The Heir of Garstwrot Read online

  “Are you still feeling poorly?” Guain said.

  Amis said, “it's like waking up from a very bad dream. I was so ill they sent for a priest and then-”

  Amis looked away, his face faltering.

  “Then what?” Guain asked.

  “Then I woke up in barn,” Amis said, “I thought it was the best to come here, whatever happened Lady Anna must be notified. Though it seems she isn't here, unless-”

  “She was away,” Lord Guain said, “for some months at her second holdings in Lorix. It was her deceased husband, the Count of Castille, who originally owned Garstwrot. I should pen a message straight away and see if I can't find some way to send it to keep her from returning early. If it is a plague, it's imperative she remain far from it.”

  Amis glanced up at Lord Guain with a piercing, curious gaze.

  “Who are you really, then,” Amis said, “I don't remember ever hearing your name.”

  An indecent thrill went through Lord Guain's body but the eyes that met his own were only questioning and suspicious and not all knowing.

  “I was at the town meetings only a month ago,” Lord Guain said.

  “Oh,” Amis said, sheepishly, “I hadn't ever gone to one.”

  “Then you wouldn't have known me,” Lord Guain said, “Lady Anna does love going amongst the people and enjoying their company whereas my time was spent here, assisting with the battlement repairs. She's my wife-”

  “Wife?” Amis said, “Sorry, she was so much older than you I'd never thought you could have been her husband.”

  “The Count passed away some time ago and we were married eight years this coming winter,” Lord Guain said, “weren't you at the wedding?”

  “I wasn't here but five years and wasn't much for gossip,” Amis said, “to tell the truth, I'm not fond of this town. When the crag smoked the first time, I thought I was in hell.”

  “Who's to say we're not in hell now,” Guain said grimly, “it certainly looks like it.”

  “Hell wouldn’t be so simple,” Amis said, “or so alone. There would be hordes of people with us, gallivanting about. It would be just like it had been three days ago on market Sunday but more fire and brimstone.”

  “You certainly seem to know a lot about the afterlife for a man of common cloth,” Guain said.

  Amis looked at him with a loathsome gaze, “I don't pretend to know anything but in my opinion and as untrained as it is, we're not dead. Not yet, anyway.”

  After putting away his pipe, Amis had begun to wring the end of his shortened hair in a nervous gesture.

  “It could be just us two left,” Amis said.

  “Possibly,” Lord Guain said, “if there are more survivors I should think they'd follow your example. I need your help to open the main gates, not everyone can fit through a broken brick wall and I'd rather keep everyone close especially since the war-”

  “War!” Amis said, surprised, “I never heard of any war, only skirmishes along the border.”

  “It's been boiling at a peak just lately. We have two Kings in Elaine,” Lord Guain said, “and it seems both are convinced of their right to wear a crown for both lands. Garstwrot is a very sleepy place until matters like this drag it into conflict, it's in a very strategic spot along the river. Quite difficult to get an entire army through a fen, I should think if things go badly for either one they'll siege the place and set up here as a lasting stand.”

  “What would that mean for us,” Amis said.

  “Probably execution,” Lord Guain said, “at best the dungeons. King Hune is convinced everyone is treasonous against him and King Edgen is convinced everyone is an assassin out for his life. So you see, even the most favorable circumstances are against us.”

  “Good god,” Amis murmured, “I didn't know it was so grave.”

  Lord Guain said, “that's why I encouraged Lady Anna to do her visiting now and it was in part why she was so eager to marry me despite her advanced age. I've been through much war in Adelaide, I could help her. We were friends when I was a boy, you see.”

  “Oh,” Amis said, “I see.”

  “I hope there are at least some survivors,” Lord Guain said, “beyond ourselves. Otherwise this could be a very ugly state of affairs if we're shut up here until help deigns to arrive.”

  They had the unfortunate task of opening the main doors all to themselves. From his pocket, Lord Guain produced a rather large iron key and unlocked the first part of the gate but the rest was done by a trundle and chain system that was very old and large.

  “I will be on the right and you must turn the left but in the opposing direction,” Guain directed, “then the gate fence should pop open and we can push them aside.”

  While they were turning the wheels to unlatch the iron shutters, Lord Guain attempted to question Amis about his doings in the town.

  “Whose child are you?” Lord Guain asked.

  “No one's,” Amis replied.

  “What sort of business were you involved in,” Lord Guain said.

  “My own,” Amis annoyingly replied, “my lord.”

  It was a great effort between the two of them, they were both panting from the exertion before they were done. The door was finally unlatched and its great metal form seized open. They only had to push it slightly to get it open but it was a difficult endeavor for two people. They pushed it wide enough for two men which had to be considered sufficient without becoming too difficult to close again.

  Peering through the door Lord Guain observed the grim skies and gray lands that had all been covered in a light layer of ash.

  “What would have caused it,” Amis said, “all the wood ash from the sky, it's never been as thick as this.”

  “A fire perhaps,” Guain said, “or a discharge from the earth. There's a cavern deep inside the wrot that ends in the river, most never go near it but I saw it when I was surveying the land when I first came here, escorted by Reyna the blacksmith. He warned me about its tendency to be poisonous during certain times.”

  “They called that area the Devil's Crag,” Amis said, “the story goes human sacrifice was practiced there in the ancient days, to please the devils in hell and keep them from returning to the land they owned.”

  “Even if it looks unnatural,” Guain said, “it could be totally natural. Keep your head about you and don't give in to superstitious claptrap about devils and demons prancing about the countryside.”

  Amis scoffed, “the devils can have it, if it belongs to them.”

  “Look!” Guain shouted, excitedly, “We may have company yet, there goes a man!”

  Through the dank mists of falling ash and roiling fog, a shadowy figure was approaching from a distance. The sounds it made were strange and clattering but it was no horse and cart, merely a tall thin man carrying a collection of oddments. As the figure drew closer it became apparent who and what the figure might be.

  “It's Fulk the grave master,” Amis said, and then spat on the ground, “that bastard! Why the hell should he survive out of all the rest!”

  It was a sudden sight to see a man who had prior been so heavy with illness and gloom spring to life and rush out the door.

  “Tried to steal my hair!” Amis shouted, “When I wasn't even dead!”

  The grave digger raised his shovels and bucket into the air, an amused and crooked smile on his face.

  “Help me with my burdens,” Fulk said, “and I might give it back.”

  His belligerent offer was dismissed as Amis rushed up to the man and punched him squarely in the jaw which sent him tumbling over, oddments and all. This hardly seem to matter to Fulk, as he began laughing. Amis didn't share his mirth and began cursing at him.

  “I'll knock out those rotten teeth,” Amis shouted, “I'll skin you!”

  “Shut up, Amis!” the grave digger said, still gasping with mirth, “I won't be bested by son of a gong farmer!”

  “Gong farmer,” Lord Guain said, he couldn't help acting a little bit repulsed.

&n
bsp; If the man had made his living shoveling the town's shit, it rather explained a lot, including the wretched state of the clothing he was wearing and his recalcitrance at stating his occupation.

  “This man is the pond scum of the town,” Amis said, “he's disgusting and vile! Stealing my hair is the least he's done, he's cut out organs from dead men and dug up dead women to take their hair while he steals their clothes from their rotten bodies and sells them in market as brand new-”

  The mirth ceased and it was as if a sudden mirthful shutter had been pulled snapped close; Fulk the grave master certainly had a face made for cruelty whether or not what Amis said was true.

  “And there's not a single incident in which you didn't try to climb up those craggy hills along with me to get your due of gold but instead, were made useless by weeping over dead women you never knew like an infant child. Keep your mouth shut you foul little beggar,” Fulk said, “or I'll take my filleting knife to your guts.”

  “I'd like to see you try,” Amis said, spitting, “I'll drive it into you instead from arse to neck!”

  “Enough!” Lord Guain shouted.

  Unfortunately the two men began scrambling on the ground like fighting rats twisting and turning in a heap, neither particularly gaining on the other but both unwilling to relent.

  “For god's sake!” Lord Guain shouted again, “Right yourselves and regain your dignity!”

  Lord Guain hauled his much thinner, more agreeable companion from the grips of the grave master. The unfortunate Amis had been wasted from his illness, it was hardly likely he would win the fight as it was. The taller and more robust Fulk had merely been tormenting him as he would a kicked dog, grinning madly all the while.

  “Bastard!” Amis spat, “the last thing I ever wanted to see was your ugly face leering at me!”

  “Better me than that reeking father of yours,” the grave digger said, “consider it a blessing!”

  The grave master wasn't a pleasant looking person, though judging by the state of him he couldn't be older than thirty. His teeth were crooked and his face seemed well worn by drink or by rough living, Lord Guain couldn't be sure which. His white blonde hair was raggedly grown below the shoulder and crowned his face like a helmet made of gauze.

  “He's a nasty sort,” Amis said twisting his sleeve out of Lord Guain's grip, “It's a curse on us that he's still alive.”

  “Rather nasty sort yourself,” Fulk said, “at least I wasn't the one being hunted by rabble with pitchforks and torches.”

  “Shut up, Shut up!” Amis began to scream.

  “Silence!” Lord Guain said, “Your Lord demands it! Behave yourselves, it's only the three of us so far and we must at least attempt to get along.”

  “I'll not get along with him,” Amis said, “not for anything!”

  Fulk had got back onto his own two feet and was pulling together his shovels and bucket.

  “Suit yourself,” Fulk said, with a smile that could have wilted flowers, “sir gong farmer.”

  After the fight had cooled Lord Guain realized just who's sleeve he had been holding. Revulsion warred with his better instincts, Lord Guain wiped his hand on his pant leg. Amis looked away rather quickly, he seemed hurt but Lord Guain was just lucky the mean leavings of his employment hadn't left any residue behind.

  “My father was the gong farmer,” Amis snapped, “not me.”

  The young man stormed back inside the tower, swearing as he went.

  “What was that about?” Lord Guain said.

  “He's a bit sore,” the grave digger said, out of breath, “we were after the same girl.”

  “I meant the hair you cut,” Lord Guain said.

  “It's not against the laws to sell parts of the dead who have no relatives to claim them,” Fulk said, “I just might have cut it before the big death set in. He was in the stables of our girl, hiding himself from the law. Might want to ask him what he's done before you set your sights on me for any wrongdoing.”

  Lord Guain said, “by any chance are the two of you criminal?”

  “Ah,” Fulk said, “better to ask him for the particulars but if you want my advice, I'd do it when he's of even temper and not in the company of a sword. But me? Not one to seek punishments over theft or pettiness. If you want to know the details sir, a milkmaid interrupted to dab his dying forehead and I had to scarper out the back after only getting a quarter. But you can trust me when I say no one would have claimed him after death, not even his kin which relieves me of all wrongdoing.”

  What Fulk said about himself was at least a partial truth; it wasn't against the law to take from the lonely dead with no one to defend their mortal remains but it was hardly a noble thing to do, especially to a dying man who hadn't yet been put in the ground. Unpleasant as this person was, Lord Guain was rather short on servants and it was convenient that he was of a crooked sort. More mysterious to Lord Guain was the particulars of Fulk's survival, it hadn't been expected and that made him uneasy.

  “I see,” Lord Guain said, “can you at least keep your quarrels to yourself? Help me close these gates and then come inside, I'm in desperate need of your services.”

  “Who are you, then? I'm Fulk from Garstwrot bone yard,” the grave digger said, “help me with my load and then we'll see.”

  “I'm Guain of Garstwrot keep,” Guain said, “you can help yourself and call me Lord.”

  The shock on the grave digger's face was worth it but the look that followed after sent a chill down Lord Guain's spine. The man had remarkably seen him for what he was, not what he presented.

  “They say luck is the devil's art,” the cunning grave digger said, “like dancing. But there's only one dance left here in Garstwrot and it's the skull with the crown who leads.”

  “Mind yourself,” Lord Guain said, “there's one Lord still breathing and it's enough to put you in your place.”

  Fulk laughed, he didn't have to say it. They both knew very well it was a threat as empty as Garstwrot's halls. Without question, Lord Guain knew that his circumstances had taken a rather sticky unpredictable turn, as unfortunate as it was exciting.

  III

  The aspen tree in the keep's courtyard shuddered as the earth rumbled. Its leaves whispered quiet on the wind and dappled the last vestiges of the day through their green, young sprigs. There was a superstition in Elaine that when the leaves of the aspen tree shook they were talking to the dead but in Garstwrot people said that it wasn't the dead they spoke to but the devils that lived under the crag, instead. Despite its strange superstitions and old tales, the earth might rumble and the trees may shudder but Garstwrot had kept its rhythm no matter what anyone else had said about devils, gods or monsters that roamed in the fens, for many years without incidents beyond the normal.

  Amis stood in the courtyard looking up into the aspen's ancient branches as the light played about his sallow face. It was late afternoon and already an even deeper hush had borne across the land and he found himself reconsidering all the fairy stories he had been told as a child.

  Pressing his own hand to his forehead he was happy to find it was cooling down. Why had he survived his fever? It was a question better poised to the almighty, he knew. Perhaps a better man would have been thankful and considered ways to amend himself for such astonishing good fortune. But all it did was make Amis feel more patently aware of the life he had been trying to leave behind. It had been his dream to leave Garstwrot forever and ride beyond its foaming rivers and belching earth and now he was trapped in its keep with no ally to call his own but himself. There were no horses left alive or any servant of the keep and no villager to take council with. Amis sorely wish he'd had a mind to bring his sword but that was who knows where, since upon waking it wasn't where he had hidden it. Someone must have betrayed his confidence and as there had been only a handful of witnesses and only one who was absolutely crooked, he had a mind to consider Fulk the one responsible for all his ills.

  The land rumbled and little bits of ash blew ar
ound on the wind. It left him feeling quite cold, like some disaster worse than what they already faced was waiting on the horizon but whether it was punishment from God or some concession from the devil, Amis couldn't say. The sound of struggling men met Amis' ears and he heard before he saw Fulk and Lord Guain carrying a cloth shrouded body.

  “If I hadn't known better, I'd think you'd done this before,” Fulk said, rather loudly.

  “I've simply carried a few drunken friends back to their rooms. If I pretend, it's not so terrible and instead reminds me of more jovial times,” Lord Guain said.

  “I'm sure it does,” Fulk said.

  For a strong looking man, Lord Guain was having some difficulties carrying his end. But it had always been like that, Amis thought bitterly, nobility often didn't like to work any menial activity outside of gentile horse back riding and swinging a decorated sword. They were carrying those awful bodies from the kitchens, the upstairs and wherever else they could be found. The keep wasn't of an exceptional size so the number of its servants were small and its advisers even smaller.

  “We'll have to stack them on carts and cover them,” Fulk said, “I'm not digging a gigantic hole by myself.”

  “Moira and Gladstone are nobility,” Lord Guain said, “is it really fair to put them with the others?”

  “It's all fair to the ghastly King,” Fulk said, “Amis! Make yourself useful, cover these corpses with their cloths seeing as you're too thin to carry them.”

  “I don't take orders from you!” Amis said.

  “He's still store about our spat, the little beggar,” Fulk said, “he won't be any good until the sting wears off.”

  “Go inside Amis,” Lord Guain said, “stay out of the cold. The last thing I need is more sickness stalking the halls than we have already.”

  Annoyed at being dismissed over his perceived weakness, Amis stalked into the keep stepping over the twisted bodies and trying not to breathe too deep the loathsome smells as he made his way inside. If he could have, he would have closed his eyes to walk passed them but then he would have surely walked straight into some wall. The keep favored a twisted, spinning path that only allowed for a few rooms on each floor, Amis knew enough about stone towers and swords that they were built like that to be sure defenders could use their right arm against the offensive's left, a clever bit of thinking. But these halls were very much different and not so much a reverse as a twisting, nonsensical builder's fancy that hadn't considered the practical at all.