The Skeleth Page 5

  “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.

  Chapter 6

  Edmund leapt from his seat. “Katherine? Wait—Katherine, come back!”

  Katherine picked up her skirts and tried to dash away. Edmund would usually have had little chance of catching her long-legged strides, but the hem of her dress tripped her up before she could get clear of him.

  Edmund caught up to her between the aisles. “Katherine, why are you serving supper in the castle?”

  Katherine wore a rough, drab housedress that did not quite seem to fit, from the way she pulled and picked at it. “I work here now.” A thick cloth wimple wrapped her hair, hiding it completely and framing her face in a way that did not flatter it, as though it had been made for someone with a smaller head. “Papa’s not the marshal of the stables anymore. I have nowhere else to go.”

  Edmund blinked. Of course—Katherine was a girl and not yet of age. Without a father to speak for her, she had no place in the world. “I can help. Let me help you!”

  Katherine coughed, and wiped her runny nose. “You can’t help me, Edmund.”

  “Katherine, please, let me try.” Edmund had often dreamed of helping Katherine. “I’ll think of something, I’m sure of it.” In his dreams, she needed him, and only him. In his dreams, she could find no one else to turn to, no one else to rely upon. In his dreams, she did not have to stoop to kiss him.

  “Hark ye, hark ye!” The herald bellowed louder than was really needed, perhaps to compensate for his earlier mistakes. “Silence, one and all! Your lord will speak!”

  Lord Aelfric rose from his carved and cushioned chair. “As you all know, it is our custom every year to choose from amongst the peasantry a king and queen of Harvestide. By the oldest of traditions, the king and queen are granted a place of honor for the night, and will sit in my own chair and that of my lady Isabeau for the remainder of the feast.”

  “Father’s thunder! Do you say so?” Lord Wolland slapped the table. “What fun—how quaint are you folk here in Elverain! But my lord Aelfric, whatever will I do without your sparkling conversation? Do send up a witty pig-farmer or the like!”

  Lord Aelfric did not acknowledge Lord Wolland’s interruption, instead merely waiting for it to stop before he carried on. “It is also tradition for the couple to be young, a boy on the cusp of manhood and a girl in the first flower of her youth. I see that there are young folk here about the hall who stand ready for your approval, sons and daughters of the merchants and craftsmen of your own villages.”

  Edmund looked about him and saw a collection of perhaps a dozen boys and girls standing up about the hall, all of them very obviously dressed to get attention. The boys were mostly the sons of rich merchants from Northend, and the girls were either the prettiest in their villages, or at least thought themselves so. They all lined up by the wings of the high tables, trying to crowd past one another while at the same time trying not to look too obvious about it.

  “I’ll bet Tom and Papa are at Lord Tristan’s castle by now,” said Katherine. “And I’ll bet they’re having more fun than we are.”

  Lord Aelfric held up his hand. “By tradition, the king and queen are chosen by the acclaim of the folk of the land.” He stretched out a hand to Luilda Twintree, who had contrived to push herself up closest to his view. “Let us hear from our first—”

  A roar, a chorus, a double thunder cut him off. “Edmund Bale!” It came from the tables where sat the folk of Moorvale, and just as loudly from across the hall where sat the miners of Roughy. “Katherine Marshal!”

  Edmund turned to Katherine in shock. He found her going pale, and trying to sidle out of the hall.

  “Silence!” Lord Aelfric was met with nothing like silence, but he tried to shout over the roaring crowd. “It is tradition that—”

  “Edmund Bale! Katherine Marshal!” Once the shout began, it took on a momentum that could not be contained, as though the idea, once proposed, suited just about everyone. The boys and girls lined up for their chance to be king and queen looked like they had all drunk from the same vat of vinegar. Two children came forward from the opposite end of the hall. After a moment Edmund recognized them—Sedmey and Harbert, the kids from Roughy who had been among the Nethergrim’s intended victims.

  “My lord.” Sedmey made a peasant’s curtsy before the high table. “If it pleases you, Edmund Bale and Katherine Marshal are the reason me and my brother are here tonight. They went into the mountains, my lord, into the Girth, and they fought the Nethergrim to bring us home safe again. There’s no one in this hall who should be our Harvestide king and
queen but them.”

  “What’s this?” Lord Wolland stood from his table. “The Nethergrim, you say? Where are these two heroes?”

  There was nowhere to hide. Folk drew back from Edmund and Katherine, leaving them alone together in the middle of the hall.

  “Then it’s settled!” Lord Wolland clapped his hands. “Those two there, king and queen of Harvestide! Who would dare to pick another?”

  Lord Aelfric looked at a loss for words. He turned to Lady Isabeau, then back to the crowd, but all he could utter was something else about tradition that no one bothered to hear.

  “Edmund and Katherine, king and queen of Harvestide!” The folk of Moorvale—save perhaps for Luilda’s family—raised their voices all at once. “Three cheers for them!” The other claimants to the crowns looked upset, but could not withstand the sustained applause, and soon returned rather glumly to their seats.

  “Well, come on then.” Katherine undid her wimple, letting free her long dark hair. “Take my hand.”

  Edmund trembled. He held forth his hand, and she slipped it into hers. Lord Aelfric came down from his high table with a crown in his hands woven from stalks of golden wheat. He wore the same impassive, icy look Edmund had always seen on him, though perhaps just a little icier than usual. Lady Isabeau followed him with a crown woven from flowers, but she wore an oddly sly and satisfied smile on her face.

  Lord Aelfric held Edmund in a long, cryptic stare and then, with sudden decision, stepped forward to crown him. “Well, well—not wholly undeserved, I suppose.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Edmund was not sure whether, under the circumstances, he was supposed to bow, so he contented himself with a nod of the head.