Beneath the ruins
17th November 1102
“Bring the torch closer so I can see”, barked Lochan.
Obligingly Noah knelt, the flickering light of the flare casting eery shadows over the weathered tiles.
They go down below
17th November 1102
Tiny flakes of snow swirled through the chill air netting themselves in the heavy weave of Harndall’s cloak which was already sodden with their melting bodies. Behind them the hollow shell of the ruined church loomed, blackened arches curving upwards like the ribcage of some giant rotting creature.
All around him were men, men with swords, their sharp edges menacingly slicing through the soft forms of the unfortunate snowflakes whose suicidal trajectories intersected them.
Igrayne is hollow
31st October 1102
Despite the occasional cool breeze twining around Igrayne’s body like the breath of a lost soul, the party was remarkably cosy. They were seated around the heavy wooden table, lovingly notched together by Noah’s steady hands. Although the world around was dark and forbidding, they had created a small pocket of warmth and conviviality within the radius of the light from the dancing flames.
Igrayne remembers a doll
31st October 1102
Igrayne plunged her hands into the steaming water. They slid below the surface, hidden momentarily beneath a haze of steam. When they reappeared she could see them magnified, pink and chapped from years of hard work. She was unpleasantly reminded that they were not hands becoming of a lady’s maid. Perhaps she had risen above her status as scullion, but the rough skin on her hands would never let her forget from where she had come.
Igrayne goes to wish
31st October 1102
It was unseasonably warm for the end of October, the afternoon sun’s rays gently kissing her face as she walked from the ships. The fresh, earthy smell of the neatly ploughed fields mingled with the salty air as it wafted onshore with the faint breeze.
Noah tells it plainly
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.
Arran’s wounds are reopened
”Get away from her you beast!” Lochan roared as they burst through the bushes into the clearing.
The other men ran ahead of him, their legs sure and sturdy, their swords glinting in the moonlight like fangs. Arran stumbled after them blindly, barely clutching the blunted length of the burning brand between his trembling hands. His ears were filled with the faint clank of links of rusty chainmail rubbing together, of heavy feet pounding tiny flowers into dust. The screaming had stopped.
His nostrils were filled with the scent of crushed flowers, and below it, a more gritty hint of something metallic. He felt ill, the brand burning close to his fingers, singeing the tiny black hairs that cringed over his knuckles.
At Lochan’s command the dark-haired woman turned, snarling. A tiny blonde figure tumbled from her grasp and fell limply to the ground, the carpet of daisies welcoming her with upturned faces.
“Nell”, he breathed, the brand tumbling from his grasp and falling to the ground, tiny flowers curling back from the scorching flame, their faces wilting in pain.
“Well then… what is it that we have here?” the pale man said while the woman hissed and spat next to him, a red smear across her lips.
Arran saw through blurred eyes that the other men had halted uncertainly. He thought he understood why, as the unpleasant taste of bile was rising in his throat. He recognised the woman’s blood-spattered face too.
“You fiend!” he heard Kelgar choking, somewhere to his left, “what have you done to her!?”.
Kelgar rushed at him, plunging his sword deep into the body of the man. The blade slid cleanly between folds of fine clothing with a foul hiss, into belly and right through to the other side. Arran stared dazedly at the sharp tip protruding from the man’s back.
It flashed fiercely, bright and clean as the man gasped, choking as his body folded over the cruel metal.
Kelgar ripped the blade from the man’s stomach as he crumpled to his knees, writhing in pain. Kelgar gazed in confusion at the clean blade before him. Mella let out a scream of rage.
“You bastard! You dare touch him!” she leapt at him, clawing at his face as she gnashed her teeth, globs of blood dripping from her mouth and flecking the frightened faces of the tiny flowers that shuddered beneath her feet.
Kelgar cried out in pain, his hands flying up to his face, still feebly gripping his sword as blood ran from between his fingers. Mella stared cruelly down out him, her face glowing triumphantly as the moon licked at her pale features.
The other men ran to Kelgar’s aid but Arran could not move, could not even remember that he knew how to as he stood, hunched at the edge of the clearing.
With a dreadful shudder Arran realised the man was clambering to his feet again, pushing the gaping hole in his belly together with fingers like pallid worms. He looked directly at Arran, feeling the young man’s faltering gaze upon him. Arran shrunk from those blood-red eyes as they seared through his ribcage to find his heart where it lay exposed, trembling and raw.
He could feel the cold fingers tweaking and teasing at the wound like maggots, their tiny mouths tearing at the rotting edges until it was ripped open again, hissing and frothing. Blood spouted onto the memory of a beautiful face, a plain homemade dress with holes carefully patched, the image of girl walled up inside, away from the grasping fingers of pain, away from the metallic stench of blood.
All that was left were the blue, sightless, upturned eyes, the blood-stained face and the frail broken body clutched desperately in his shivering arms.
“Ah my friend, was her name not Nell?” Cebrien asked with a cold laugh, then his eyes slid from Arran leaving him retching, splattering the disgusted faces of the bone-white flowers below.
“It is alright mon amour”, he crooned to Mella who was panting in rage, swatting at the men around her, “I was just playing a little joke no? To die again… that would truly be a gift. Ah but it is fun to pretend for just one moment”.
He spread his arms expansively with a wry smile, “You see it is…”.
Lochan’s blade sliced cleanly into one of Cebrien’s outstretched arms, an ashy cascade pouring form the wound.
“Excusez moi”, he said, pushing both Lochan and sword away angrily, the edges of the wound flapping open “How can a man say clever things with some clumsy oaf waving his sword about ineffectually. Have you no sense of common politeness monsieur? I had not finished… ah well… you could not understand anyway”.
“While it has been fun gentleman and I have enjoyed our little games I believe it is the time we should be departing”, he turned to Mella, “Merila mon amour? Shall we?”
Arran saw Lochan recoil in horror as Cebrien’s body began to contort, limbs creaking into impossible positions, punctuated by the dreadful popping sounds of dislocating joints. Mella’s body also began to change, her supple figure withering, shrinking, leathery monstrosities unfurling from beneath her arms, coarse fur sprouting from her face.
Arran blinked, his eyes raw and watering. When he opened them again he could not see where Mella and the man had gone, there was only a bat and a large black dog, heading away from the clearing towards the mountains.
“Follow them!” Lochan roared.
The other men rushed after him, crashing through the bushes and into the forest leaving Arran behind in the clearing, a small crumpled figure before him.
