to Lord Guain, then Fulk who looked up in curiosity at the darkening sky. The ash had stopped falling for a moment but it was due to start again, the gray of the clouds foretold it.
“I think soon we'll see a storm,” Lord Guain said, “after this, fill the water buckets, then we shore up the lower rooms. Understood, grave master?”
“Understood,” Fulk said.
Fulk's sack of ill gotten goods was gathered from the hay bales and Amis was left with nothing but shadows creeping through his thoughts and all his frustrations taken out on sand and straw that he wished he could expend on men of flesh and blood.
