GUILLAUME II

  “THEN CUT DOWN MORE BLOODY TREES!” Osmond roared as flecks of spittle caught on his grey beard. Godefroy arched an impressive eyebrow while Guillaume tried to make himself as invisible as possible.

  “We have made several attempts my lord, all at different sites. Regrettably, the outcome was identical. The local workforce refused to participate, even when facing punishment or death,” Godefroy spoke evenly. After Osmond’s gaze intensified, so did the pace of the advisor’s report. “All of those harvesting lumber and our accompanying forces were found slain. In addition, pagan fetishes were found at each site. When a knight retrieved one of the wooden contraptions for my inspection, the locals fled in terror.”

  Guillaume started to sweat despite the cool spring air and his linens began to cling uncomfortably to his skin. He silently prayed to the Broken Man and the Holy Mother that he would be spared his lord’s wrath.

  “If it pleases my lord, I suggest that we discuss other logistics,” Godefroy continued. “There have been attacks on our settlements by those painted savages, the Pechts.”

  “Witches, devils, and now savages…” Osmond spoke softly and mostly to himself.

  The advisor leaned towards the old knight and Guillaume could not help but tremble in anticipation.

  “DO THE GIANTS BEAR DOWN ON US AS WELL, GODEFROY?” Osmond bellowed as he stood, towering over the frailer man. Osmond grasped hold of Godefroy’s robes with a gauntleted fist and lifted him easily into the air. “The Duke charged me with building him a castle worthy of his honor. For that I need lumber, stone, and laborers. I WILL NOT FAIL HIM AND YOU WILL NOT FAIL ME!” Lord Osmond emphasized each point by throttling the fragile man and punctuated his command by throwing his advisor into a nearby chair. “While I deal with the savages, you will flush out this woods witch.”

  “Very good my lord…” Godefroy said shakily as he collected himself and adjusted into a more dignified position. “I will make the appropriate arrangements, my lord.” As he stood and smoothed his robe, he added, “Sir Marin has arrived safely. He has mentioned that he is eager to… question the devil before he departs for the abbey and the Knighting ceremony.”

  “Sir Marin has free rein in my castle, allow him to go where he pleases. Inform him that I will rendezvous with him at the abbey in a few days time to call upon the holy order to exorcise these devils. I will depart at once to deal with the Pechtish scum, muster my guard and make the necessary preparations.”

  Godefroy bowed and backed out of Osmond’s chambers. Guillaume closed his eyes tightly and prayed with all of his heart.

  “Wine,” Lord Osmond said, devoid of any emotion. Guillaume scurried over to a side table to retrieve a goblet and a flagon of wine, pouring it carefully. When he turned back towards Osmond, his lord was facing away. The veteran knight reached up to retrieve his great-sword from the wall with a tenderness Guillaume had not seen from him before. With a rasp, Osmond half drew the blade from the scabbard. “Approach me squire.” There was steel in his voice and Guillaume’s hands shook uncontrollably as he brought the goblet of wine over to Osmond.

  Beads of wine rained down onto the rugs adorning the floor of the chamber.

  Lord Osmond watched him with flinty eyes. He slid the great-sword back into the scabbard and laid it flat on his desk. As he took the goblet from Guillaume, he locked eyes with the boy. “You will never be a knight. You embarrass me and should not be seen in my presence.” Osmond drank deeply and wiped his grey beard on his sleeve. “Inform the jailor that you will clean up for the devil and serve its meals.” As Guillaume prepared himself for a blow, Lord Osmond turned and quietly stated, “You will sleep in the cell next to it. NOW BEGONE!”

  ———

  Guillaume cried until his head throbbed and his eyes were swollen. Deep down he had always known he would never be as revered a warrior as either his father or Lord Osmond, but he had held out hope that he could at least become a knight. The stone foundation housing the dungeon, his new quarters, was the only masonry work fully completed. Much of it was built upon ancient ruins.

  As Guillaume descended into the cool darkness below the wooden keep that housed Lord Osmond’s chambers, the hubbub created by the laborers and knights faded away. He had never felt so lost, so alone. His eldest brother was being groomed as a lord, another brother was already making his name as a brave knight, and his sisters were helping solidify bonds between his family and other important houses. What role was he fulfilling? Guillaume felt useless. He was a failure. He had tried his best to appease Lord Osmond, yet had sensed that the man despised him from the very first moment they met.

  Guillaume’s steps echoed down the long hallway leading past the larder, armory, and other storage rooms, to the cells.

  Guillaume could hear periodic barks of harsh laughter and as he approached, he saw Ranulf, the jailor, messily eating a small game bird while facing the devil’s cell. Grease and marrow dribbled down the grubby man’s cheeks. Each time he laughed, bits of flesh and gristle sprayed out of his mouth.

  Curious, Guillaume approached and watched as the jailor put a wing in his mouth, sucking and slurping until it was clean of all meat and then flung it through the bars of the cell. It clattered on the stone floor near other pieces of bone, as the devil strained against the manacle to reach them.

  Ranulf turned to the young squire with a delighted look on his face and spoke with a mouth full of food, “Oi, they say the devil tempts us, so I thought I might return the favor!”

  There was a clink of chains and the jailor started to scowl. Guillaume looked at the devil and saw that it had retrieved one of the bones by leaning back and reaching with its foot. There was a loud crunch as the creature shattered the bone with its sharp teeth and savored the marrow, not a drop wasted.

  Cursing, Ranulf flung the rest of the bird on a dirty tabletop and retrieved a bucket of water. “Ye must be thirsty now!” he yelled as he soaked the devil with the foul water. After placing the rest of the bone fully in its mouth, the red-skinned fiend seemed to pantomime washing itself: carefully wiping down first its legs and then its torso, followed by running its hand through its wiry hair.

  Guillaume could not help but smile; Ranulf’s mood darkened further.

  “Apologies sir, but Lord Osmond has tasked me with relieving you of duties concerning the devil. I am to feed and clean up for it from now on,” the squire said after concealing his mirth. The disheveled jailor studied him, idly scratching at pox marks on his face. “Also…” Guillaume haltingly continued, “I am to sleep in the cell next to the devil, will you please unlock it?”

  “Do ye have a writ from Lord Osmond bearing these commands?” Ranulf asked gruffly. The boy instinctually searched his belongings, despite knowing Osmond’s orders were given to him verbally. “I am but teasing ye lad!” the jailor said while playfully clapping Guillaume on the back. “Not that I could read a writ if ye had it! And no need to call me sir, I was never a knight. Betwixt the two of us, yer the one more likely to be a lord!” Guillaume tried to smile back at him, but it was a halfhearted attempt. Ranulf cocked his head a bit, then said, “I will fetch ye a fresh pallet to sleep on, the stone floors be quite cold.”

  The man reached for the ring of iron wrought keys on his waist and limped over to the cell adjacent to the one that housed the devil. With a mechanical clunk, the cell door unlocked and swung open on screeching hinges. “After ye, milord,” Ranulf said with a wink and a half bow. Guillaume padded past him and studied the cell. It mirrored the other: its stone floor was littered with bits of straw and debris, bars separated it from the other cell and the far stone wall had several large iron rings embedded in it from which manacles could be attached.

  As Guillaume entered the cell, the devil stirred and as its chains clanked and rattled, the creature made a distressing noise. It was unintelligible but instinctually Guillaume thought that it sounded desperate and alarmed, almost like a cat’s guttural moans. Unless he was mistaken, it appeared like the devil was concerned for his wellbeing.

  Ranulf faced the devil and yelled, “Shut that fucking yap, ye bloody abomination! Or I will hang ye up to die with yer friend up top on the keep!” The tone of his voice did little to mollify the devil. However, as soon as the jailor stepped away from the door to Guillaume’s cell, it ceased its protests. “If it makes another bloody peep, throw this bucket on it,” Ranulf said with a gap toothed grin, pointing to a fouler smelling pail. “I’ve been fetching slop from the latrine. There be no need to lock ye in yer cell, come and go as ye please lad.” The jailor continued talking as he hobbled away, “Ye will not ken the meal bells down here, so I will check on ye to make sure ye get a share. Let me fetch that pallet.”

  “Thank you sir, I-I mean Ranulf,” Guillaume stammered. As the jailor disappeared around the corner, Guillaume looked over at the adjacent cell. The chain was taut and the devil was as close to the bars separating them as it could physically get. Most alarmingly, it appeared to have a look of worry on its frightening face.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  EóGAN II

  Horse hooves pounded the ground, churning up mud and grass. Weapons and armor rattled with a percussive rhythm as men and women fought and died brutally. After the mounted and heavily armored warriors’ initial charge, a handful of Eógan’s companions lay twisted and dying on the field.

  He was overwhelmed by the realities of combat and the loss of his childhood friend, Mael. Eógan had trained his entire life and had fought in duels to first blood with edged weapons, but he had never taken another person’s life. He now doubted that he was capable. The noise and the stench of battle was numbing: he watched mouths move, yet heard no voice. The snakes on Eógan’s forearms snapped impatiently and the frantic battle around him seemed to accelerate. It all felt absurd: the hate in the eyes of both friend and foe, the ease with which spears and blades tore through flesh, the abrupt shift from living and breathing creatures into empty shells, as spirits were released.

  He had been taught to anticipate patterns and to find the openings that his opponents gifted him; yet in the moment he was dumbstruck by the chaos that surrounded him. As the warriors on horseback wheeled in a tight formation to turn back towards Eógan’s companions, with the help of his owl spirit’s keen eyes, he finally saw the puppet strings binding his enemies together and now knew which cords to cut.

  The mounted invaders fought with a ferocity and sophistication that was alien to Eógan's people. He had heard tales of the Giantkin fighting shoulder to shoulder in an unbreakable shield-wall, but the massive brutes were prone to rash decisions and easily provoked. These invaders, the Jotman, utilized battle maneuvers that reminded Eógan of schools of fish or flocks of birds. Now he saw the purpose of these charges. The heavily armored cavalry was attempting to funnel the True Folk’s chaotic line of skirmishers into the shields and spears of their remaining infantry: like a pestle grinding grains in a mortar.

  Meanwhile, the raiding party’s chieftain, Cinoch, was being drawn further and further away by the Jotman’s mounted leader, who kept his distance and baited the enraged warrior. At times the cavalry even feigned retreating, only to turn and ride down any of Eógan’s comrades who were foolish enough to pursue too closely.

  Unfortunately for the Jotman, the True Folk fought like water from a stream that was cupped in hand: flowing through the cracks. At first, each pass the knights made left bodies broken in their wake and others impaled by long spears, however, every gain came at a cost. Eógan’s raiding party had begun to adapt and now horses and their riders were being brought down by the True Folk’s weapons and animal protectors. The Jotman were quickly dispatched as they lay vulnerable and slow moving on the ground, weighted down by their metal clothing. Their ranks and well-disciplined formations began to thin.

  Eógan had been forced towards the back of the True Folk’s loose lines and was growing frustrated by being unable to reach the mounted warriors as they rode by. However, from this vantage point, he could watch the Jotman infantry steadily advance towards an isolated Cinoch. The snake on Eógan’s right arm wrapped around his leaf-shaped sword as he clenched the hilt with white knuckles. He strode past Ronnat, Drest and his companions. The battle had expanded past the pickets of the Jotman camp and into the well trampled field that continued towards the tree-line.

  A crescent moon hung above like a claw disemboweling the clouds, but for a moment the sky was clear and the extent of the carnage was fully illuminated. The Jotman infantry gained momentum, repelling the scattered members of Eógan’s raiding party with their concentrated numbers and interlocked shields, making their way directly towards Cinoch and their mounted leader.

  Eógan started to run. The blood pounded in his temples and a roar built in his throat. As he neared Cinoch, the burly war-leader whirled towards him with an expression of contempt, the bull on his chest exhaled a puff of vapor from its nostrils at the indignity of Eógan’s interruption of a duel.

  Casually Eógan slashed his short sword in a wide arc as he ran past Cinoch, cleaving a spear midair that had been thrown at Cinoch’s muscled back.

  The grizzled warrior laughed wildly as he whirled his two-handed axe above his head. “Blooded yet pup? Take your pick!” Cinoch bellowed to Eógan as Drest bounded across the field to join them with a handful of True Folk. Drest's blond mane was matted with blood, none of which appeared to be hers.

  Less than a dozen of the heavily armored and mounted Jotman warriors remained. The shield wall of infantry looked to number near twenty, however, some had barely managed to arm or armor themselves. Those of the True Folk still standing were now divided into two loose groups of about a dozen each and were bisected by the cavalry formation. Ronnat and others were arrayed on the far side, while the Jotman infantry steadily approached Eógan and Cinoch's position.

  Unlike the rank and file warriors who wore conical helmets, the mounted leader of the besieged camp wore a helmet with a flat metal top and a perforated guard that covered his entire face. Muffled laughter echoed from within his helm as he maneuvered to the front of his cavalry’s wedge formation.

  As the infantry continued their relentless approach, the mounted warriors abruptly flattened into a line and galloped directly at Eógan and Cinoch: their backs were turned to Ronnat and the True Folk that stood with her. Snarling, Cinoch and Drest cleared space around themselves, quickly followed by Eógan and the others. They were staggered in two loose lines of six men and women each, one half facing the charging cavalry along with Cinoch and Drest, while the rest faced the approaching infantry with Eógan.

  As the horse hooves drummed the muddy field, the warriors on foot quickened their pace from a jog and remarkably managed to run while maintaining a tight formation. All at once the infantry stopped in unison fifteen yards from the rear line of True Folk and launched their spears into the air, an instant before the cavalry’s charge reached Cinoch and Drest.

  Spears and projectiles whizzed past Eógan, many sailing above his head. There were cries of pain and surprise as the True Folk behind him were pierced and wounded, then shattered by the mounted warrior’s charge. Two spears were embedded in Cinoch’s muscular frame, yet he fought on furiously as blood poured down his naked body. Drest avoided the volley of projectiles, but was punctured by a rider’s long spear and felled by a savage strike from the Jotman leader’s sword. With a roar the lion on Drest’s left side tore down the rider whose spear pinned him to the earth, claws and teeth grinding against metal as the spectral cat threw the unhorsed man around viciously.

  Metal hissed as the bulk of the Jotman infantry drew short swords and marched forward in unison. Eógan swung wildly as a rider barreled past him, but his blow was deflected off of the warrior’s teardrop shaped shield. The cavalry rode down two more True Folk as they passed through their lines, abandoning their long spears and galloping directly towards the rest of their forces.

  Several of the riders had been slain and one horse ran with a headless corpse tangled in its reins, rocking back and forth like a pendulum. Only six of the mounted knights remained and as they reached the block of infantry, they split into two groups of three. Their leader pivoted on his horse and reared up, extending his longsword towards the True Folk who still stood.

  With a growl deep in her throat, Ronnat charged to the front of the True Folk’s lines alongside Eógan. Cinoch staggered, blood running from a jagged slash across the left eye of the bull on his chest, with two spears still embedded in his shoulder and back. Drest lay motionless on the ground, pinned by the mangled body of the Jotman who had brought him down with his spear. With a mournful roar, the lion spirit batted the corpse off of Drest’s body with a massive paw and dissipated into the night.

  Cinoch trembled with fury and embedded his large axe into the soggy ground. As the Jotman forces charged towards the True Folk, he reached to his back and tore out both spears. Chunks of flesh caught on the barbed tips of the weapons and blood spurted from his gaping wounds, yet the powerful warrior stood tall and proud. In the moment before the two forces collided, Cinoch whirled, grasped the armored body of a fallen knight and heaved it at the leader of the Jotman, whose eyes, visible even through his armored visor, were white with surprise. The horse staggered and craned its head and neck to the side, while the full force and weight of the bloody corpse sent the Jotman leader tumbling to the ground. His armored greaves and boots were caught in the stirrups of his warhorse and he was dragged away from the press by the terrified horse.

  Eógan stood in the midst of the True Folk’s skirmisher formation, face to face with the shield wall of the infantry. Since their spears had been thrown as projectiles, they now brandished a motley assortment of short swords, axes and clubs. As the two forces collided, the weight of their combined bodies caused the True Folk’s scattered line to buckle backwards. Eógan and his companions dug in and were able to hold the Jotman back, bolstered by the spectral animals that emanated from each member of the raiding party.

  Ronnat winced as a short sword opened up the side of her neck, but she fought on and roared, “THEY WILL NOT BREAK US!” Eógan braced against the shield facing him, fending off blows with his sword, as he began losing ground to the taller and stronger Jotman. When her wolf howled, Ronnat screamed out, “RELEASE!” Simultaneously the True Folk facing the center of the shield wall bounded backwards, causing Jotman to spill forward from their own momentum and breaking their defensive line. A few of Eógan’s companions did not manage to clear enough distance and were cut down, yet the rest attacked with a ferocity that tore through the remaining infantry, dissolving the pitched battle into a series of duels.

  Eógan squared off against a Jotman who stood at least two hands taller and whose dark beard extended past either side of the long nose guard of his helm. The man had lost his shield in the fray, but tightly gripped an axe with an edge painted in blood. As Eógan retreated, parrying the savage attacks from his opponent, he found himself out in the open field. Using his mobility to his advantage, he danced around the armored Jotman and could sense that his opponent’s movements were slowing under the weight of his chainmail. The man’s breath grew ragged and perspiration glistened off of Eógan’s naked frame in the moonlight.

  As the Jotman’s axe sagged slightly lower, Eógan lunged towards him, aiming the point of his blade near the nose guard of his helm. Despite the armor and exertion, the Jotman moved with sudden alacrity, knocking Eógan’s blade aside and slashing across Eógan’s forearms. In shock and pain, Eógan dropped his sword and scrambled backwards. The serpents on his arms hissed in anger. He felt air whoosh past his face as he barely dodged the relentless blows from the Jotman’s axe.

  The wind was knocked out of Eógan’s lungs as he tumbled backwards into a large boulder, ribs aching as he collided with it. Instinctually he kicked off of the rock and rolled into the Jotman. Bones cracked and the axe sent sparks flying as it ground against the stone. Eógan put all his weight into his shoulder and the Jotman’s knee collapsed, bending backwards and sending the man tumbling to the muddy ground in agony. Eógan quickly rolled to the side, kicking the axe out of the Jotman’s gloved hand. He then straddled the larger man’s body. He brought both palms to the Jotman’s face and forced his thumbs into the man’s eye sockets, while the serpents on his forearms snapped and bit into his cheeks, injecting their venom.

  The Jotman clenched Eógan’s wrists with enough force that they nearly broke, but soon white foam began to dribble out of his mouth and catch in his beard. Once the Jotman’s grip weakened, Eógan broke free and struggled to stand. He was shaking with adrenaline, but could still feel the weight of exhaustion. Across the field, Cinoch stalked towards a frightened horse that dragged the Jotman’s leader behind it like it was plowing a field.