The Skeleth (5 page)

The hurrah Lord Wolland's announcement drew forth from the assembled folk of the hall was not at all forced, for everyone loved a grand tournament of arms. Their good cheer restored, everyone returned to their holiday babble, the cabbage forgotten by everyone save for the dogs who fought over it in the aisles.

“An archery tourney!” Geoffrey's many freckles drew apart when he smiled. “What's the prize for first place, do you think?”

Lord Aelfric stood and, after a moment's chilly silence,
commanded the attention of the crowd. “My people. Your oaths of service are honored, your labors accomplished, and so with glad heart do I welcome you to our feast. Take of our plenty this night and remain within the bounds of my castle until morning if you wish. A happy Harvestide to you all.”

The cheer this raised was not quite so loud as the one Wolland received at his announcement of the tourney, though it was bolstered by the arrival of the kitchen servants, carrying between them tray after tray piled high with the next delicious-smelling course of the Harvestide feast.

Geoffrey rubbed his hands. “Oho, smell that? Is that mutton? I'll bet we're getting mutton!”

Edmund tried for a little longer to draw Ellí's gaze, then gave up. He looked about him, and could not help but feel a touch of the delight that lit the faces of his family and neighbors. The strangeness of his meeting on the moors the night before, the oppressive weight of the Nethergrim's voice, the nightmares that kept him from sleeping—all of it fell away, for just a while, amongst the celebrations of the feast. The harvest was in, every field reaped and gleaned, and the larders were as well stocked as they would be all year. Of all the holidays that dotted the calendar, Harvestide was Edmund's particular favorite, for it was the one day out of the year when he could sit down while someone else served him dinner.

“Mutton with the trimmings.” The food had hardly touched the table in front of Edmund before the person who had served it moved on down the aisles—but there was no mistaking the voice.

Edmund whirled around in surprise. “Katherine?”

V
oices resounded off the walls of Tristan's castle: “Run! All of you, run for your lives!”

Tom found the postern gate, but found it barred from the other side. He gave up trying to shove it open and turned back into the courtyard, passing through a crowd of panicking men searching frantically about them for some way, any way out.

“Help, help me, please, someone—” Whatever the villager in the grass nearby had meant to say next, Tom never heard, for his voice dissolved into a babbled scream. Tom threw himself down beneath a cart overgrown with weeds up to its axles. He crept to the other side and glanced out upon the courtyard, and wished very much that he had not.

Something drifted near, something that was there and yet not there—the blinking, melting image of a fire impressed on the eyes after they have shut, a nightmare that would not resolve into a shape and give up the awful secret of its form.
A dozen jointless limbs waved and whipped in double rows. There was nothing for a head, just a tuft of fringed, grasping feelers.

“If someone gets away, if someone makes it home . . .” A young man in a sheepskin vest backed up to the wall, then cowered down. “Tell Rahilda—”

The glowing thing lunged for the man, its many arms rippling out in a doubled wave that crackled and insulted the air. The rows of flailing feelers wrapped around the weeping, cringing form of the man before it, and a mouth opened up between them, a tiny point of toothy darkness.

Tom felt a wrenching in his belly.

The man stopped screaming. He stood up, seeming somehow to occupy the very same space as the thing that had seized him, the solid flesh of his body interwoven with its insubstantial form. He looked out upon his fleeing, panicking comrades with a face that spoke of no emotion at all, his muscles twitching without purpose—then he turned to advance on them, the wooden cudgel in his hands raised high. More waving, rippling creatures emerged from the carved and decorated box that had fallen from the top of the tower. The men of Tristan's village screamed and ran, but there was nowhere to run. All the gates of the castle were closed, and the creatures pursued them into every corner of the courtyard.

“Tib! Tibalt Hackwood! It's us, Tib—it's your friends!”

Tom turned to look out from the other side of the cart. He caught sight of another man enveloped by the glowing creature that had taken him, advancing through the grass and driving three panicked villagers before him.

“Come, now, Tib.” A short young man backed away into the dark, lit by the sickly radiance of the thing before him. “It's just your friends, your old friends, Elmer and Kenferth. It's me, Tib, it's Elmer Byley—and here, here's your own uncle Osbert!”

The man trapped within the ghostly, ghastly arms did not seem to hear. The glow caressed and enfolded him, leaving ripples in the air as he advanced upon the men.

“Is he alive or dead?” A beak-nosed, lanky man held out a pruning hook at the approaching creature. “Is Tib alive or dead in there?”

“Tib, can you hear us?” The eldest of the three men around the creature held a club braced sideways to defend. “It's your uncle, your uncle Osbert.”

The man they had called Tib gripped his axe, though he seemed to flail it about without knowing it was in his hands. He stared upward and leftward, at nothing Tom could see.

“Get 'round him.” Osbert approached along his nephew's side, motioning the other men to do the same. “'Round him, hurry. Ell Byley, get that spear up!”

The spearman took the opposite flank. “What would you have us do, Osbert? He's your nephew, your own sister's son!”

Tib halted his march. He turned back and forth at the men surrounding him, seeming to squirm in the embrace of ghostly arms. Tom could not tell if it was hesitation, or simply twitching, like the spasms of a man who has just been hanged.

Osbert turned his walking stick to grip down at one end, readying for a strike. “It's him or us. You saw what he did to Bill Kettles. You ask me, he's already dead in there. Bring him down!”

All three men pressed forward with their weapons at the ready. Tib curled to the earth, and for one hopeful instant Tom thought the spell was wearing off, but he was only gathering for a leap. With a speed that slashed trails of light through the air, he jumped over the pruning hook to bring his axe down on the head of the man holding it. The pruning hook tumbled through the air, while its wielder crumpled onto the grass.

Tib rounded on Osbert with his axe raised high. Tom turned away in horror.

“Tib! Tib, it's me! It's your own uncle—no, please—” A thud followed the words, then a choking cry and another thud—and then approaching footsteps, and an eerie, spreading glow.

“No. No!” Tom scrabbled back from under the cart, then leapt up and fled as fast as his feet would carry him. He had been told many times that he was a good runner—in fact he had never met anyone to match him at a sprint—but Tib kept pace with seeming ease, giving him not an instant's rest as he searched for a way out of the courtyard. Their chase wound back and forth across the straggled grass, into and out of the wooden smithy and stables and over to the dark expanse of the great hall. There was no hope, no help, no safe place anywhere within the walls, and when at last he tripped over a discarded spear, it almost felt like relief. He lowered his head and covered his face with his arms. The glow grew brighter and nearer.

There sounded the clang of metal on metal, of hard breath and quick-stepping feet. The blow Tom waited to feel never landed.

“Up, Tom! On your feet!”

Tom dared a look to find John Marshal circling the creature,
sword in hand. He leapt aside from an overhand swing, bringing up his blade to deflect the attack, then reversing and very nearly impaling his opponent. “You must help me. Up!”

Tom rolled up with the spear in his hands and rushed to help. Even in the midst of his terror, he felt a twinge of awe at the fluid dance of John's swordplay. He had always understood that John knew how to fight, but until that moment he had never truly grasped what that meant.

“Stay behind it.” John turned his blade, twisting aside a lunge made by the creature. “When you see your chance, strike to kill.”

Tom, on the other hand, did not know how to fight, and even the desperate strength of his terror could not replace skill and training. Time and again, he missed his chance to strike at the creature, and time and again, John Marshal saved his life, leaping about with a speed that belied his years.

“Rightward, Tom.” John sidestepped, blocking an overhand chop by bracing the flat of his blade across his forearm. “Step rightward—and attack! Now!”

Tom did as he was asked. His thrust came slow, but he made it with such force that the creature had no choice but to turn and block it.

That gave John Marshal the opening he needed. He drove his sword through the glowing, grasping feelers, and into the chest of the man within. “Whoever you are in there, I am sorry.”

The creature stopped and dropped its weapon to the grass. Inside the glow, the man's mouth filled with blood, but his eyes seemed to fix upon the world for the first time.

“John Marshal?” Tibalt Hackwood blinked in surprise. “Why . . .”

He died standing up, collapsing through the rippling, ghostly arms to drop into the grass, dragging the point of John's sword down with him. The creature flailed and whipped up high, shimmering the air, and the dark-toothed mouth puckered in.

Tom felt horror, pity, remorse—then sickness, dizziness. “He was still alive.” He fell to one knee. “He was still alive in there.”

“I know.” John Marshal gasped for breath, bent over double, his sword stuck deep in Tib's chest. “Now, Tom, we really must get clear of this place while we still—”

He never got to finish. The jointless, waving limbs reached out along his blade, up his arms—and into his eyes. His shout barely got past a gargle. His face froze, a grimace of pain on one side but drooling slack on the other. The glow took him and turned him, wrenching his head aside with such speed that Tom saw the muscles pop and bulge. He withdrew his blooded sword and advanced on Tom, step by relentless step.

Tom stumbled backward through the grass. “Stay away!” He held up his spear against John's approach, but trembled so badly that the point wobbled back and forth. “I warn you, stay away!”

There was not a trace of understanding on John Marshal's face, not a hint of the man who had done all he could to ease the many burdens of Tom's life. He did not even look at Tom. He stared at the sky, his mouth hanging open. He raised his sword, readying a killing blow.

A horn sounded from the gatehouse of the castle, dark and deep, in a hideous harmony that hurt Tom's ears.

The glowing thing that had once been John Marshal turned and lumbered away. Other deathly lights converged with his, a swarm of creatures coming together in a bunch in front of the gatehouse, where stood a woman somewhat advanced in years, her silver hair bound in a simple queue down her back over a dark-hued dress trimmed in fur.

“You must wait until moonset to leave this valley, sir knight.” The woman had her back to the creatures, looking up instead at the two dozen men ranged about atop the castle walls. “Should you happen upon the Skeleth without warning, I may not be able to protect you.”

Tom recognized the woman's voice from the odd, rounded drawl of her accent—she was the one who had chanted the spell from atop the tower. He dried his tears on his shoulder, his sorrow frozen by new fear.

“Your eminence.” Sir Wulfric of Olingham bowed from the roof of the gatehouse. “Honor compels me to inform you of your peril, should all not go to plan.”

“I care nothing for your compulsions, nor for your honor, sir knight,” said the woman. “Attend to your business, as I shall to mine.”

“Gives me the crawlies, she does.” The whiny-voiced man had the sort of whisper that carried on the wind. “Reminds me of my old gran. I ever tell you about—”

“Shut your noise, Tanchus.” The burly crossbowman cut him off. “Maybe your old gran was deaf, but I'll wager this one ain't. You want to end up inside one of them glowing things?”

Tom looked around him. The glow cast by the creatures lit
up a field of slaughter, bodies lying crumpled in the grass as though tossed there by a giant. He crawled off, hiding himself in the shadows under the stables, and tried his best not to give himself away by weeping too loudly.

Sir Wulfric leaned down from the battlements. “What of my lord Tristan, your eminence?”

“He is not your concern, sir knight.” The wizard woman turned away, moving through the assembled creatures without the slightest show of fear.

“Your eminence.” Wulfric seemed to hesitate. “There was no honor in our deeds here.”

“Your father wants his victory and is prepared to do what is needful to achieve it. You would do well to learn from his example. Good night to you.” The wizard woman put a double-mouthed horn to her lips. The harmony shook and shattered, it leapt and lurched. The creatures followed her at a shambling march eastward and away down the road, John Marshal among them.

Wulfric turned to address the brigands in the castle. “Men of the Rutters, hear me. You have your orders—follow them and you will earn my noble father's gratitude.”

“It ain't his gratitude we're wanting, sir knight.” Aldred Shakesby came up into view from the gatehouse. “We want his coin.”

“S'right!” More than one man chimed in. “We've done our bit. Where's our pay?”

“That will come,” said Wulfric. “Until then, you will secure this castle and hold for my return. Raise the gates and prepare
my horse.” He turned away and descended out of Tom's view.

“You heard him!” Aldred turned to his fellows. “To the winch! Hop to it!”

Tom picked himself up from the grass and slunk over to the gatehouse, cursing himself for having lain still so long. He waited for the inner gates to rise, then crept along the tunnel, hoping to slip out before anyone could come down to count the slain, but the side door opened just as he passed it.

“On your knees, boy.” The crossbowman leveled a bolt at Tom's gut. “On your knees, and tell me why I should let you live.”

Tom fell to his knees. He could not think of anything.