Sigurd stirred restlessly, sleep eluding him once again. It was hot and stuffy in the room and the weight of the bedspread pressed down on him, claustrophobic as a shroud.

He shrugged it off, feeling the muggy air hot on his bare chest. He swallowed with difficulty. His throat was bone-dry and he was dreadfully thirsty. Perhaps he would sneak out and get some water. Varda was breathing heavily beside him and he did not think she would wake easily. She had been so tired these last weeks.

He sat up, blinking blearily, his eyes stuck together with a dried crust of sleep.

His intake of breath was sudden, a dry, hollow sound like the moan of a dust storm creeping its way into the cracks between the wooden palings.

At the foot of his bed stood two small figures.

In the darkness he could just make out their pallid faces, bleached white like the skeletons of cattle that had littered his father’s land in the Year of the Great Drought. Their dull, empty eyes peered curiously at him. Their clothes were ragged and torn, scarcely concealing the scrawny limbs they hung from. Their dusty hair lay limply over their shoulders, tangled into impossible knots, framing faces caked with grime. Their lips were slightly parted, dry and cracked like an old riverbed baked in the scorching sun.

He closed his eyes again, waiting for the apparition to disappear, willing himself to wake up. His hand found his chest, pressing against it hard trying to stop the desperate pounding of his heart, the dry gritty thud of the spade as it dug ever deeper in search of the retreating water.

“Oh Papa”, the boy wheezed, a hollow rattle from between his parched lips, “Don’t be frightened. We only wanted to see you”.

He held the wasted arm of the little girl beside him, carefully, almost tenderly as she nodded in agreement, her head creaking on her neck.

Sigurd gazed at them in horror as understanding dawned on him like the scorching red sun bursting from the guts of the horizon. A groan hissed from his mouth, the dying gasp of one more animal as it thrashed its wasted body, claimed by the vicious barbs of the sun.

His children. His babies.

They were staring at the bed beside him. They were staring at Varda.

She was still asleep but in the darkness her face look angular and weary, her mouth drooping slackly open as her breath rattled from her lungs. He was reminded of his beloved little mare, lying heavily on her side, rows of ribs protruding from her heaving flank. Her eyes had been half closed like Varda’s, unseeing and blank as the flies settled on her thick grimy lashes.

“Oh my brother”, the girl murmured in despair, “There will be another soon. Oh what are we to do”.

“Shhh now sister. It will be alright”, his son’s dead eyes shone with determination as he stood tall at the foot of the bed.

Sigurd heard a pitiful sniffle from just beside the bed. He turned to see a tiny girl, her nose crusted, her feet bare and covered in dirt and dried blood.

“Why are there three of you”, Sigurd murmured in horror.

“Oh papa”, the little girl spoke, her voice a tiny whisper of dry air stirring the dust among the rows of wilted up crops, “We are so very tired. My feet are so sore. I don’t think I can walk any further”.

She began to sob, a rattling sound, covering her dirty face with pale hands.

“Papa”, she keened and his heart ripped apart, “Oh Papa we are lost”.

He pushed himself from the bed, suddenly unafraid, unable to bear the racking sobs, the tears that dried as soon as they touched her face.

“Oh my poor children”, he whispered, reaching out his hands to comfort the little girl.

“No Papa!!”, the small boy cried, yanking his sister away from Sigurd shaking hands, “Don’t touch her!”.

“You can’t Papa”, the other girl cried, “She will make you sick!”.

“We have to go”, the boy said softly, “We shouldn’t have come here. It’s not allowed”.

He wrapped his arm around the trembling girl and with a great sighing sound they were gone.

Sigurd awoke, the sheets damp with sweat and tangled around his thrashing legs, his heart thudding wetly in chest. He swallowed, the sucking wet noise of mud at the bottom of a stagnant pond. It had only been a dream.

Varda was still asleep beside him, her supple lips parted the moist air of her breath sighing between them. Her thick lashes fluttered slightly and she moaned in her sleep, her face twisting into a grimace. He gently stroked her damp, full cheek and her face went soft again.

He sat up carefully so as not to wake her. She murmured and rolled on her side, her body curving protectively around her belly.

He collapsed heavily into the chair, his body shaking with the effort of masking his sobs as they came, rolling over his body one after another like lashings of rain.

As he silently wept he almost thought he heard a voice like the dry rattle of a hot summer wind between the withered trees.

“Don’t worry Papa… I’ll take care of them. We’ll find the way”.

There was a soft knock at the door. Igrayne looked up wearily as it slowly swung open.

The duke stood in the doorway with a brittle smile.

“May I come in”, he asked politely.

“Yes of course Yer Lordship”, she said, wiggling into a sitting position, straightening her nightgown, “But I’m afraid I’m not bein’ that decently dressed fer visitors”.

No silk and velvet, she smiled to herself thinking of her conversation with Arran a few days earlier.

“And you should just note that I am leaving the door open”, he said softly.

It had become a bit of a joke between them now that Igrayne knew that the Duke had guessed what she had thought that first day. But he was kind and his joking was gentle so Igrayne did not feel embarrassed at all. She smiled wanly up at him, her face aching with the effort.

He peered at her in the candlelight and she saw the corners of his mouth drooping, his lower lip trembling. She must look ghastly, she thought, a lump rising in her throat, tears welling up in her eyes. She swallowed hard, blinking furiously. She would not cry in front of a Duke.

He walked slowly into the room and stood before her, his eyes never leaving her face. She sat, awkwardly perched on the edge of the bed, trying to make her aching body as still as possible. She didn’t know what to do, should she speak or wait for him to say something. Oh, if only he would say something.

He looked down at her, his glistening eyes tracing the raw red wounds that zig-zagged across her face, the bruises scattered all over like a garden of rotten flowers.

His face was written with horror and remorse as he looked at her and she resisted the urge to sob and hide her broken face away behind her mangled fingers.

“Igrayne…”, he moaned, her name rattling wetly from the depths of his chest.

“Igrayne…”, it was the sound of the wind, groaning between the creaking branches of the dead trees in the churchyard.

He stared at her face, his eyes blank and unseeing. She shivered superstitiously, resisting the urge to cross herself.

“Igrayne…”, his voice was the rhythmic chanting of a funeral dirge, echoing in the rotting air of her tomb.

“Yer Lordship…”, she cried, desperate to interrupt this terrifying eulogy to her still living body, “I…”.

His trembling hands came up, hovering in the air before her face, his fingers curved as though they lay tenderly on her cheek, “Your face… your pretty little face”.

Her breathing quickened, her breast rising and falling rapidly beneath the clinging material of her shift. Suddenly she was certain he was going to touch her with those shaking hands, those man’s hands and she was utterly terrified. He lurched forward, his head so close to hers she could hear his breath ripping raggedly from his lungs, could feel it burning hot against her swollen face.

She panicked but she could not move, her whole body rigid with fear. All he had to do was reach out his hand.

“Igrayne…”, her name whistled hollowly through his grinding teeth

Suddenly he fell to his knees at her feet, his fumbling hands clasping on of her between them.

“Please forgive me Igrayne”, his whole body was shuddering in distress as she sat immobile, gazing down at him in shock, “I have done you a great wrong”.

“Oh Yer Lordship I… it weren’t yer fault what happened”, she murmured, “Yew did all yew could… yew weren’t to be knowin’ it would be like that”.

He moaned, a dreadful guttural sound and laid his hot, damp face against her hand. She carefully curled her injured hand away from him, terrified that he would clutch at the broken fingers too.

“Please forgive me”, he sighed wretchedly, his head resting heavily on her trembling hand.

“Well of course I’ll be forgivin’ yew, though I don’t think yew’ve been doin’ nothing wrong”, she stumbled over her words, unsure of what was the right course of action when one had a Duke’s head resting on their lap.

She heard quick footsteps coming down the hallway and looked up in dismay at the Baroness standing in the open doorway.

“Oh Lochan! Leave the poor girl alone. Hasn’t she had enough… does she have to have you slobbering in remorse all over her hand too”, she interjected cheerfully.

“Yer Ladyship… I… we… we weren’t doin’ nothin’”, she mumbled, slowly sliding her hand from Lochan’s grasp as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Of course you weren’t you poor dear. My cousin, the Duke is just a little upset over what has happened”, she strode quickly to Lochan’s side, resting her fingers gently on his arm and leading him away.

“Lochan dear”, she murmured, stroking his arm softly, “You really should get some sleep, your King needs you and so do your people. It wasn’t your fault”.

He seemed to gain some strength from her words. He turned to Igrayne with a sombre smile, “She’s probably right. I haven’t slept well for weeks, though perhaps it’s due to a certain small person who has taken up residence in my room and isn’t to fond of sleep herself”.

“I am very sorry though”, he murmured as he walked through the open door.

Cindra came and plonked herself down on the bed next to Igrayne as she awkwardly shuffled over to make room for the Baroness.

“Poor man. He really blames himself for your injuries”, she said, “He asked me to come here and talk with you”.

“Oh… it’s really not bein’ his fault, he was protectin’ me as best anyone could. An’ I’m alright, I’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time”, she smiled tentatively.

“I’m glad to hear it”, Cindra said giving her a cheerful pat on her leg, “because I have a proposition to make to you”.

Igrayne looked at her puzzled as she continued, “You see, my maid Bessie, God rest her soul was killed in the fighting and I haven’t had the heart to take on another since that time”.

“But things aren’t so easy now that I have Atholt. And as you know my husband has been ill lately”, her face went briefly dark, “So what I am saying is that I could use some help again and Lochan suggested you might make a good companion for me”.

“So what do you think?”, she gazed at Igrayne shrewdly, one curl escaping from behind her ear.

“Yer Ladyship”, Igrayne cried in dismay, “I don’t think I’m bein’ worthy enough nor skilled to be takin’ the job of a Baroness’ maid. Perraps yew should be choosin’ someone else”.

Cindra chuckled, “Of course you’re skilled enough Igrayne. It’s much less work than slaving away in that kitchen like you have been doing. You know how to lace a dress and rock a baby to sleep. And I wager you know how to gossip which is my main priority of course”.

She grinned wickedly at Igrayne and winked.

“Well… I dunno Yer Ladyship…”.

“Oh please Igrayne”, she smiled widely at her, her pink cheeks glowing in the candlelight, “It will be such fun and I think we are going to be great friends”.

Igrayne was amazed that she was being so kind to her, that this great lady, a Baroness, wanted her, little old Igrayne to be her maid and companion. She didn’t know how to reply.

“So what do you say… please… pleeeease”, Cindra wheedled, “You’ll get new dresses and I can fix your hair. It will be such fun”.

“Well… I guess a new dress would be nice”, Igrayne mumbled shyly.

“It’s settled then! Let’s choose a pattern right now”.

Kelgar fought the urge to scratch his face with growing irritation. It was stinking hot, the air in the guard’s barracks muggy with the scent of unwashed male bodies.

He lay back sweat prickling against his skin, hairs clinging damply to his flushed skin. And these bloody scratches! He was going to go mad. The scratches from that bitch’s fingernails had left long ragged tears that had grown swollen with pus. Hepsie had told him that the fact they were itching was a good sign, it meant they were healing. She had told him not to scratch them, that it would only make the scars worse, but it was like telling a dog not to lick his balls. He could barely control his hands, spending long hours drumming his fingertips restlessly on his hard belly until finally he tore at his face in such a frenzy small splatters of blood would drop onto his bare chest where he had ripped open the scabs again.

But it made no difference, the more he scratched the more they itched until he swore in fury beating his fists into the hard stone wall.

And he was so goddamned bored. The first week he had been ill, more ill than he had ever been before. He barely remember that week, an endless spewing red haze of pain and heat without relief. No, perhaps he had been wrong there. There had been relief, tiny cold hands laying against the burning skin of his forehead as he lay moaning and gnashing his teeth. But perhaps it had only been a dream too.

There was a pounding at the door and it was thrown open with gusto and in ran a small red-haired figure.

“Hullo Kelgar!”, she grinned flitting towards his bed, “Are yew bein’ a little better this steamy summer day then… not too hot fer yew then?”

He scrambled to a sitting position, resting his hands awkwardly on his thighs. He was suddenly aware that he wasn’t wearing all that much and for the first time that actually bothered him.

“What are yew doing here Maire?”, he groaned. Despite his boredom he wasn’t sure he wanted to be set upon by this young filly when he was too weak to refuse.

“Thought yew might be bein’ bored I did and since I be on a break I thought I’d be payin’ yew a little visit”, she winked saucily at him, “Aren’t yew bein’ pleased to see me?”

“An it’s bein’ that hot outside, I was thinkin’ it might be cooler in here with yew but I think it might be hotter after all”, she glanced down at his lap.

She came over and settled herself down on the bed next to him, the coarse material of her sleeve scratching unpleasantly against his arm.

“Soooo…”, she drawled.

“So what?”

“So… yer not wearing a whole lot”, she gazed provocatively at his groin and an unwarranted flush flared in his cheeks causing his wounds to pulse with irritation.

God! If only she would leave so he could scratch his face. God he wanted to scratch. He would scratch long and hard until his fingers hurt and his nail beds were brown with dried blood. A drop of sweat rolled down his neck, teasing its way along his chest and sliding down his stomach.

“Of course I’m not Maire!”, he snapped, “It’s bloody stinkin’ hot in here in case yew hadn’t bothered to notice!”

“What do yew want Maire?!”

“I just thought yew might be wantin’ some company, and that maybe I could be that company”, she crooned smoothing out the creases of her apron, her small calloused hands oblivious of the ingrained dirt.

“An’ I had this idea of how to pass some time”, she stumbled to her feet standing defiantly before him.

She began to clumsily fumble with the ties of her dress, her fingers pulling frantically at the knots.

“Maire… what are you doing?”, he whined, but he well knew. If only she would leave him alone. He was hot and sweaty, his face itched and he wasn’t in the mood to be ridden by a young hussy.

She struggled with her dress, pulling it over her head were it snagged, so for one tantalising moment she was trapped, her naked body writhing, a butterfly struggling to emerge from the confines of her cocoon. She ripped herself free and stood before him, all angular slender limbs.

“Well now… it is a lot cooler like this”, she giggled her face hidden in the shadow, so he could only see the rows of grinning teeth and the whites of her wide eyes shining from the darkness.

He felt a rush of heat to his groin, his breath coming out between his open lips in a groan. Who had he been kidding. Now she stood before him, her supple young body gleaming in the candlelight and his itching scabs were forgotten. He wanted her, his fingertips drumming rhythmically on his damp thighs, his hands longing to grasp the small swellings of her breasts and squeeze them hard.

He sprung at her, his strong arms sliding around the damp skin of her back as he pulled her against him. She gave a small cry as he hungrily kissed her, his tongue thrusting into her mouth. He felt her tiny breasts pushing against his chest, as he nipped at her lips.

He leaned her back, he wanted to see her face but it was shadowed, curtains of red hair hiding her from him.

She leapt at him, biting his chest with rows of tiny teeth, kissing and licking at his neck as her fingernails dug into the fevered skin of his back.

“Maire”, he groaned, trying to pull her away from him but she only clung tighter, kissing him in such a frenzy that the blood thundered in his ears, his vision going red at the edges.

She pressed her face against his warm chest and he felt how hot and wet it was, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her body was shaking feverishly, fragile wings trembling in the breeze before a storm.

“Maire”, he murmured, “Maire… let me see yer face”.

She wrapped her arms around him more tightly, tiny insect limbs clinging desperately to the branch as the wind whipped at her fragile body.

He gently prised her off, holding her away from his body to gaze at her. Her face was shining in the darkness, stained with tears. She bit fiercely at her trembling lip as tears welled up like dewdrops, rolling silently down her cheeks mingling with the sweat of a summers day and the dirt of the kitchen.

“Maire… Maire”, he murmured pulling her close, “What’s wrong little Maire?”

She shuddered and he felt the length of her body shaking against his.

“We don’t have to do this”, he was suddenly very aware of the fact that she was still only a girl, though teetering dangerously on the cusp of womanhood.

He kissed her softly on her damp forehead, where strands of red hair clung haphazardly, “Have you not done this before”.

She gave a low cry, her scrawny arms crumpling around her naked shivering body, wings folding up to hide stick-like limbs. Her eyes darted from side to side, her hair brushing her face like feelers raised trembling to the darkened sky as the rain began to fall.

“Maire!”, he cried, yanking her to her feet, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her tightly against his chest as she sobbed distraughtly into her hands.

“There, there”, he whispered, patting her shoulder gently until the storm of tears had finished and she stood snuffling softly into her hands.

“Yer alright then aren’t yew. No harm done. I won’t be telling no one”.

“I dreamed of you”, she sniffled, wiping her running nose on the back of one hand.

“What do yew mean?”

“On midsummers… I dreamed that yew was bein’ my husband. I was thinkin’ this would… well it doesn’ matter. I’m bein’ that sorry Kelgar”.

“No worries”, he grinned as she fumbled around for her dress, “all I really wanted was to scratch my face anyways, though I’m sure yew would have been a nice distraction”.

She paused, clutching her dress in her hand, looking up at him with that same wicked grin, “Well then… perraps some day I will be”.

There was a timid knock at the door. Igrayne looked up in surprise. Hepsie had already been to check on her today and of course Maire never bothered to knock, flinging the door to their room widely heedless of what was going on inside. Igrayne had become used to ripping her dresses frantically over her head and stuffing her body into her nightgown. Otherwise anyone else who might happen to be walking past at the time would be granted a full view of her body and Igrayne intended to keep that privilege for her husband.

“Come in”, she croaked, swallowing painfully to try and clear her dry throat.

The door shyly swung open on its hinges to reveal Arran standing nervously in the corridor. His murky green eyes were wide, peeking cautiously from beneath his unruly fringe.

“I… er… well that is to be sayin’… I guess… well… er…”, he stumbled over his words, his cheeks beginning to blush ferociously his freckles blurring together with the hot glow of his cheeks.

“I just wanted to see if yew were feelin’ better”, he finally settled on, “and Hepsie said yew may be havin’ visitors now”.

He hovered uncertainly in the doorway until she remembered her manners, “Oh… of course, well be comin’ in then”.

“I hope yer not mindin’ me lyin’ here in my nightgown an’ all”.

Now it was her turn to blush, the warm heat painfully rushing across her bruised cheeks. She turned her head in embarrasment.

“There’s bein’ a chair just there yew can sit on Arran”, she mumbled.

He leaned down to pick it up and her eyes moved across the contours of his collar-bone, the lean ropy muscles flexing as he lifted it. They dragged downwards to the dark curling hair that was scattered across his chest, the skin beneath, a warm golden in the candlelight. As he bent down his shirt fell away from his chest, hanging loosely and Igrayne’s gaze slid down to the shadowed lines of his body.

She felt hot and dizzy, her face glowing even brighter when she realised she was staring at him. She had never looked further than Arran’s boyish face and she was disconcerted at the man’s body that lay beneath. She hurriedly propped herself up in the bed to hide her discomfort, shuffling along the bed side carefully pushing down her nightdress which was threatening to ride up around her thighs.

“It was nice of yew to be visitin’ Arran”, she chirped with a smile that pulled at the edges of the bloody cuts that covered her face.

Her face… she had been so proud of how it looked before, sneaking a quick look when she passed by the windows, peering into the basin when no one was looking to admire her reflection. She had begged Hepsie to let her see after feeling the swollen ridges, the ragged edges of torn skin that ran rampant across her face. She had cried when she saw, the tears running down her cheeks, stinging as they ran over raw wounds, salty as they ran into her open sobbing mouth.

Hepsie had pressed her close and murmured that it would be alright, her face would heal and she would be just as beautiful as before. But while she held her in her soft, warm arms, Igrayne could not help but think of the ugly, twisted ankle hidden beneath Hepsie’s carefully darned skirts.

Well… she thought with a wry smile, at least Maire would be happy now the competition had been removed. No man would want a woman who looked like she did.

She knew that Arran was horrified by what he saw too, he could not keep it from his open, honest face. She knew as he gazed at her, his eyes wet and glimmering like stagnant pools that he saw Nell’s mangled face mirrored in her own.

He took a deep sucking breath, rattling wetly up from the depths of his chest, “I wanted to be apologisin’ to yew fer the things I gone an’ said the other night”.

“I guess I went an’ got a bit confused what with all that was happenin’ but I didn’ mean to cause any distress to yew”.

He looked up at her, his trusting face a parchment of pain that was so raw, so intense she could not bear to read. He looked up at her like a dog that expects to be kicked and thrown out in the cold but still clings to the hope that this time will be different.

She felt ill as she remembered all of the times she and her friends had laughed over awkward Arran Barran with his clumsy hands and his stutter. How they had made fun of Nell, poor sweet Nell when she had told them she was to marry him. The nausea churned as she remembered the dreadful things she had said, the conversations with Maire. How funny they had found it when Nell did not get pregnant year after year, how they had teased her and made her weep. Oh poor dear Nelly, they had cried, you should have chosen a man with a better name.

How wrong they had been, how stupid and silly. She carefully curled her hand around the swollen bent fingers of the other, hanging her head in shame.

“Oh Arran… yew certainly don’t need to be apologisin’ to me”, she murmured.

“I want to thank yew fer stayin’ by my side that night an’ helpin’ me when all the rest of em’ ran off an left me fer dead”, she shuddered at the sudden raw memory that lurched into her head like an animated corpse.

“An of course I must be thankin’ yew fer comin’ to visit me”, she swiftly changed topic and then cursed herself when she realised she had already said so.

He smiled wanly up at her, “Oh it was bein’ no trouble, no trouble at all. I would have been comin’ sooner but Hepsie said yew were too ill to be seein’ anyone”.

“Oh… but I am sorry to have to be receiving you in such dire dwellings”, she put on her best noble accent as she pretended to gaze around in distate at the room.

“And of course I am not bein’ I mean I am not dressed properly for company such as yourself. I should be bein’ er dressed in my finest velvet”.

He gave a relieved grin and chuckled, “Yes, because with my fine clothes an’ all I am entirely insulted by yer, ah your disheveled appearance. Next time I hope yew will be er do better”.

She smiled as best she could though reminded of her ruined face. Her cheeks ached at the effort, the corners of her mouth tugging painfully at the edges of the cuts threatening to drag them open again. In her lap, she carefully traced the lumpy mess of broken bones with her good hand, running her fingers along them like the beads of a rosary.

“Yes Arran, I will try to be doin’ better next time”.

The King rose unsteadily to his feet with an expectant look on his face as they trudged through the door.

Beside him, the priest Father Harndall stood, his shoulders slumped, arms curved protectively around himself. From where he stood Noah could see the sheen of sweat clinging to the pallid man’s skeletal face. The clear blue eyes nestled in the dark hollows of his sockets, were wide and frightened. His jaw hung slackly, his face drooping like the folds of the burlap robe that hung limply from his angular shoulders.

“Well… how did it go… did you… ?” the King’s inquiry died on his lips as he gazed around at the horrified faces of the men standing before him.

“Lochan… “, he turned to the Duke standing beside him and Noah noticed the shadow of doubt that passed over his face when he saw his cousin.

The duke stood, his head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor shuffling from one foot to the other. His firm golden chestplate gleamed in the candlelight, the burgundy cloth of his sleeves spilling from the interlocking rings of chainmail like blood gouting from an open wound.

“Oh yes… why don’t yew ask Lochan how it went” Osras sneered, “or perhaps better yet, you should be asking my brother bleeding and spewing in the other room his face ruined by that bitch’s claws!”

Osras’ hands were straining into fists beside his body as he beat them against his side. Noah noticed small beads of blood forming on the tightly stretched skin of his knuckles, the rusty mail links tearing angry cuts, threatening to expose the hard white bone that rippled just beneath.

The Duke’s head snapped up and he fixed the man before him with a piercing glare, his lips turning down in a sneer to mirror Osras’. Noah did not think he was a man who would take kindly to the disrespectful tone of Osras’ anger and held his breath as he waited for the response.

“Or better yet… perhaps yew should be asking the little lass, wee Igrayne how it went”, he snarled, “If she hasn’t already died that is!”

Lochan stepped back as if Osras’ clenched fist had collided with his stomach, the air draining from him in a gasp.

“Now then man, steady on”, the King wavered, “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that and perhaps you er… should be showing a bit more respect to his Lordship”.

Noah noticed a flutter of movement at the King’s waist and to his dismay realised Eallair’s hands were shaking as he rhythmically tugged the buttons of his tunic. Noah found it difficult to look away, momentarily fixated by those fingers, the fingers of a King. They were picking nervously at a loose thread which protruded from the hole of a button, the fibers poking through like a worm uncoiling from the juicy confines of the first bite of a ripe plum.

“Begging yer pardon Yer Highness but I won’t steady on!”, Osras roared as the King stepped back, his shoulders slumping, hands planted flat against his thighs for support, “Yew just ask him yerself what he done! Led us trailing behind him into the very mouth of the devil he did”

Father Harndall cringed behind the King with a moan, his face crumpling like old parchment. He clutched desperately at the folds of material, running his wasted fingers over the scratchy fabric as though trying to remind himself that this, at least was real. His hands found one another hidden there and furtively clasped, his fingers clinging together, lovers in one final embrace.

The King turned with a pleading look to the Duke, but the man was bent over, staring in horror at the rusty stain of blood on his hands, etched into the callouses, drying beneath his nails in dirty red crescents.

“Oh Your Highness… her blood, all through her pretty blonde hair. And then there was none… none even though I carved his very arm with my blade… and the black dog howling… oh God!”, he muttered incoherently, running his hands along the hard metal of his plate mail as though trying to gain strength from the hard contours of beaten metal.

“Yew see!”, Osras crowed triumphantly bringing up his fist again to pound against his hip, mashing his knuckles against the ragged edges of the rows of metal plates.

Noah waited long moments for the King to respond, for any of three of the men whom he admired most in this world to reply to such insolence. But not a word was said. The King gazed down at the floor, his cheeks red with embarrassment, the thread wound so tightly around one finger that all the blood had drained out and the pounded of his racing heartbeat was visible at the tip.

Noah carefully rested one steady hand on Osras’ shoulder, the weight of it and the slight pressure of his broad fingertips stilling the other man’s rage. Osras shook him off but he unclenched his fists and crossed his arms with a scowl.

“Yew should be still Osras and yew best be making yer apologies fer bein’ disrespectful to His majesty and His Lordship”.

Osras snorted with anger but conceded and asked for their pardon.

“Goodman Ulcar, if you would please be so kind as to explain to me what has taken place this dreadful night”, the King gazed at him and Noah suddenly felt the weight of responsibility to a King and his Kingdom pressing him down.

He took a deep breath, “Yer Majesty. Let me tell it plainly for I am bein’ but a plain man”.

“This night, as was bein’ planned, we three and also Kelgar Shildfrith and Arran Barran went to lay a trap fer the foul beast what has been attackin’ our good folk”.

“As was planned we hid ourselves, while the little lass waited bravely. We also were waitin’ a waitin’ fer her signal, waitin’ fer a scream but it did not come till much too late”.

He bit his lip and fought back the bile that was rising unbidden in his throat.

“When she did, we of course were runnin’ out as fast as we could. An there was not just the one, no, he had Sister Mella with him. But she was wrong Yer Majesty, I can’t say it no better but she weren’t bein’ herself”.

He heard the groans of the priest as he wrung his hands clasping at the robe between them, but Noah continued on.

“The lass Yer Majesty, Igrayne, she was bein’ hurt pretty bad though still alive. We thought she was fer dead, but the Barran lad stayed by her side and she was wakin’ again though she’s in a real bad state”.

He felt Osras bristling at his side, “An Osras’ brother, Kelgar, he went to her aid but Mella done somethin’ to him an’ he’s bein real ill now too… both of em’… real ill”.

“Good Lord”, the King exclaimed, “Why would Sister Mella throw in her lot with such a man, why is she doing such things?”

Harndall gave a strangled sob behind him, burying his face in his hands as he muttered a prayer under his breath.

Noah took another breath and another, trying to still his thumping heart.

“Yer Majesty… when I said there’s somethin’ wrong with her I should have perraps explained meself better. I’m thinkin’… well I know it’s bein’ blasphemous to even say such a thing…”

He dropped his voice to a low whisper, “I think she’s been possessed by a demon of some sort”.

He couldn’t keep the waver from his voice, “Perraps even the devil hisself”.

“The Devil! Good Lord man! What brings you to say such things. Lochan what is he talking about!?”.

But the duke did not move, only rubbed his bloody hands over the contours of his gauntlets and shivered.

“Wait Yer Majesty, there’s bein’ more I haven’ said yet”, Noah continued, “The man… if you can even be callin’ him such, he changed somehow, into a monstrous beast, a huge black dog with glowin’ red eyes. An’ Sister Mella… she… she changed into a foul, mangy bat. They did Yer Majesty, I swear with me heart on everythin’ I hold dear in this Godforsaken world”,

“Right before our very eyes”, Osras whispered, crossing himself with superstitious fear.

“Right before your very eyes!”, the King almost shouted his hands flying up to mimic Noah’s, “A big black dog! A bat! What kind of pagan mythology are you spouting!”.

He turned to the Duke, “What the hell is this about Lochan. Now my men come here to mock me with fairytales and you just stand there snivelling! What the hell is going on!”.

The Duke’s hand flew up to cover his horrified mouth, “It’s true Your Majesty, every word he says. We all saw it. And he would not die… he could not die”.

“What is he talking about Goodman Ulcar?!”, the King turned back to him his face twisted into a horrible grimace, “What the devil is he saying?!”

Noah shuddered involuntarily at the King’s oath but spoke calmly, “Kelgar, Yer Majesty, he ran the man right through with his sword, we were seein’ it pokin’ right through t’other side. But he did not die. There was not even bein’ any blood in sight, only ash”.

The King groaned in horror, looking from side to side unsure what to believe until his eyes fell on Noah’s firm unwavering stare.

“What should we do?”, he asked in a panic stricken voice.

Noah did not point out that it was strange that he, the King of Branwhuld, whose veins ran with the blood of countless noble rulers would ask such a question of he, Noah the carpenter.

He simply answered as best he knew how, “We were followin’ them as far as the old ruined church Yer Majesty, an’ there we lost em in the gloom. I think we should be sendin’ out a larger party of men to be searchin’ the area more carefully”.

He thought for a moment, “Perraps during the day would be wise, they seem to be preferin’ the night after all. Perraps we can catch em’ when they don’t be expectin’ it. An’ were goin’ to need the good Father there. Whatever they are bein’ it ain’t Godly creatures is fer sure”.

Harndall shuddered and looked as though he would be ill.

“We can’t just be lettin’ such things run about and kill our people Yer Majesty, we must be bein’ brave. We must all be bein’ brave”.

“I believe you are right Goodman Ulcar”, the King muttered and stood a little taller, his hands laying still at his sides.