She felt the sand beneath her feet, between her toes, the gradual change from solid ground to uneven. Her face was no longer shaded by the large cypress trees, now the sun shone on it full, though she could smell the storm coming and hear the distant rumble of thunder. The soil gave off a musky, earthy smell and she could feel the salty wind blowing in from the sea.

Noah had never wanted her to come down here by herself, afraid she would misjudge the waves and be swept out to sea. She had never learned to swim. Why teach a blind girl to swim?

Her husband had planned to teach Derry to swim, her fat, beautiful baby. He had taken the boy into the water with him a few times, told her that Derry was a born water baby, had loved to splash and laugh with his father. She had sat well up on the beach, away from the waves and listened to his happy chortles and his father’s deep, booming laughter. But now he was gone, dead and gone to a place where he would never swim.

She gave a strangled sob, stumbling on the uneven ground, almost falling to her knees. Going more slowly, she shuffled down the slight slope of the beach toward the water. Back there, up in the house the baby would be silently lying in her crib. She never cried, barely even made a sound. Claire was nothing like Derrin with his lusty wails. She couldn’t bear the silence, it seemed like a constant rebuke from the small creature for bringing her into such a terrible, cruel world. Noah would come home and find her even if she didn’t cry. She would be alright, Gena told herself.

The baby was so silent Gena sometimes forgot she was even there. She wondered if the baby had watched while she solemnly dressed, there was nothing wrong with the baby’s sight Noah had told her. Gena had carefully pulled her best dress from the chest, shaking away the lavender she had dried and kept in there to keep it from smelling musty. She had laced up the corset, her fingers deft after years of dressing herself in complete darkness. It was her very best dress, a dress good enough to be buried in.

She knew when she had reached the water, felt it soaking through the hem of her dress, chill on her bare feet. The sand grew treacherous and soggy here and she was careful not to stumble. A fine mist of water dusted her face, carried in from the crashing waves. The ominous rumble of thunder filled the air, muggy and heavy with humidity and with a loud crack the rain began to fall.

She felt it on her face, tiny chill kisses like tears falling down from the heavens above. The sky was crying for her loss, crying with her and she wept as she turned her face up to let the gentle rain fall on it.

And then she ran, stumbling and tripping, plunging into the water, her feet scrabbling on the bottom as she went in up to her waist. She had never been in the sea and it was deliciously cool, a sudden relief from the muggy day. Her best dress grew sodden, sucking up the water like tree with its roots plunged deep into the ground. It was heavy too, dragging her down, the thick material saturated with sea water.

She went in, further and further, her bare feet slipping and sliding on the slimy rocks on the bottom. When she felt the rocks disappear beneath her feet, she splashed onwards, flailing her arms trying to get out as far as she could. A wave crashed over her, her head disappearing beneath the foamy mess. She tumbled around in the churning vortex, no longer able to tell which way was up until she finally broke the surface, gasping for air. She had lost all sense of direction and had no idea where the shore was but it did not matter. She was growing tired, so very tired. The water was cool and soothing, dragging at her exhausted body and she let herself sink.

Elere stifled in an inappropriate giggle.

“Hepsie,” she hissed, “she’s sucking on my ear.”

She carefully pulled the newborn away from her shoulder, nestling the tiny thing in the crook of her arm. The infant was reassuringly heavy, a wrinkled red-faced thing who looked more old lady then newly born babe. Her scrunched up face reminded Elere a little of her grandmother, a grumpy old woman who had sat in her rocking chair and ruled the house with an iron fist until she died. The way the little one was puckering her mouth so resembled Old Ma’s sour expression that she nearly giggled again. She couldn’t help it, she was filled with adrenaline from the many hours of struggling and striving to bring this baby into the world. The sweat, the screaming, the blood, the crying, the harried women rushing to and fro. And Hepsie said this had been an easy birth.

It seemed a wonderful, magical thing that she now held a breathing, living, healthy babe in her arms. And she felt privileged for being allowed to be a part of it.

“Poor little mite’s getting hungry,” Hepsie murmured, “she wants to suckle and the best thing within reach is yer ear… careful now she’ll start on yer fingers.”

“I don’t mind,” she said gazing in awe down at the baby.

“Gena love, do yew hear that. Yer girl’s hungry she is. Do yew want to be sitting up now an’ giving her a feed?” Hepsie called out gently.

Gena did not reply, lying curled up and motionless on the bed. Her frail arms were wrapped around her body, her knees drawn up to her chest. Hepsie had told Elere earlier this was how the baby lay in its mother’s womb, waiting in the dark till the time came to meet the world. It seemed strange to see this reversal, the baby pawing at the air with her uncoordinated limbs while her mother had taken on her recent form.

“Gena,” Igrayne murmured, gazing with concern at the prostrate woman, “do you hear what Hepsie’s saying. Won’t you be sitting up for just a moment now. It’s not good to be lying like that now.”

“Now yew listen ‘Lere, if this goes on much longer we’ll need to take the babe fer a feed elsewhere,” Hepsie said in a hushed whispered, leaning towards Elere.

“Why won’t she feed her? She‘s so perfect.” Elere asked softly.

“Hush now love, I know yew don’t understand it now, but losing a babe is a terrible thing an’ mother’s react in very different ways. Gena, poor dear heart, she didn’t have it easy with Derry an’ now he’s gone. It might take her a while is all.”

Hepsie gently stroked the infants downy head. The hair there was dark brown like Noah’s and just about the softest thing Elere had ever felt.

“If we can’t get her to feed the baby yer going to have to go an’ get Goodwife Addinell. She’s not long had her own an’ is a kind soul. She’ll nurse this little’ un here.”

The baby gazed up at the sound of their whispering, looking blindly from side to side. Hepsie had told her that babies of this age couldn’t see very far. Elere couldn’t help but think she was searching for her mother’s touch. But her mother couldn’t see her at all. If she could, Elere couldn’t believe she would have ignored the baby. She was the most beautiful thing.

Hepsie walked around to the side of the bed where Igrayne was trying to comfort Gena. She bent her head towards Igrayne and started whispering something in her ear.

Igrayne let down and gently rubbed Gena’s arm. Gena flinched away and Hepsie slowly pulled Igrayne away, shaking her head slowly.

Elere didn’t understand. She knew Gena was grieving but she didn’t understand how having a new baby to pour that love into wouldn’t have been a help. In losing Inael she had doubled her affections to her other sisters determined to the let them know everyday how much she cared for them. She had devoted her time buoying up her older brother who blamed himself. Why didn’t the birth of this baby make things better?

The baby began to whine, her perfect plump mouth opening and shutting like a wrinkled, red fish pulled flapping from the water.

Elere raised her up on her shoulder and nuzzled the babies soft head with her face.

“Hush now, hush now, yew’ll be alright littl’ love yew will,” she cooed softly.

She turned away from the scene before her, the two women trying to coax the distraught woman into a sitting position.

She gazed out the window, darkening clouds wavering through the uneven glass. Cypress trees shivered in the gusts of wind that signalled the approaching storm. She looked across the fields to the hilltop where the church huddled in a clutch of trees. She could just make out tiny rows of crosses folorn and alone in the grey before the storm. She had never realised how visible the graveyard was from the Ulcar’s house. She was glad Gena never would.

Igrayne was growing uncomfortable, trying to detach herself from Dessini’s exuberant conversation so she could assist Gena. Though she knew Gena was more than capable of taking care of herself, she felt embarrassed to let a blind woman, and even moreso, a woman in advanced pregnancy wait on her. It was just not the done thing, and if Dessini stopped long enough to draw breath she would point this out.

She found Dessini a little strange. The other girl seeemed completely unaware of what was going on around her, skipping through life as though the woman’s body were just a cloak that she would shed to reveal that it had all been a joke and she was really still a freckled little girl with a cheeky grin. And she was older than Igrayne! Not much, but still, Igrayne had come to learn the hard way that every year made you harder and older. Or at least she had thought so, but Dessini seemed oblivious to the cares of the world, as though they merely washed over her when others would drown.

“And that’s how it is, if yer wanting my opinion,” Dessini concluded and paused about to begin her next story.

“I see, well excuse me please Dessini,” she turned to Gena who had finished flipping the griddle cakes onto a plate, “can I help you at all Gena?”

“Oh no love, yer just fine yew are. Yew just go an’ sit yerself down with the other an’ I’ll be along in a minute.

She waddled awkwardly towards the table and began to serve the griddle cakes. Dessini plonked herself down in a chair, while Igrayne hovered uncomfortably behind feeling as though she should be doing something.

After the food was served they all sat.

Elere turned to Gena with a grateful smile, forgetting that the other woman could not see it, “Thankin’ yew kindly Gena. It’s awful nice of yew to be putting us up like this while the others are sick. Awful kind of yew.”

“Oh yes Gena, thankin’ yew so. We’re that pleased to get away from that house full of sickies we are. Not only are they being that boring but it smells something awful there it does. Not that yer barn smells that much better come to think of it…”

Igrayne cringed and Elere kicked her sister underneath the table.

“Ouch, what was that being fer?” Dessini hissed.

Gena looked unconcerned.

Tilly suddenly squealed, “Dog is trying to eats my dinner!”

“Oh don’t yew be minding him now Tilly. Just give him a sharp rap on the nose an’ he’ll go on his way. He wouldn’t be hurting a fly he’s that gentle. Don’t yew be afraid now. Dog, yew just leave Tilly alone,” Gena chided the docile animal.

Dog slunk away from the table, his tail between his legs and began to snuffle at Derrin who was sitting forlornly on the floor.

“Now Tilly, yew hain’t been eating none of yer dinner. Hain’t yew being hungry then?” Elere asked her younger sister, “Yew’ve got to try an’ eat something.”

“I’ll be having it if yer not hungry. I’m being that starving,” Dessini chimed in, ignoring the glare from Elere.

“It’s not that I hain’t hungry,” Tilly mumbled, her freckled face scrunching with worry, “it’s just normally, when me an’ Wynny eat griddle cakes we has to share em’. An’ take one bite each. That’s the way we’re s’posed to eat em’.”

“An’ I don’t know how to be eating them now wif no Wynny. She’s telling me what to do. I want Wynny. When’s she coming back?”

“Tilly love, she won’t be back fer a while now. Yew should be eating yer griddlecakes on yer own. She’d understand she would. She’s probably eating her own griddlecakes right now,” Elere answered kindly.

“I don’t wanna. I want Wynny. I don’t wanna eat them wif no Wynny,” Tilly whined, “when’s she coming back?”

“Oh sweetheart,” Gena looked down at her concerned, “Wynny’s a little bit sick now. She’ll be being that much better so soon.”

Tilly pouted and tugged on a tangled pigtail.

“But listen now, if yew want to be sharing I know a certain Dog whose being that willing to share griddlecakes, his tongue’s near hanging out. I don’t think anyone would be minding if yew wanted to give half yer griddle cakes to Dog. He can be a pretend Wynny,” she whispered conspiratorially to Tilly.

“Dog, yew come here now yew Dog,” Tilly called and Dog came running.

She broke of a piece of cake in her fingers and dropped it on the floor where he ecstatically licked it up. Tilly giggled and gave him a firm pat on the head.

Derrin began to whimper, “Mamamama.”

“Derry love, what’s being wrong,” Gena heaved herself from the chair manoevering awkwardly around the table, her big belly brushing against Igrayne’s arm.

She picked up her son, holding him aloft with a concerned look, “What’s being wrong now littl’ un.”

Derrin gave a sob that turned into a cough and buried his face in his mother’s dress, clinging weakly to her, his fingers picking at the buttons. Gena peered at him as though squinting would make her see better what was wrong. Derrin whined and rubbed his face against her shoulder.

“What’s being wrong littl’ mite,” she murmured, stroking his back.

“Let me see him Gena,” Igrayne offered, this was at least something she could do.

She reached out her arms to Derrin, but he whinged and clung tighter to his mother.

“Come now Derry, yer aunty Igrayne just wants to be getting a look at yew. Yew don’t mind that do yew,” she held Derrin out for Igrayne to look.

“No,” Derrin mumbled sadly, but he let himself be examined.

“Your alright Derry, your alright,” Igrayne murmured as she peered into the little boy’s face.

If was flushed and his brow felt hot. She carefully lifted up his tunic and gazed in alarm at what she saw there.

“Oh Gena, he’s got a red rash all over his belly!” she cried and Derrin began to wail.

“Arright Graney… yew can open yer eyes now!” Arran drawled, his arms clasped tightly around her.

Her feet dangled prettily in their soft slippers, the folds of her wedding dress falling neatly around her legs. She was a soft, white bird gliding through the air, her feet never touching the ground. She had never felt so beautiful or so loved.

She slowly opened her eyes, squeaking in surprise at the sight she beheld.

“What’s this then Arran?”

“Why, this is just our house then Goodwife Barran. Our very own house,” Arran replied with a small smile tugging playfully at the corners of his lips.

“Our very own,” she murmured staring at the fine eaves, the carefully plastered walls. To the side of them the sea lapped gently onto the beach, behind the house the mountains curving into the sky.

“It’s beautiful Arran,” she sighed, “just lovely. Thank you.”

“Well don’t be thankin’ me love. Yew think these two hands of mine can build all that. Yew should be thankin’ Noah an’ Steen. It was mostly them that done it,” Arran blushed modestly.

“Thank you,” she breathed, feeling Arran’s arms tighten around her floating body.

“Aw… it was being nothing Arran,” Steen mubled as Hepsie clutched his arm tightly, smiling softly.

“I didn’t help at all!” Maire cried, “but I would have if they’d been asking!”

“Well, maybe you can be helping me with the gardening Mairey. We can plant all the beautiful flowers from the forest,” she smiled, snuggling against her husband’s chest.

Her own house. Her very own house. It was more than she had imagined. Her very own house to live in with the man she loved. She was sure it was a dream and any moment she would crash from the bed as his arms released her, awake and alone, tangled in the blankets.

But she did not wake.

“Well now,” Noah said gruffly, “Perhaps we’d best be leaving these young’uns to get some rest.”

He winked at Igrayne, his bushy eyebrows framing twinkling eyes, “They must be awful tired after such a big day.”

Gena tittered beside him, her hand reaching for his.

“They won’t be sleeping!” Maire cried, jumping from foot to foot. Igrayne wondered if she hadn’t had a little too much mead.

“Oh Graney, let me have a kiss then. It won’t be the last I’d wager but it don’t matter.”

She leaped forward, planting a sloppy kiss on Igrayne’s cheek.

“Yew’d better tell me all about it in the morning!” she giggled, and Igrayne blushed feeling the warmth of Arran’s chest against her cheek.

“Goodnight dear friends,” Arran’s voice was deep and rumbling from Igrayne’s position huddled against his chest, “thankin’ yew again fer all yew’ve done fer us.”

Their muffled goodbyes faded into the distance as Arran carried her into their house and carefully set her down.

“So,” she giggled, “it’s just us now then.”

He did not reply, his gaze upon her, his green eyes burning with the intensity of copper fire.

She could not fail to remember that he had stood in a room like this before, with a bride like this before. She was new and fresh, like a tiny chick pecking her way resolutely from the egg while he was the shadow soaring high above, coasting on updrafts while she stretched her glistening wings.

His hands fell to her waist and he slowly spun her like a feather twisting on the breeze. His fingers were sure and steady as they went to the laces of her dress.

She wanted to protest, to say something but his fingers were nimble, pulling the laces one by one, as though he plucked the feathers from her body slowly exposing her goose pimpled flesh.

The laced material of her gown slowly slid to her feet, falling in a rumpled pile, white and soft like feathers in a nest.

She turned to him, searching his face for any sign of the Arran she knew, the timid, nervous man who would make her laugh until she wanted to cry. This was an Arran she had not seen before, an Arran of resolute intensity whose eyes glinted from beneath his dark hair, following her every move as though she were a mouse scuttling on the ground far below oblivious of the beak that would soon break her spine in two.

“Igrayne,” he groaned, closing the gap beside her, his arms wrapping around her half-naked body, his lips finding the crook of her neck.

She stood rigid, suddenly frightened as his lips tickled the soft skin that stretched taut over her collarbone.

“Arran,” she tittered as his fingerstips stroked her back.

“Mmmmh,” he murmured, his lips slowly moving their way down towards her breast.

“Arran, but you’re still wearing all your clothes,” she squeaked, “that’s hardly fair is it?”

He looked up at her, that strange look still claiming his features, “Why yer right of course. Now yew just sit yerself down and I’ll get to remedying that fact. No peeking now.”

She plonked down on the side of the bed, closing her eyes. But she couldn’t help it. She just had to peek. She watched him through slitted eyes as he struggled with one boot then the other, fumbled with his belt, whisked his tunic up over his chest and hastily pulled his leggings down.

At that point she shut her eyes, afraid of what might come next.

“Yew can open yer eyes now,” his voice was husky with desire.

She slowly did and was relieved to find he was still wearing his underclothes.

“That’s not undressed,” she smiled giddily up at him as he gazed down at her.

“I didn’t want to be frightening yew,” he murmured.

If she was frightened before now she was terrified. What the hell did he have under there?

He sat beside her on the bed, pulling her close against the hot skin of his body. His arm circled around her neck, fingers heavily weighing on her shoulder were they played with the strap of her bodice. With his other hand he reached up to stroke her face.

She shivered away from his hand, but his touch was persistant, her body pinned in place against his. His fingers slowly sought the humped mass of skin beneath her left eye, moving over the hummocky, pink mess. They caressed the lumpy ridge of her brow with its line of scars marching away from her nose.

She felt as though he had laid her plucked and naked on the table and was only deciding which piece was most succulent to carve.

“Arran, I’m scared,” she murmured, her cheek against the rough, curling hairs of his chest.

He flinched as though she had slapped him, “Of me!” he yelped like a kicked puppy.

“No, no! Of this! This whole thing. You’ve been doing it before but I’m as blind as poor Gena wandering in here,” she muttered, “You’ve done it all before… and what if I’m no good at it.”

Arran carefully pulled her trembling body onto his lap.

“Grane love, I’ve never been doing this with yew now have I?” he was smiling sheepishly at her, “so I’m just as new to it as yew an’ just as nervous I might be doing something yew don’t like.”

He pulled her close to him, and on his face was her Arran’s tentative smile though his eyes still followed her every move.

“Perhaps we can be nervous together yew and I. I know a little more than yew so at least we won’t have any nasty mishaps,“ she giggled as he grinned at her, “but yew an’ I… we’re new and there isn’t nothing to be afraid of because we’re going to help each other along alright?”

She nodded and with a burst of courage tentatively leaned forward to kiss him softly on his smiling lips. He responded gently pressing her to him, his arms around her body which was no longer trembling.

And when their kisses grew more fevered and passionate and he lay her back on the bed she felt as though she were stretching her new wings and soaring upwards into the sky. But she was not alone, for he was beside her, his feathers softly brushing against hers as they rode the warm updraft higher and higher.

Maire wished she were anywhere else. She would even have been happy scraping burnt porridge off the bottom of the big, black pot which was the thing she hated most in the world. Anything but sitting here, next to him.

It was all made infinitely worse by the fact that he kept looking at her. Every time she dared to glance in his direction she would catch him staring at her, his grey eyes furtively darting away as they met hers. It was really a bit much. It didn’t help that even when she stared straight ahead or focused on the inane conversation that she could still feel him. She had crept as far from him as possible so she was wedged cosily against Igrayne’s leg. But it didn’t matter, the man seemed to radiate some sort of heat so that even though they did not touch she could feel him. She could smell him too, a dizzying heady scent that was not masked by the steaming roast that was spread upon the table. It was the intoxicating scent of his skin, of his hair that she well remembered from the time she had pressed her face in shame to his muscular chest.

And now he was staring at her. She may as well have been the roast, spread askew on the table for all to see as Kelgar picked up the knife to carve off the first piece.

“Kelgar, do you think that meat smells quite right?” Illewen murmured beside him and Kelgar turned back to mutter softly in her ear.

Maire felt hot and flushed, a rising nausea in her belly that refused to be stilled. She gulped down a slosh of mead which burned her throat and churned in her stomach.

She did not even have to look at him to know that he was looking at her. All of the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as though he had stroked a finger along the soft skin that resided there. She glanced quickly at him and sure enough, he was gazing at her again with a bewildered look on his face.

There was a dreadful wrenching in her gut like the knife twisting into the juicy roast and she suddenly felt like she might be sick all over her plate. The smells of the carved meat wafted on the breeze so thick and heavy she could almost taste the blood on her tongue.

“Mairey love,” Igrayne looked over, concerned, “are you alright my sweet.”

She leaned over and whispered, “Did you drink too much mead, it’s awful strong stuff?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” she murmured, swallowing her nausea and trying to smile.

Igrayne eyed Kelgar suspiciously.

Leaning back from the table she tapped him soundly on the shoulder.

“You’re not upsetting our little Maire now are you Kelgar. That would be awfully bad wedding guest behaviour. Or worse… are you a boring conversationalist?”

“I… I don’t think so. Well, that is I hope I’m not,” Kelgar stammered.

Good Lord, what was wrong with the man. Kelgar never stammered.

“Alright then. We’ll forgive you just this once, won’t we Maire,” Igrayne chuckled, “but don’t do it again.”

“Don’t… er what?” Kelgar asked confused, but Igrayne had already turned back to her husband.

Her husband, their husbands, Illewen’s husband. They all had a husband didn’t they. Not Maire. She was the only one at the table who didn’t have a husband.

And she was happy for her friend but right now she would rather have rinsed out beer mugs where the last inch of beer had started to grow fungus on the surface than have sat next to her and listened to Igrayne cooing into Arran’s ear.

“Yew bein’ alright there Maire?” Hepsie called over the table looking all happy with her happy husband and their happy marriage, “yew look a little under the weather. Perhaps some water next love.”

Hepsie was not so much older than her and yet she was happily married with a baby and another on the way. Why was everything so unfair?

Oh God, he was looking at her again. It was more than she could bear. His glance was searing the side of her face leaving a trail of flushed skin wherever it went. She knew it was spreading down over her neck and her breast and for a moment she wished she had not worn this bodice. Already she felt naked under his gaze. He had seen every inch of her before so why, oh why did he have to look at her now. What more was there to see?

“Kelgar, I don’t feel very well. Do you think there’s something wrong with the mead. It smells so sickly sweet.”

Kelgar turned to listen to his wife who was also darting furtive glances at Maire.

This was really getting ridiculous. Wasn’t there anyone else to look at, at this party? Like the bride for instance.

When Kelgar’s gaze fell on her again she decided it was enough.

“Was there something yew were wanting Kelgar?” she grumbled.

He looked at her his eyes wide with shock.

“No… I… no,” he swallowed hard, not looking her in the face now that her eyes were turned upon him.

“Well, yew just look real nice is all Maire. Real pretty. Yew should do yer hair more often like that. It suits yew,” his face was blank, no sly grin of the past Kelgar. No teasing and flirting. Was this even the same man?

“Thank you,” she mumbled, looking down at her hands.

“So Kelgar, are yew thinking’ it’s being a boy or a girl,” Illewen piped in.

“Oh, er… I don’t know. Can yew tell that sort of thing already?”

“I think it’s being a girl,” Illewen sighed contently rubbing her belly, “Matilda felt just the same so it must be.”

Maire felt claustrophobic, the overwhelming happiness flooding the air and the heat radiating from the man beside her making it difficult to breath. She tried to stretch out her arms carefully but accidentally bumped Kelgar with her elbow. He flinched as though she had burned him with her touch.

“Kelgar, I’m really not feelin’ that well. Perhaps there was something bein’ wrong with the mead,” Illewen nudged him, placing a tiny hand on the crook of his arm.

“Let me get yew some water then dear heart,” Kelgar muttered, reaching for the jug.

Maire turned away from them, focusing her attention on Igrayne who was smiling uncontrollably.

“Oh Mairey,” her friend sighed contentedly, “Isn‘t this just the happiest day?”

Arran thought he was going to die. Surely he would die right here right now. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, his mouth was dry and his palms sweaty. He was going to die, right here, right now in front of all this people. There really was no justice.

“Yew alright lad,” Steen chuckled, give him a hearty slap on the back, “Yer about the same colour as yer tunic.”

“I’m being fine,” Arran hissed, noticing the people in the front row beginning to stare, “yew just be keeping’ yer mouth shut alright. I didn’t ask yew to be a groomsman to have yew mouthin’ off the whole time. Just be keeping yer trap shut alright?”

Steen laughed heartily but at least he stopped teasing Arran. Arran stared fixedly ahead afraid to look from side to side. Everyone was looking at him.

There was a sniffle form the front row.

“Yew alright then Gena?” Engin muttered with a grin.

“Yes I… it’s just… well… I’m being so happy is all,” Gena replied her voice choked as she wiped away a tear.

“I think we are all Goodwife Ulcar,” the Baroness called over to her.

Arran was so happy. He was so happy he was probably going to die.

“Oh I love weddings Garrick,” Cindra cooed from the front, “It’s always so happy!”

So very happy. They wouldn’t be so happy when he died right here in front of them from lack of air or dehydration from sweating too much.

There was a hushed murmur from the crowd and they turned to crane their necks as the bride and the Duke came working up the centre. She was barely visible behind the flaming red hair of her bridesmaid which was hanging in soft curls around her face. For a moment Arran was struck by the fact that he had never even seen Maire with clean hair, let alone clean clothes. She looked fresh and almost… well almost pretty.

Suddenly she was upon him, wrapping her scrawny arms around him in a fierce hug.

“Why Arran Barran. I cannot be believing things turned out his way but yew know, I’m so glad they did.”

She clasped him to her again, “Yew better not be hurtin my ‘graney or I’ll be hurtin’ yew, yew hear me.”

“Yes,” he choked and she released him, trotting over to stand beside the priest.

And then there was nothing blocking his view as a beautiful, blonde girl with flowers in her hair slowly walked up the aisle towards him her arms clutching the Duke’s. He couldn’t help the fleeting memory of another beautiful, blonde girl who had swayed up the aisle her arm in her father’s on her face a bright smile.

Igrayne’s smile was more tentative and shy, her green eyes on his face as though searching for signs of confusion or discontent.

“Is this yours,” the Duke drawled, “because I found it on the way here and it looked lost. I thought she might need a home.”

Arran gulped and nodded.

“Are you sure you want him dear, he seems to have lost his capacity for speech,” Lochan murmured a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes,” Igrayne said softly, a shy smile spreading across her face.

“Well then, what are you waiting for,” the Duke quipped, gently pushing her towards Arran.

What was he waiting for, he reached out and grasped her warm hand in his. Her fingers were strong and sure, twining around his warm and comforting. His heart slowed to a normal rhythm. He sucked in a shuddering breath and felt better.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…” the priest began but Arran barely heard him.

Suddenly it didn’t matter that all these people were watching. Suddenly it didn’t matter that his priest was possibly an adulterer. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the small girl standing beside him who had so well and truly captured his heart even when he had thought it broken beyond repair. All that mattered was her warm hand clasped in his.

The priest droned on, Arran barely heard him. He had heard it before but somehow that didn’t matter either. It was as though this were the first time, fresh and new. He was starting again, his heart brand new, the scars faded and gone.

“Repeat after me Arran,” Harndall continued.

And he did all the while fixated on her glowing smiling face, “I, Arran Barran, take thee, Igrayne Woolforth, to be my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, fer better fer worse, fer richer fer poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

She repeated the vows all the while her green eyes flitting over his face as though memorising every curve, every freckle, every flaw.

“Does someone have the rings?” the priest asked tentatively.

“I have them,” Noah’s voice was deep and reassuring. He placed a warm hand on Arran’s shoulder and handed him the rings.

Arran repeated after the priest, “With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, an’ with all my worldy goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, an’ of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

He carefully slid the ring up over her rounded fingers.

As she said the words he watched her mouth move, the way her tongue flicked out when she said thee, the way the scar that ran over her lips tugged at the soft corner. She was so divine, even the scars that marred her face. Somehow they made her more beautiful, like the tiny white star-shaped flowers that grew over the marshes, made more special by the rudeness of their surroundings.

She awkwardly giggled as the ring caught on his knuckle as she tried to push it up his finger. He noticed that her hands were trembling and gave them a quick squeeze as she managed to fit the ring on. It sat comfortably on his finger, somehow right where it should be.

”I now pronounce you, man and wife,” Harndall said with a slight smile.

The sun suddenly passed behind a cloud but it did not matter because his wife stood before him, radiantly beautiful, a glorious smile on her lips.

”You may now kiss the bride.”

”Well come on then,” Maire whooped, ”this is the bit we’ve all been waiting for.

He gently clasped his wife around the waist drawing her close to him.

”Igrayne,” he murmured.

”Yes,” she replied with a shy smile.

”I love you,” it was so simple to say all of a sudden and he wanted to say it again and again for as long as he lived, ”I love you.”

Before she could speak he drew her to him, pressing his lips softly against hers. She tasted sweet like honey, and fresh like rain. She was everything there was and the rest of the world fell away. There was no dry chuckling Noah, no clapping cheering Steen, no giggling Maire, no murmuring crowd. There was just Igrayne and her soft, warm mouth.

”Enough already,” Maire groaned, ”now it’s just getting boring!”

They broke apart, Igrayne giggling in his arms.

He looked down at her upturned nose, her wide, startled eyes.

”I love you.”

”I love you too,” she murmured softly, kissing him again.

“Up yew go young lad,” Arran cried as he hoisted Derrin into the air.

The small boy squealed in delight, pedalling his arms and legs as he went flying through the air.

Gena’s face was turned to them, concentrating intensely on every chuckle of glee her son made. She liked to sit like that, listening intently while he or Noah played with Derrin. Her lips would curve up in a soft smile at the sound of her son’s burbling laughter.

“Goodness me but yer getting to be a fat little beetle aren’t yew now Derry,” Derrin grinned up at him as swung the boy upwards again, “Soon yew’ll be as big as yer old dad.”

He tipped Derrin upside down, his blonde hair hanging down from his face like downy feathers. His brown eyes were like half-moons, huge with excitement, his newly tooth-filled mouth grinning in glee.

“Dada!” the door swung open bringing with it a gust of chill air and spiralling flakes, “Dada!”

“Noah,” Gena voice was a warm question, her head turning searchingly towards the door, her mouth curving into a tentative smile.

“Well goodness me, what do we have here. Why are yew upside down lad? Or is it me that’s upside down?” Noah gazed down at his feet theatrically, lifting one then the other.

“No! Dada,” Derrin shrieked as Arran tipped him back up the right way, “me! me!”

“Hello love, miss me?” Noah curled his arms protectively about Gena’s thickening waist.

“Yew weren’t gone that long,” Gena whispered with a small smile.

“What about yew in there, did yew miss me at least,” Noah bent down to lay a hand gently on Gena’s swollen belly.

Arran jigged Derrin up and down on his side, the small boy squirming in his arms, breathless with excitement.

Though it was a freezing night, the icicles creaking on the dead limbed trees, the occasional thump as a landslide of snow crashed off the roof, the small cottage was warm inside. The air was thick with the scent of hearty stew and pine logs, dry and crackling on the tiny fire. The room was filled with Derrin’s joyful laughter, Gena’s soft, lilting voice and Noah’s gentle tone.

It was the most perfect place of all, a true warmth and happiness Arran had never been privy to before. It was everything that he wanted. He could see the Arran of tomorrow, stomping in from the cold greeted by pattering feet, bright faces, swinging blonde plaits and shouts of “Papa’s home!” He would plant kisses on their warm sticky faces and she would be there, sitting the corner, perhaps a small child or two on her knee, perhaps a swollen belly before her. Her face would glance up, radiant and flushed from the heat of the fire and full of love. Love for him. Love for their small family.

“Woowooowowoo!”

“Sounds like Dog finally finished burying his bone“, Noah laughed, “Arran, can yew get the door then lad or is that lump of a boy too much fer yew.”

“I don’t know Noah, he is bein’ a fat little boy isn’t he,” Arran grinned and swung Derrin perilously by one arm towards the floor as he spun to open the door.

“Wooh!”

Dog burst in through the door in a shower of snow, shook his coat, hair flying this way and that as wet flecks of snow prickled on Arran’s arms and legs.

“Woof woof no no,” Derrin shrieked in dismay as wet snow landed on his face and arms.

“Wooh,” Dog replied, apparently satisfied that he had created as much mayhem as the occasion warranted.

It was probably as good a moment as any in the squashy, loud cottage, “Er, Noah. I was wondering if I could speak with yew fer a time?”

“Certainly lad, Gena, would yew mind taking Derry and starting his bedtime story. I’ll be in shortly to finish it.

Arran passed the suddenly exhausted child into his mother’s waiting arms.

“Bit too much excitement fer one day eh Derry?”

“Awwan,” Derrin mumbled sleepily and buried his face in his mother’s neck.

“Oh Derrin, yer bein’ that cold. Stupid Dog,” Gena chuckled.

“Aw he’s not all bad,” Arran bent down to wrestle with Dog, who was thoroughly wet and smelt like it.

“G’night Arran,” Gena whispered softly over the tired child’s head.

“Night Gena.”

They slowly processed into the back room and Noah and Arran were left alone except for Dog who was strolling lazily towards the fire.

“Pull up a chair lad, that’s right. Close to the fire. I need to get this chill out of me old bones.”

“Now, what was it yew wanted to…”

Noah was interrupted by a loud, long, pink-mouthed yawn as Dog languorously stretched, his bristly hair emitting an earthy, mouldy sack smell of wet dog.

“Good grief, are yew quite alright there Dog?” Noah paused to look down at Dog who turned around three times and curled himself up beside the fire.

“Right now lad, what was it yew wanted to ask of me?”

“Well… er… yew see. We was havin’ that conversation not too long ago. That is…”

He paused searching for the right words.

“Go on lad, yer alright,” Noah’s warm voice was encouraging.

“Well, yew see, yew were offerin’ to help me build a house. And I was wondering… that is… if perraps the offer was still standing.”

“Oh, well this is a change of mind. Can I perraps be askin’ what brought this about then,” Noah’s soft, brown eyes were wide and a little too innocent.

“Well, yew see it’s this, Igrayne’s agreed to marry me. An’ we’re going to be needing a little house of our own soon enough. So I was wondering if I could still be takin yew up on yer very kind offer.”

There he had said it. He could see it now, Igrayne, a warm little room, multitudes of tiny, blonde children and perhaps a stupid, old dog or two.

The air was filled with grunts, squeals and the occasional oath as Arran drove the oinking crowd towards the barn. He was doing well though, all the pigs where heading in the same direction at least, galloping along on muddy trotters, pink legs flying and curly tails waggling.

“That’s it lad, keep ‘em steady, yew got it,” he called out to the panic faced boy.

“Bloody ‘ell, oh pardon, that saddlebacked ones headin’ off in the wrong direction,” Arran cried, eyes wide, his body turning this way and that unsure whether to keep with the herd or follow after the errant pig.

“It’s bein’ alright lad, calm now. Yew just go an’ grab that un’ an I’ll take care of the rest of these,” he called.

The boy went pelting after the pig that was squealing in terror and galloping towards the limited cover of the trees, stripped bare by winter and waving weakly in the chill breeze.

“Now yew come ‘ere yew, yew bloody stupid hog yew,” Arran shouted, darting around the terrified pig his scrawny limbs going every which way, his scruffy hair flapping crazily in the wind.

On second thought perhaps the pig would win this battle. No wait, he had it, squirming and screaming in his arms, trotters kicking out but Arran would not relinquish his grip. He lugged the writhing animal over, giving it a gentle nudge on the rump and sending it careening over to the rest of the group.

“There now, what did I tell yew,” Noah congratulated him, “good job lad, now can yew be getting’ that door.”

If there was ever a person that needed to be told he was appreciated it was Arran. Noah supposed it came from the build up of so many small unkindnesses that had been done against the boy. If there was ever a person who did not deserve it, it was warm, honest, friendly Arran. It only reaffirmed Noah’s opinion of people. In general, they would treat you bad if they had the chance. He had been lucky, never providing much of a target. But those that he cared about the most had been easy pickings.

“Good lad, but yer goin’ to have to be moving if yew want them pigs to get past yew.”

“Oh, sorry. Sorry Noah,” Arran cried, leaping away from the doorframe where he had been standing.

So quick to apologise. A lifetime of being blamed. Poor lad.

“Noah, that there pig’s lookin’ at me like he’s fit to run off again, don’t yew dare yew, yew pink wretch.”

The pig gave a loud oink and then turned on its trotters, bolting for the bushes again.

“Bloody, ‘ell, yew come back here yew ruddy piece of pork!”

“Yew get him lad, I’ll get these others inside,” Noah said as Arran scuttled after the crazily galloping pig.

Noah carefully led the other pigs, which were on the whole very well-behaved, into the barn and their new pen. Arran staggered in through the door, grunting with exertion as he wrestled with the squirming pig in his arms.

“There yew big, pink bastard into the pen with yew,” he cried, triumphantly lowering the pig unceremoniously into the pen with the others.

“Well that’s it then now,” Noah latched the pen door, with a satisfied smile.

It was a big relief to him that the weather had been good enough for them to raise this structure. Fair enough, it was not a proper barn by any means, more than anything it was a shelter from the wind. But it was the best they could do in the short time since they had been released from their duties at the castle and he was pleased with the result. His family and Arran who felt like part of it, his farmhands and their families. They would not go hungry this winter.

He gave Arran a hearty clap on the back by way of thanks and they stepped out into the grey, cloud-filtered light.

“Hallo luv,” Gena was carefully coming down the front steps with Derrin in her arms.

“Yew two shouldn’t be out here without coats. It may be looking a bit warmer but there’s a bite to the wind to be sure.”

“Oh, we’re only steppin’ out fer a moment. We thought that perhaps yew lads would be interested in some tucker didn’t we Derrin luv?”

She peered fretfully at her son, as though if she squinted hard enough she might be able to finally read his expression. He didn’t like to see it when she did this, so often did he need to reassure her of Derrin’s love for his mama.

The dreadful thing was that, had she been able to see his bright, little face for only a moment she would have seen the love and trust that shone there whenever he gazed up at her. Derrin loved his Pa and he loved his uncle Arran, he even loved Dog, but there was noone who he looked at like that but his mama.

”We’ll just be finishing up here luv an’ then we’ll join yew an’ this little piggie here inside.”

He heard Arran groan behind him, ”no more pigs thanks.”

“Oh dear, didn’t I mention to yew, we’re havin’ that salted pork fer dinner tonight in a nice stew.”

“Oh, well that’s bein’ alright. If we’re eatin’ the blighters I mean,” Arran replied with a nervous laugh.

“Yew two just head on inside, we’ll be just a moment.”

They bustled up the stairs, through the door, Derrin happily chattering while his Mama listened, her faced screwed up intently as though there were something more to hear.

“Now lad, I’ve been thinking. Truth be told, it’s a big help yew’ve been to me this year. I couldn’t have got the farm up an’ running without yew.”

“Oh, really, I think I was bein’ more trouble than help, takin’ the best spot in front of the fire an’ all,” Arran replied instantly, the lad always believed that his actions were worth naught. Noah supposed it was because he had been told it so very often.

“Well now, that was no trouble really, good to have someone to keep the fire stoked efter all. But I was thinking’ perhaps yew deserved a bit of something’ extra.”

“Extra?” Arran replied, his eyes wide and startled, “oh no Noah, I couldn’t be takin’ anything extra from yew. Yew’ve kept me fed an’ watered an’ given me a roof over me head an’ it’s more than I could have asked fer.”

“Now, now, listen lad, I can’t be given yew any money as we’ve scarce any ourselves. What I can offer yew is help building’ yer own little house,” Noah had been planning how to say this all morning, ordering his thoughts as he went about neatly stacking sacks of grain and bales of hay in the flimsy barn.

“Yew, see,” he began slowly, ”It’s probably none of my business, but I thought perhaps yew might be needin’ a place of yew own. In case yew had… plans.”

Arran looked confused for a moment and Noah feared he would have to explain more thoroughly than that, but to his profound relief comprehension suddenly dawned on the boy’s face. Noah was not the sort of man to handle the affairs of the heart, he was used to dealing in more solid matter, planks of wood, strong iron nails, blocks of stone. He would only mash and warp something as delicate as that.

Arran’s face grew sad, his gaze not meeting Noah’s, “No, I… I had no plans.”

Noah was actually quite shocked. Gena had been certain. He had even been a little certain when he let himself be. Arran had spoken so fondly of the girl. And she had seemed to have a certain fondness in return. What a pity.

“So I don’t really need a place of me own,” he suddenly looked horrified, “unless yer wantin’ me out of yours… oh of course. I’m sorry, so stupid of me.”

“Now slow down lad,” Noah chided before Arran got himself more worked up, “that was no what I meant at all. Gena an’ I, an’ little Derrin as well sure do appreciate yer company. I just thought yew might want it. But of course yew can stay. I was thinking’ that when spring comes an’ we build this barn the proper way we can make a space above fer yew to live in. That way there’ll be a bit more space fer us all but we can stay together.”

Arran nodded gratefully. Poor lad.

Harndall’s gaze was repeatedly drawn to the leering skulls that perched high on the shelf above the coffin. They grinned blankly at him in the darkness, the empty sockets where their eyes had once been following his trembling movements. His skin prickled, the drying blood sticky, pulling at his face as he grimaced.

Meanwhile, with Kelgar’s help Lochan was slowly opening the coffin, inch by terrifying inch. At any moment Harndall expected to hear the dreadful squeak of unoiled hinges, the creak of ancient wood and then there would be more blood, but it would be the blood of his fellow men.

With the lid finally propped open and not a sound of protest Harndall peered into the dark hollow that was brimming with slumbering evil.

Lochan slowly leaned towards the prostrate figure, raising the stake high in his steady hand.

With a great, ripping snarl Cebrien launched himself from the coffin. He collided with Lochan, almost knocking the duke over with the force of his cold, dead body. Lochan gasped as the air was knocked out of him, tottering for a moment, finding purchase and fumbling for his sword. Kelgar ran towards them, his sword already raised in a swinging arc, but Cebrien swatted him away as though he were no more bother than a fly, his arm sweeping back to grasp Lochan by the shoulder.

Harndall saw the pallid fingers tensing like the writhing knots of a snake and heard the dreadful popping sound of tendons ripping as Lochan’s arm was pulled from its socket. Lochan groaned in agony, the limb hanging uselessly at his side, dangling obscenely like the limp arm of a rag doll. Harndall almost expected to see stuffing peeking through from beneath his armour.

“You fiend!” Osras roared, rushing towards the snarling beast with Noah at his side.

With a deft flick of his hand Cebrien sent them both sprawling leaving them stunned on the floor.

Harndall steeled himself for attack, about to dart forward when Cebrien turned his icy, blood-red eyes on him, “Stay, holy man. I am not to harm you.”

He turned back to the Duke.

“What you think?” the creature hissed through bared fangs, “you think to kill me here, in sleep. You, weak and pathetic… a mortal.”

The last word came out almost as a moan, it echoed through the cavernous room.

“You are wrong mon ami. I cannot die!” he spat shaking Lochan so hard that his head lolled back and forth as though it were no longer attached to the strong muscles of his neck.

Harndall willed his legs to move, to carry him forward to the Duke’s assistance but he was frozen in place, as surely as if he had suddenly sprouted roots winding their way down into the rotten ground, tiles buckling beneath him.

“You think I didn’t wish for it, you. Alone. Pour toujours dans l’obscurite“.

He grasped Lochan around the waist, hoisting his feet from the ground. They kicked feebly against the strong velvet-clad legs as Cebrien squeezed so tightly Harndall could see the metal of the Duke’s breastplate warping out of shape.

They were almost motionless, Cebrien’s cheek pressed against Lochan’s chest as though in an awkward embrace. The only sound the panting and gulping as Lochan struggled for air, the hand that held the stake weakly beating at his attacker’s arms.

“You see if you like also this darkness mon ami.”

Harndall was writhing inside, desperately fighting the force that held him place. He could see that Lochan was fading, the blood draining from his lips as the life was crushed out of him. He glanced down at the limp blood soaked body at his feet.

“Mella,” his voice came out as no more than a croak but the creature’s head turned as though he had screamed it at the top of his lungs.

“What you say holy man?”

Harndall’s gaze wandered to the crumpled figure half hidden by the coffin.

Cebrien’s nostrils flared as he suddenly detected the thick odour of blood that hung in the air. His eyes following Harndall’s gaze widened in sudden comprehension. An alien howl of pain ripped from his throat, echoing around the room so that it was amplified into the rage of a hundred hellish beasts.

He turned suddenly, throwing the motionless body in his arms into the coffin and closing the lid with a thud.

He staggered toward the body, his feet slithering in the pooled blood as he fell to his knees beside her.

“Merila, mon amour, ma pisliskurja. Look at what they have done.”

His entire body was trembling like the flames flickering behind him though there was no air in the dank crypt. Harndall saw that the creature was weeping, tears of blood that stained the pallid skin of his face an inky red. He found his mind turning to the tales of the alabaster statue of the virgin, said to weep blood on the day of the death of Christ. Here before him was a mockery of that innocence, tears of blood running down the marble skin of a monster.

“Ma belle, look at this. Ah God, you forsake me once more.”

His hands were gently stroking the skin of her face, smoothing back the dark hair that was tangled with dried blood.

“Your beautiful neck, look what have they done” he murmured leaning down to kiss her blood stained lips.

He slowly began to rise to his feet, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips.

“I can taste you” he half sobbed.

He carefully wiped the tears from his eyes, leaving a bloody smear on the fine lace of his cuffs.

“You will suffer this holyman. I see you, her blood is upon your face,” Cebrien turned towards him, his face twisting into a menacing scowl.

“I will bring you her pain and much, much more.”

He growled deep in his throat, and then he was upon Harndall, his arms wrapping around him as though slipping the noose around his neck. With a snarl the hands tightened, the rope snapping into place and Harndall was fighting for his life.

He opened his mouth to pray, but the sound was choked out of him by the tightening fingers. He gulped, trying desperately to take even a small amount of air into his lungs, but the cold hands only squeezed harder. The ringing was growing in his ears, his eyes swimming red, blood, blood everywhere. Her blood on his hands, the stench filling his nostrils, his blood bursting the dendritic vessels in his eyes as it squeezed into every dead end in search of oxygen.

The world began to grow dimmer, the light of the flames retreating away, the sounds muffled, his struggles almost at an end. And then her face swam into vision, her wide green eyes peeping up at him from beneath her wimple. Her silent sorrow as she shuffled through the chapel, carefully lighting the candles with timid, trembling hands. Mella, her life, ripped away by a monster, her death taken away from her by his own hand.

He found a sudden and powerful strength in his rage, rage at the world that had been so cruel to her, rage at the creature that had made her into something terrible and wrong. He struggled wildly, like a cat in a bag, plummeting towards the depths of the river.

Cebrien grunted as he tried to elbow him in the stomach. Harndall reached clutching at his neck, fumbling at the iron hands that were closed around his windpipe. His desperate fingers brushed against something solid, tucked neatly into the folds of his robe. He grasped it in his weakened hand and with a final burst of strength turned and drove the splintered point of the cross deep into Cebrien’s belly.

The animal screamed in agony and rage, the hands loosened immediately from Harndall’s neck and went to the tiny cross embedded in his stomach. Harndall gasped, gulping air that was beginning to stink of sizzling flesh into his burning lungs.

With a hissing, spattering sound like ignited oil and a shriek of pain Cebrien removed the small item and flung it at Harndall.

Harndall reached towards him, his hands grasping for the creature’s shoulder but with a revolting popping noise it fell away, covered with dark coarse hair.

He raised the cross to drive it in again but the black dog was already thundering up the stairs. Harndall could not follow, his legs giving way beneath him as he crumpled against the wall clutching the tiny cross to his chest with a murmured prayer of thanks dancing on his bloodstained lips.

“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.

“There!” Lochan whispered breathlessly, “do you see it.”

Harndall peered at the dusty shapes, partially illuminated in the murky light. Glaring back at him was the ragged outline of a raven, its curved beak open in a triumphant caw. Harndall could almost see the roughly scraped out hollow of its eye gleaming read in the torchlight.

Without warning the candles above sputtered and spat, the fat, waxy wicks suddenly alight.

Harndall watched as molten wax began to pool in the sunken surface of the largest. A fat dollop silently drooled down the dimpled side as though regurgitated to fuel the smaller candles below.

His heart was fluttering in his chest as though battered by the wings of some unseen bird. Above him lay the body of the rotting church, its weight pressing down on him, while he suffocated in the depths. His stomach roiled with nausea, the stake sliding between his slippery fingers. His ears were filled with the heady sound of the beating of thousands of blackened wings.

Lochan was bent over, his hands running over the humped figures and outlines of long-forgotten creatures as though caressing a pet dog. Harndall could almost see them stirring beneath his fingers.

“Do you think you can break through Kelgar?” Lochan grated, running a hand almost lovingly over the body of the raven.

Was he seeing things or was the creature’s hooked beak creaking to life beneath the Duke’s hand.

“Certainly yer Lordship, stand aside.”

Kelgar’s blade swung high in the air, curving upwards in arc and flashing downwards. It met the tiles brittle bodies with a sickening crunch as though Kelgar had brought his booted foot down in the middle of a carefully made nest. Beneath its weight the knitted structure had disintegrated, pink featherless bodies squelching with the impact.

He brought it cracking down again and again, the tiles crushed to smithereens and falling somewhere down into the darkness until he had opened up an dark hole in the floor of the crypt.

A fetid stench roiled up through the gaping hole, filling their nostrils so they all gagged. The smell was rotten and meaty, the foul odor of death long mouldering in the darkness.

“Bring me the light”, Lochan called again, in a strangled voice, “I think there’s a staircase heading down”.

“Well what are we waiting for,” Kelgar demanded, “I’ll go first.”

“Alright, but be careful,” Lochan warned as Kelgar deliberately put his foot on the first step.

“Seems stable enough.”

“Father, Noah, Osras and Cordell you come down with us,” Lochan ordered in a taut voice, “the rest of you wait, up here. If anyone comes up those stairs that isn’t one of us slay them immediately.”

Harndall staggered towards the stairs behind Lochan. His fingers scrabbled at the edges of the hole as his feet struggled for purchase on the uneven surface. He clutched tightly at the wooden stake in his hand, the splintery surface catching on the rough, dry skin of his fingers. He tried not too breath to deeply, as he stumbled down the staircase, his thoughts seeking out the comfort of his Lord. But the wooden stake in his hand was rubbing and prickling and he could not help but remember that a stake similar to this one had been hammered through the palms of Christ. The sharpened tip had plunged into the soft flesh with a gout of blood and a flare of pain, ripping through tendons, driving apart bones as it made space for its solid round body.

He suddenly found himself lurching to the foot of the stairs. His eyes were unbearably drawn to the huddled form of a dead body tucked away into a niche obviously made for that purpose. The hollow eyes stared at him out of the bleached white skull, the grinning mouth gaping open. He was reminded of the rotting corpses of traitors, hanging in gibbets high above the city gate while ravens tore shreds of decomposing meat from their bodies.

The smell was overpowering as his eyes strayed around the tiny room. Deep below the crypt, this room had obviously been a tomb for nobility, more important than those interned in the graveyard above. The walls were lined with niches, each one filled with skeletal bodies, decaying in the darkness, the last remains of hair and skin still clinging to their pallid forms.

In the centre of the room were two large coffins, each one with braziers burning before them. The smoke was acrid, burning his nostrils and bringing tears to his eyes as it mingled with fecund smell of rotting corpses.

“Dear Lord, what is this place?” Cordell choked, his eyes wide with horror.

Harndall clamped his mouth shut, clenching his jaw in an attempt to still his chattering teeth.

“I don’t know Cordell,” Lochan replied with a shudder “all I know is that this evil is not supposed to be and so we must destroy it.”

“Are you ready Father?” he inquired in a hushed tone.

“I am,” Harndall swallowed, almost choking on the words.

“All of you then, around the coffin. Ready with your swords,” he commanded, “Goodman Ulcar, open the casket.”

Noah reached out his hands towards the ornately carved box. Harndall noticed that his hands was trembling and felt weak in his knees. If steady, sturdy Goodman Ulcar’s hands were shaking then they truly were in a terrible situation.

He held the stake up, gripping it firmly in his hand, tiny splinters of wood piercing the palms of his hands where they would usually be pressed together in prayer. Somehow he felt like that would offer more help, but he bravely raised the stake ready to plunge it into whatever horror was revealed with the opening of the lid.

Noah’s shoulders hunched, his arms straining with the weight of the heavy lid. He cracked it open an inch, a whiff of foul, metallic air rushing out. Harndall recognised the heady scent of blood and his stomach clenched.

With a muffled grunt of exertion, Noah pushed back the lid.

“Holy God in heaven“, he exclaimed, peering into the depths of the open casket.