The Fall of Arnon

Chapter 9

Lerendo awoke the next morning, exhausted. His eyes shot open to find the sun burning high in the sky. It wasn't the first time he had opened his eyes that night only to find the unwelcoming mask of darkness still ensconcing the city. 

It may have been the rough dead bear carcass, the hard wooden floor, or the gravelly snore of his savior: the knight, but Lerendo's sleep had been wrought with strange dreams and awakenings he had not been accustomed to in his soft feather bed in the castle.

His very sleep had been haunted with unusual visions, Lerendo dearly wished he could forget. However, his mind seemed to be more of his enemy than his friend now, and even as he cracked his aching bones back in place, his recent nightmares flashed back.

One nightmare pictured an extremely large Dephorian. Its body covered in the blood of its enemies, its razor sharp claws protruding from three hairy feet, and its grizzly head like that of an angry beaver still stared at him with fiery eyes. In its teeth, it held the body of a man. Neither young nor old, his body had lay limp, impaled upon the knife-like fangs. From this, he had woken drenched in his own sweat. 

Falling again into a world of indiscernible truth and lies, he had dreamt once more. This time it was not a creature of enormity beyond compare but a field. A field covered as far as the eye could see with Lillies of beautiful rich white. Skipping through the waving fields, he saw a young girl.

As she drew closer, recognition flooded over him. Her bright golden curls bounced around her smiling, rosy-cheeked face. Daring pink chiffon hung around her comely little form as she cascaded toward him.

Suddenly a tinkling laugh sprang from her lips as she appeared to recognize him. Two skinny, snow-white arms flew around his neck clutching him in a childlike embrace. He buried his face in her golden locks and breathed deeply. Suddenly, it wasn't sweet lilacs that filled his nostrils but something wet and burning. Hacking up the vile substance, he spat it into his hand. Blood spurted from his mouth and nose, splattering across white-washed walls. In horror he watched as the deep red liquid slowly multiplied, spilling from ever-widening gashes spreading across the walls. Unable to move, he stood, the blood rising around him. It had by now reached his neck and soon he would be able to taste the metallic salt, but here he woke with a start.

It was easy to see, he had been deserted to fend for himself. The room had somehow come to a state of neat cleanliness. The large, wooden bed had been made, quilts folded atop an enormous fur blanket. Orderly stacks of books and papers sat comfortably in a small alcove, unmasked by the much-needed cleanup. All other surfaces had been dusted clean and now gleamed in the morning sun.

Lerendo pushed his makeshift bed to the side. Across the way, he noticed a large black pot perched atop the fireplace. The smell coming from it started Lerendo's stomach to rumble. Not until that moment did he realize just how hungry he was. Removing the black, iron lid, he found himself looking into a dark brown broth. Small bits of vegetables and beef peaked out through the lovely smelling stew.

With a growl of joy, he dove in. Lukewarm but better than anything he could remember ever eating before, he quickly drained it. Only when he had picked the pot up so as to clean it did he see the tiny white paper huddled beneath. Unfolding it, he held his breath, hoping this was not his orders to return home without delay.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he read the few words scrawled across the small sheet of paper.

'Meet me at the church.'
Sir Ryan

                                                                              ----------------------------

It was the smell that nearly sent Sir Ryan lurching for a wash basin, but none being at hand, he pushed it down. The sight of one all-too-familiar to the old knight. Crimson red blood, painting a gruesome picture.

The boy must have been no older than fifteen telling by what was left of his tanned, slightly freckled face. Clothes of a middle-class family loosely to his scrawny frame, drenched in his own blood. A gash, if so it could be called fell from scalp to sternum. Most of the blood had either spilled out around him or clotted inside his tender, young body and deep beneath the bloody mess of tissue bits of white bone peaked out.

"Bloody," his counterpart spoke. The priest had been silent ever since he had led him up the dark, creaking stairs, only once whispering a word of warning for the deranged scene he was about to unfold. 

"Indeed," he replied. "Who is it?" 

"A young boy. He used to be the bellboy. One of the most faithful I ever had. Never missed a single day."

"Hmm... do you have any reason to believe someone might have wanted him dead?" 

"None at all," the priest said, slowly stroking his whiskered chin. "But many people have enemies and I didn't know the boy that well."

Ryan strode closer to the body, breathing shallowly so as not to breathe more of the foul air than was necessary. 

"What do you see?" The priest questioned, inching ever closer.

"A dead body."

The priest was silent

"It was a large object. Most likely sharp on one end and wider on the other. You see how the head has been severed very cleanly but draws apart here?" He pointed to what looked like a bloody mass of bone, cartilage, and flesh. 

Father Thomas stared down, confusion written upon his wrinkled features. Even now, his hands shook as they lay clenched by his side.

"What does that mean?" he asked in a raspy voice.

"I think we may have just found our next victim." Sir Ryan closed his eyes, passing his hand across his face in an attempt to rid the exhaustion he felt deep down in his soul, but still the blood now seeping through the floorboards seemed to cry for vengeance.

"No. Not the..." he drifted off into silence.

"Yes. The killer has just claimed his next kill."

As the two knelt beside the body, the small trapdoor behind the squeaked open. Three young men passed through the opening. The two boys who had discovered the body led the third up through the darkness below into the stifling air of the bell tower.

"Boy says he knows Sir Ryan." The boy of taller stature and deep black hair, stepped forward, pointing a look towards the knight.

Sir Ryan looked up, nodded, and turned back to his examination. Slowly, he lifted one arm, then the other. He turned the bloody head until two pale, brown eyes stared back at them, lifeless, and cloudy. Placing his leathery hands over the face of the pale white boy, he closed the lids to the unseeing eyes.

The mysterious boy, clothed in a long black cloak, the hood concealing his face stood stock still, not daring to make a move. 

"Who's the boy?" Father Thomas whispered into his friend's ear, glancing quickly at the unmoving figure.

"I'll tell you later. For now, I need to interview those that found the body. Also, does he have a family?"

"Y-yes, of course," the priest stuttered, quickly rising from the dust-ridden floor, shaking the folds of his habit. "Oh, and, whenever you are ready, the family would like to give the boy a proper burial."

The knight stood. "Yes, of course, we all must continue in this life, though we leave some along the way. I have all I need. They may remove his body as soon as they would like."

"Of course. I will go tell them." As if in a hurry to leave the evil done in the tower, he rushed off.

At that moment, another person joined the scene. Burning red hair and moustache, a large, sturdy build, and an expression of firm resolution, he converged on them like a large red fireball.

"Sir Ryan." He barely registered the other three before stooping to look at the body.

"Sir Storen," Sir Ryan spat out rather contemptuously.

"Have you interviewed anyone yet?" He stood up, straight as an arrow piercing the knight with his iron glare.

"Not yet."

"Well then, shall we begin?"