The Decrepit Fort
The man watched from the shadowed branches of the Oak tree. He was right inside the fort, on one of the tall mottes which gave him a vast view of the castles surroundings and insides.
It was alight with activity. There were trundle loads of stone and wood travelling in a long procession throughout the fort. The carts entered through the main entrance before dispersing in different directions. They headed to the stone and mortar walls, where men were already at work repairing the huge gaping holes that served as possible entry points for unwanted visitors. Men were rushing around bellowing commands and flicking through lists trying to organize the carts as others started to unload supplies and tools. Many men, skilled at climbing and crafts, were dashing through the fort setting torches alight on the walls and creating new torches as they went. The old desolated fort was being rebuilt, rehabilitated.
As the commotion of the newcomers took hold on the place, a drawbridge lowered on the east side of the fort. It sank momentarily, towards the filthy waters below, before awakening the ancient chains. Though the new inhabitants noticed nothing, the man in the tree did not miss the drawbridge falling into place.
As he leant over the tall branches of the oak, he saw a man, cloaked but not hooded, standing on one of the dark battlements. The man stood unmoving, as if waiting for something. As he watched, eight hooded figures road out from underneath the battlement. Their cloaks fragmented in the wind like fresh burnt parchment. They disappeared into the forest ahead of them leaving the drawbridge to creak slowly closed again. They would not return tonight, that was for sure; they would not be returning for a long time...
§§§
The cloaked man stood on the fort's battlement, his fingers curling around the stone walls ledge. It felt cold and rough to his touch and the mortar crumbled beneath his grip.
His waxy skin clung to his body, translucent against his bones. It stretched over his skull and rib cage, emphasising his skeleton beneath. His face was encaged with black gruesome lines twisting together like a maze.
His icy gaze raked his surroundings as if searching for something, but lingered nowhere for very long. It was as he remembered, nothing had changed within the fort.
He knew that the party of men were not going to return tonight; in fact he knew they would never return. As Slate turned to leave he felt a pair of eyes boring into his back.
"Will they succeed?" It was a question, yet it was pointless, for that man already anticipated his reply. Slate knew who had come so did not turn to face him. He did not need the tall form nor the hard lined face to identify the newcomer.
"Why ever should they not succeed?" His voice came out in a slither. It curled around and lingered in the night air long after he had said it.
Silence followed his words but Rhys felt no rush to fill the lingering silence. Then, abruptly, he replied "no reason". He would later confirm the riders' fate when it became days with no word, or return.
It was time Slate took his leave; there was no more need for his presence on this dead stone wall. As he twisted his desiccated body around, he felt unknown eyes pierce the back of his head. The game had begun and this time he would have the last hand; he would hold the last trick. A smile played on Slate's slit of a mouth, distorting the scarred black lines into jagged angles. He had work to do.
§§§
In the tall oak the man's eyes still lingered, watching the chaos of the fort. He had watched with curiosity the scene on the battlement. But now the place was dead and the drawbridge closed as if nothing had occurred. The man decided he had seen all that he was ever going to. As he left his perch in the tall oak he let two playing cards fall from his fingers tips. Then he was gone.
The cards came to rest on the uneven ground and a thin layer of ice began to form over the brilliant reds and blues that covered the pearly white paper. The king of hearts lay next to the two of diamonds still and innocent.
