The fog was the worst so far. Shadows and fog danced together, twirling like a whirlpool, and the once calm atmosphere turned into gale-forced winds, chilling everyone to the bone despite the protective layers of linen and wool.
“How could this once fertile land look so wilted?”
“A trick of the magical realm, no doubt, to lull us into a false sense of reality.”
Hearing the exchange behind him, Lord Willenborg allowed a faint smile of irony to crest his lips. He frowned almost instantly after that and shifted in his saddle. His eyes, so dark as to appear bottomless, narrowed slightly while they scanned the surrounding countryside. It was a wild, undeveloped land spread before them. Rolling hills were mantled in thick grass, dense forests that still offered a canopy of leaves despite the lateness of the season, and sparkling springs that fractured the sweeping meadows.
“There are rumors that these woods are inhabited by fairy folk.” Riding at Willenborg’s side, much like he had done for many years, Lord Arron nodded toward the nearby forest. “A paradise of spirits both good and evil.”
“A gateway to a distant realm, more like,” muttered Willenborg.
“Pray that they don’t hear of your ingratitude, my old friend,” Arron responded sarcastically.
“Ah, but I am grateful.” Once again, with a slight hint of amusement, almost mocking, set aglow with the intensity of his gaze. “Grateful enough to risk death in these foreign lands.”
Willenborg tightened his grip on the reins and glanced back over his shoulder. Nearly forty knights and squires had decided to come with him. Riding in a double column along a narrow, cobblestone pathway, they were fully prepared to follow wherever their Lord led.
The late afternoon sun broke through the fog for a fleeting moment, lighting fire to his long, dark hair and beard. He was tall and powerfully built, his face chiseled with determination, and his manner was one of utmost confidence.
“Unless I’m mistaken, Willenborg, we are almost at our final destination,” Arron noted with a wry smile of his own. He, too, had instinctively lifted his head to the brief appearance of the benevolent warmth of the sun’s rays. Even taller than the man he was riding beside him, his worn face creased as he muttered, “Rosymorn, a curious name.”
“No more curious, I’ll wager, than the cottages and farmlands of Emerald Grove,” Willenborg replied as his gaze scanned the horizon.
The fog had reclaimed its treasure as the sun was no longer in view, returning the chill, gray, and unwelcome pallor to the sky above. In the distance, the destination they were riding toward rose like a monstrous, sprawling structure situated atop a broad highland at the joining of two rivers. Towers and ramparts lifted upward out of the fortress walls that were more than a hundred feet high to pierce the fog-shrouded gray of the mid-afternoon sky. Apparently, the gates had been opened in full anticipation of the new Lord’s arrival, yet no one ventured forth to welcome him as he approached. Banners should have been flying from the ramparts. There were none.
To the east was the main village, nestled in a valley near a river, a tidy collection of cottages and shops with cobbled pathways; it was the very definition of rural quaintness. Strangely, however, there were no signs of activity amongst the townsfolk in what should have been the busiest time of day. There was no one crossing to-and-fro the various shops, no one harvesting crops, no children playing or animals scampering about. If not for several columns of smoke being whipped aloft from several cottages, Willenborg would have thought he was surveying a ghost town.
A sudden, sharp uneasiness crept over him, but he urged his steed forward through the gate. Without hesitation, his entourage followed. Their horses’ hooves thundered along the cobbled pathways to announce their arrival into the central courtyard. They were met with an almost eerie silence. The courtyard was deserted. Yet even worse was that the spacious, muddied courtyard was filled with broken furniture, fetid vegetation, animal manure, and stagnant water—combined to produce a ferocious stench.
Willenborg drew his steed to a halt and swung down from its saddle. His eyes gleamed harshly. A single muscle twitched in the ruggedness of his face as he battled the intensifying anger building within him. Neglect and despair were painfully evident at every turn. The fields looked sickly, and the crops appeared afflicted with various diseases. The cottages and pens of the farmers and shepherds looked ill-kept as if their owners no longer cared about them. The shops and stalls of the villages looked dilapidated and old. Everything seemed to be in shambles. If there wasn’t evidence that some of this damage happened recently, it would have been easy to believe that Rosymorn was abandoned for years.
“It appears the housecarls have been somewhat remiss in their duties,” Arron said cryptically. He dismounted and ordered the entourage to do the same.
Willenborg sensed the disappointment that no one would voice as he sliced a furious gaze toward the keep and whirled about toward the outer stairwell. He flung open the massive wooden doors and strode through the darkness into the great hall. Damp and smelling of must with stone floors covered in a mossy patina and rotted wood ceilings, creaky wooden doors with rusted iron fastenings, faded tapestries and floor coverings, and monochromatic discoloring from spiderwebs—it had none of the comforts the weary travelers would desire.
Willenborg listened to the gale winds howling woefully through the cracks in the thick stone walls. His expression now stoic. There was little doubt in his mind that the rest of Rosymorn would yield the same dilapidation. “Rosymorn,” he muttered, then a brief, humorless smile appeared on his face.
“Scribe,” Arron bellowed as he suddenly appeared in the great hall, “show yourself at once!” There was, of course, no response to his demand. “Where is that lazy mongrel?”
“Gone. If he ever existed,” replied Willenborg.
“Gone? But were you not told…”
“What I was told doesn’t matter,” Willenborg cut him off. His voice edged with a faint bitterness.
“It’s a mistake, surely!” Arron set to reassure him.
“Yes, my own.” Removing his fur-lined cloak, he tossed it impatiently to the floor. He lifted his arms and folded them across his chest. Glancing down, he caught a glimpse of the coat of arms displayed on the front of his crimson tunic—a golden hell sphere. His eyes darkened with memories he tried, yet failed, to forget. “More a fool am I to think my fate has changed.” He muttered to himself.
“The King is dead; there is no one you can appeal to.” Protested Arron, quickly closing the distance between them. “I cannot believe that he would have wanted our blood to freeze in such a place!”
“He would have us do his bidding,” Willenborg asserted calmly. “You forget, Arron, we were not sent here for our pleasure but to secure his. I was charged with holding Rosymorn, which is exactly what I plan to do.”
“But with the King dead, we can hasten back to our homes at first light before the court has even left.”
“We will not return home,” Willenborg said with an air of weary resignation. His gaze made a quick assessment of the great hall. “For better or worse,” he decreed somberly, “we are here to stay.”
Tempted to provide further argument, yet knowing full well that it would avail nothing, Arron acknowledged defeat. Dropping his hands to his side and temperament schooled to impassiveness, he asked, “What would you have us do?”
“Prepare for the approaching night. Set up the last of our provisions and gather whatever wood can be found. The men must have a hot meal. God knows that they’ll find little warmth within these walls.” Willenborg walked over to the fireplace, bracing a hand distractedly upon the ash-covered stones. “Tomorrow, we begin repairs.”
“Tomorrow,” Arron echoed. Giving a nod, he wheeled about and headed toward the doorway. He hadn’t yet stepped outside before Willenborg halted him.
“Arron!”
“Yes, My Lord?”
“Make it known that I will release anyone who wants to leave.” The words were spoken softly and leveled; the effort on which they were said was not lost on Arron. “None will accept the offer,” he replied. Suddenly, his mouth curved into an impulsive grin. “Like it or not, Willenborg, you will have sufficient company in your misery.” With that, Arron left the room. Willenborg stared for a while, then cursed himself for being the fool and headed off in his friend’s wake. All was quiet.
The storm, while mercifully brief, was so ferocious that it left a multitude of puddles glistening under the night sky. The wind was now nothing more than a whispery breeze that caressed the rolling hills and stirred the rain-soaked leaves.
Sitting alone in the fire-lit darkness of the master bedchamber at the very top of the keep, Willenborg cast a pensive glance downward. The squires and knights were temporarily quarantined in the great hall below. They slept on the cold stone floor; their blankets spread as close to the makeshift fire as safety would allow. Arron and five other aristocrats, who usually would have sought comfort in their private quarters, had also chosen to remain in the hall—it was by far the warmest and driest room in the castle. Outside on the battlements, four guards had been posted at each corner of the towers.
The new Lord of Rosymorn had lifted his hand to the thick, rough-hewn mantlepiece above the fireplace, and for him, the hours had crawled by with an agonizing unhaste. His eyes moved back toward the flames dancing on the other side of the hearth. The firelight played softly across his face, casting long shadows upon the walls. Behind him, a huge four-poster bed carved from oak offered a damp and musty respite from the day’s worries. Rain and wind found their way through holes in the walls and ceiling, wetting the mattress and the faded brocade curtains left undisturbed by the castle’s plunderers. The only furniture in the room was a small table beside the bed, a large yet empty wooded trunk, and an ancient chair that had already proven—yet only briefly—of supporting Willenborg’s large frame. He was too restless to sit.
Still, deep in thought, he turned and walked toward a high-arched window, noting that four of the nine lead panes of glass were missing. The night air blowing into the bedchamber was cold and scented with a putrid combination of smoke and the garbage in the courtyard below. Inhaling deeply nonetheless, he gripped the edge of the stone sill. His eyes fogged with sudden hardship, a hardship dulled by time but never quite forgotten. What a fool he had been.
I’m so in love with you. Her betrayal still haunted him; it still served to make his blood run hot. Damn that woman! Would he never be free from her?
He muttered another curse under his breath and flung a glowering glance at the retreating brilliance of the moons. The first soft, hesitant colors of the new day had already begun to set aglow in the sky. He left the window and returned to his troubled stance before the fireplace. He was tired. Dear God, he was tired. And he was in Emerald Grove. He exhaled a long, uneven sigh and closed his eyes momentarily. It was then, in a rare and unusual stillness of the dawn, that he could have sworn he heard the soft, passionate strains of a woman’s voice.
