Read Online Stronghold by Paul Finch - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Finch
Tags: Horror
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They were in a forest, but ironically there wasn't much cover. High ground rose to the south and sloped away to the north, but it was thinly treed.
"Up to our knees in sludge and dung," d'Avranches complained. "It'll hardly make for a comfortable night."
"If the Welsh are beaten, there's nothing to stop us lighting fires," Ignatius said.
Guiscard was undecided. He wheeled his horse about. They were still relatively close to the English border, but there was something about this place he didn't like. The woods were eerily silent even for March. There wasn't a hint of wind, so the mist hung in motionless cauls between the black pillars of the trees.
"Is there a delay, my lord?" came a gruff but tired voice. It was Master-Serjeant Gam, who'd plodded up from the rear.
"Aye," Guiscard said. "Send the word. We bivouac here."
"Here, my lord?" The seasoned old soldier sounded surprised.
"I doubt we'll find anywhere better on this road. Tell the men to pitch their tents among the trees, but in circles, with thorn switches for cover. Draw lots - one in every ten to stand on guard duty. Four-hour shifts. Make sure you find decent picket points, Gam. We don't know that the enemy's completely defeated yet."
The serjeant nodded and stumped away, only for Ignatius to suddenly point and shout. "Ho!"
They glanced south, to where the silver disc of the moon hung beyond the ridge. Two twisted tree trunks were framed against it.
"I thought I saw something," Ignatius said. " Someone ."
"Someone?" Guiscard asked.
"He was against the moon. Coming over the rise."
"Probably a stag," d'Avranches said.
"It was a man. Look... another! "
This time they all saw the figure. It was tall, rail-thin, and it came quickly over the rise and descended through the darkness towards them. Another followed it, moving jerkily. This one too vanished into the murk. The crackling of wet undergrowth could be heard as the figures drew closer.
"Beggars?" d'Avranches said.
"In the middle of a war?" Guiscard replied. His gloved hand stole to the hilt of his longsword.
"Refugees?"
"And they'd approach an English baggage-train?"
"We should have sent outriders," Ignatius said in a small voice.
"When we give alms to the poor, you can tend to our business," d'Avranches advised him. "We'd have lost all contact with outriders in that storm."
"No, he's right," Guiscard said. His voice rose as he spied another two or three figures ascend over the rise. "We should have sent outriders. Alarum! Alarum! Master-Serjeant, your trumpeter if you pleee..."
His words ended in a hoarse shout, as he was dragged from his saddle.
D'Avranches and Ignatius were at first too startled to respond. Guiscard shouted incoherently as he wrestled with someone in the muddy ditch on the north side of the road - which, it occurred to them, meant that danger was not just threatening from one side, but from both .
Ignatius now spied flurries of movement ahead of them. The point-footman, who'd been carrying a lantern on a pole as he marched at the front of the column, had been knocked from his feet. The pole stood upright in the mud, its lamp swinging wildly, only partly revealing two ragged shapes that were setting about the footman like wolves on a carcass.
"Good God!" d'Avranches said, focussing on dozens of forms suddenly streaming through the misty woods towards them.
Cries began sounding along the road behind. A carrion stench pervaded the entire column. Ignatius stood up and peered back. It was difficult to tell what was happening, but figures seemed to be wrestling between the wagons and carts. Horses whinnied. Someone gave a gargled shriek. Ignatius looked towards the moon - more and more shapes were coming over the rise: tattered and thin but moving with strength and purpose.
Alongside the wagon, Guiscard got back to his feet. He hadn't had time to free his longsword from its scabbard and his shield was still strapped to his back, but he'd managed to draw his dagger and plunge
"Up to our knees in sludge and dung," d'Avranches complained. "It'll hardly make for a comfortable night."
"If the Welsh are beaten, there's nothing to stop us lighting fires," Ignatius said.
Guiscard was undecided. He wheeled his horse about. They were still relatively close to the English border, but there was something about this place he didn't like. The woods were eerily silent even for March. There wasn't a hint of wind, so the mist hung in motionless cauls between the black pillars of the trees.
"Is there a delay, my lord?" came a gruff but tired voice. It was Master-Serjeant Gam, who'd plodded up from the rear.
"Aye," Guiscard said. "Send the word. We bivouac here."
"Here, my lord?" The seasoned old soldier sounded surprised.
"I doubt we'll find anywhere better on this road. Tell the men to pitch their tents among the trees, but in circles, with thorn switches for cover. Draw lots - one in every ten to stand on guard duty. Four-hour shifts. Make sure you find decent picket points, Gam. We don't know that the enemy's completely defeated yet."
The serjeant nodded and stumped away, only for Ignatius to suddenly point and shout. "Ho!"
They glanced south, to where the silver disc of the moon hung beyond the ridge. Two twisted tree trunks were framed against it.
"I thought I saw something," Ignatius said. " Someone ."
"Someone?" Guiscard asked.
"He was against the moon. Coming over the rise."
"Probably a stag," d'Avranches said.
"It was a man. Look... another! "
This time they all saw the figure. It was tall, rail-thin, and it came quickly over the rise and descended through the darkness towards them. Another followed it, moving jerkily. This one too vanished into the murk. The crackling of wet undergrowth could be heard as the figures drew closer.
"Beggars?" d'Avranches said.
"In the middle of a war?" Guiscard replied. His gloved hand stole to the hilt of his longsword.
"Refugees?"
"And they'd approach an English baggage-train?"
"We should have sent outriders," Ignatius said in a small voice.
"When we give alms to the poor, you can tend to our business," d'Avranches advised him. "We'd have lost all contact with outriders in that storm."
"No, he's right," Guiscard said. His voice rose as he spied another two or three figures ascend over the rise. "We should have sent outriders. Alarum! Alarum! Master-Serjeant, your trumpeter if you pleee..."
His words ended in a hoarse shout, as he was dragged from his saddle.
D'Avranches and Ignatius were at first too startled to respond. Guiscard shouted incoherently as he wrestled with someone in the muddy ditch on the north side of the road - which, it occurred to them, meant that danger was not just threatening from one side, but from both .
Ignatius now spied flurries of movement ahead of them. The point-footman, who'd been carrying a lantern on a pole as he marched at the front of the column, had been knocked from his feet. The pole stood upright in the mud, its lamp swinging wildly, only partly revealing two ragged shapes that were setting about the footman like wolves on a carcass.
"Good God!" d'Avranches said, focussing on dozens of forms suddenly streaming through the misty woods towards them.
Cries began sounding along the road behind. A carrion stench pervaded the entire column. Ignatius stood up and peered back. It was difficult to tell what was happening, but figures seemed to be wrestling between the wagons and carts. Horses whinnied. Someone gave a gargled shriek. Ignatius looked towards the moon - more and more shapes were coming over the rise: tattered and thin but moving with strength and purpose.
Alongside the wagon, Guiscard got back to his feet. He hadn't had time to free his longsword from its scabbard and his shield was still strapped to his back, but he'd managed to draw his dagger and plunge
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