The Robber Knight's Love

28. Headless Flight

“What in God's name is the matter, Isenbard?” Ayla demanded and stepped forward. “What did they throw at us? It doesn't seem to be dangerous, so far as I... can... tell...”

Her voice drained away as she caught the odor.

“Please, Milady, I beg of you,” Sir Isenbard said, his voice hollow. “Go inside. You don't need to see this. You shouldn't...”

Hardly listening, Ayla stepped around him and looked down at what lay there on the cold stone of the walkway.

At first she did not quite comprehend what she saw. Maybe it was the way the thing had been split open from the impact. Or maybe it was the way the flesh had already rotted and half fallen off, revealing the bones underneath. Or maybe it was simply that her own mind was trying to protect her from the ghastly image of a rotting head, grinning up at her with dirty, jagged teeth.

Slowly she knelt before the head. She couldn't take her eyes off it.

Was it somebody she had known?

She couldn't tell.

All she could tell was that the sight of it made her sick. Not sick to the stomach. Oh no. Sick to the heart. For she knew where the head had come from. The white flower on blue background that was sewn onto the dirty cap still sitting on the half-decomposed skull told her all. It was the crest of the house of Luntberg.

Isenbard's words, spoken right beside her, drifted to her as though from far away through a layer of thick fog.

“Sacrilege! Must be... they will burn in hell for this... devils, the lot of them... not capable of... should have known...”

She didn't hear above one word in ten. Her men. These were her men. Men who had fought and died for her, whom she had cried over and laid to rest in holy ground outside the walls. And now they had been dug up like a dog’s bone! Their eternal rest disturbed for... for what?

She began to shake all over.

“Milady! I think... Captain, come and... Somewhere safe, where she can rest and...”

Isenbard's words still came to her in small, disjointed chunks. They didn't make any sense. Safe? How could anyone be safe while there was such evil in the world? How could anyone think of rest? There was no rest anymore when even the grave was not safe.

Hands tried to grab her from behind. Shrieking, she tried to fight them off.

“It is only me, Milady! Captain Linhart!”

She knew it was only him. It didn't matter. She didn't want him near her right now. She didn't want anyone near her. She wanted to be alone and cry and cry and cry until maybe she would fall asleep and forget that there was more wickedness in the world than any single heart could bear.

When the Captain tried to grab her again, she wrenched herself free of his arms and rushed away, down the walkway towards the tower. She hardly knew where she was going and knew she was in danger of falling down into the courtyard. Part of her might even have hoped for that. Then, there would be an end to all this.

“Milady!” She heard Isenbard shout behind her. But she didn't stop. His words meant nothing. Her mind was filled with the image of the head, grinning up at her, seeming to prophesy doom and damnation.

She sprinted into the tower and down the stairs. Her vision was so obscured by tears, it was a miracle she didn't break her neck. From outside she heard several muffled thuds. She didn't realize what they meant until she staggered out into the courtyard and saw the gore spattered and the heads scattered everywhere.

Whimpering, she ran on, up the hill.

Thud!

Around her, more dark objects plummeted from the night sky.

Thud!

Thud!

Right and left and behind her; they were everywhere. Nightmarish piles of bone and flesh, some still recognizable, others completely smashed.

In the silver light of the moon she could not see the color of the small rivers running from the deformed things downhill—they might have been blue, or gray, or even green. But in her heart she knew they were blood-red. And the moonlight was more than enough to see the faces: mangled, half worm-eaten faces of former friends and protectors turned into grizzly masks that leered at her accusingly, following her with their empty stares wherever she ran.

Thud!

There! Up ahead she saw the inner gate appear. Beyond it lay the inner courtyard, and safety from this night of horrors. She redoubled her efforts and ran faster, her dress fluttering behind her like the wings of a moth, desperate to escape the spider's web.

That was when she fell.

The ground hit her hard, slamming the air out of her lungs and making her gasp in pain. Rolling around onto her back, writhing in agony, she thanked the Lord that when her father had built the castle, he only had the inner courtyard paved. She might have broken something otherwise. Slowly, she lifted up her head and turned to see what had made her stumble.

Her scream probably woke those inmates of the castle who hadn’t woken yet from the bombardment. She writhed like a madwoman to get away from the... the thing staring at her with lifeless, menacing eyes, and struggled out of her shoes. They were covered with... No! She didn't even want to think about what they were covered in.

Barefoot she continued up the hill, limping now, not only from the stabbing pain in her side where she had fallen, but also from the pain in her feet where the sharp edges of little stones on the ground were cutting into her soft skin.

When she stumbled like that out of the darkness and into the field of vision of the gate guards, their mouths dropped open and they raised their spears, at first not recognizing their mistress.

“Milady!” Dropping his spear, one of them jumped forward. “Lady Ayla! Are you all right? What has happened? Is the castle under attack?”

“Yes... no... yes,” she wailed. “I don't know what... It's just... It's just...” She stopped the garbled words coming out of her mouth, forcing herself to breathe slowly. “The... the castle is in no immediate danger. Open the inner gates, please.”

The guard examined her ragged appearance more closely, then exchanged a hesitant look with his comrades.

“Milady, I don't think that...”

“Open the gates!” Ayla didn't know how long she could keep this up. She could already hear her voice cracking again. Soon she would collapse and nothing would stop the tears. But she couldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of the men she had to lead through this darkness. ”Open—the—gates—now!” She said, very slowly, very clearly.

The guards exchanged another look—then proceeded to follow her orders. As soon as the gates were opened wide enough, Ayla slipped through and ran further up the hill. It was easier here, on the smooth cobblestones of the inner yard. They didn't cut into her feet.

And, oh yes, what else? There weren't any rotting heads lying around here. That probably helped.

However, didn't mean that she couldn't still hear them. Behind her, beyond the wall, she again and again heard the soft, revolting thud of another piece rotting flesh hit the ground. In her mind’s eye, there were rivers of blood now running down the mountainside, staining the ground again with blood that had once already been spilled for her sake.

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Greetings, Milords and Ladies!

In this horrifyingly gory chapter, I have attempted to show the grim realities of medieval war!!

:-|

See the very grim face up there? That is how grim this chapter is supposed to be. Did I manage it? ;-)

Farewell for now (your warlike medieval writer)

Sir Rob