The CastleThe Castle

Published on February 4, 2009 ⋅ 19min read

“I, Kymar Gelepir, swear to defend Tronfalle Castle with my life and devote my services as a soldier to you, my Lord.”

“You may rise...”

Kymar was old. It was as clear as a chill winter morning. And old people didn’t live long, especially cripples. He’d had enough of the taunting, the mocking. The cold indifference of able-bodied people who avoided him, as if his disabilities were contagious. They knew naught of what he had been through, nor did they care. Too much of his life had been spent begging for scraps and he had received more than his share of beatings in return.

He was sick of it all. It was time, he'd decided, to go back to the place he had avoided like the plague.

As the filthy old man with a crippled right leg and tousled black hair hobbled alone along the old Cliff Road, the first rays of light broke over the horizon, piercing the overcast sky. When Kymar’s weary eyes focused on the last stretch of the long road, finally resting on the derelict ruins of Tronfalle Castle in the distance, he couldn’t help but think back to the past...

Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning.

The sun spilled over the horizon as Kymar crested the hill, blinding him as he looked out over the Plains of Trebor. Magnificent shades of red and orange streaked the clouds, which drifted lazily above the grassy expanse before them. The plains were not, however, devoid of human activity.

Only the cries of his fellow soldiers saved young Kymar. Twisting in his saddle, the arrow narrowly missed his heart, instead slicing through a gap in his light armour under his left arm. A quick glance down revealed a shallow graze, nothing serious. Beneath him, his horse reared and let out a shrill whinny as two arrows thudded into its neck and one in its belly. Kymar braced himself as the horse gave way and crumpled to the ground.

Rolling to one side, he could already smell the strong stench of death in the air; feel the blood pounding in his veins as adrenaline took over. Kymar scanned the plains and found the Aushonian banner, fluttering in the breeze, amongst the massing army. He instantly knew what it meant.

A political assault turned military.

Ausho did not take humiliation from Eneri lightly. Rivalry between the provincial houses was strong and only the sheer might of the King’s Men kept the provinces in check. But here, on the edge of the kingdom, the Mahargon’s influence was not so strong. Again, those fat, pompous bastards who sit in the Cirekerfian Council had pushed it too far, and again the people of Eneri had to pay for the provocation of the Councilmen. If the Aushonians settled in for a full scale invasion then old feuds between the provinces would be rekindled, and with that hatred, civil war would break out before the King’s men could even unsheathe their swords.

Kymar pondered this in a little corner of his mind while the rest of him concentrated on the task at hand – evading the enemy. Behind him, to his left, stood a clump of bushes, dense enough to sufficiently cover his escape. He just had to make it there...

The ruins of Tronfalle loomed closer as the scathing sun reached its zenith. Heat rose from the ground, causing the image of the castle to waver and distort. White clouds in the shape of blossoming explosions hung weightlessly in the pale blue sky.

Kymar halted his march, taking a moment to rest his aching leg. Rivulets of sweat ran freely from his forehead, as he stared at the deserted stronghold. It was a work of wonder, he thought, while idly scratching his crippled thigh. Even after all the pounding the fortress had taken during the siege, it was still standing, all these years later. Albeit the walls barely reached half their original height in most places and, what Kymar could determine from this distance, hardly any of the woodwork remained. Nonetheless, it had retained its form quite well.

When he had recovered, Kymar proceeded toward the Outer Gate. He could feel his left foot grind the dirt under him, following the familiar tread that he had run so long ago...

He sprinted the last hundred yards to the Outer Gate, past a few shacks clustered about the side of the road. His energy levels dangerously low, and having run ten miles from the skirmish site, his sprint was only a slight increase in speed. Kymar had only just made it to the shelter of the bushes, before the first of the enemy had topped the rise. After that, it had been an easy task to avoid them. There had been plenty of cover for about two miles alongside the Cliff Road, before turning into open countryside, so using the evasive tactics taught in his training he had quickly outdistanced the trackers.

Kymar now ran with his eyes barely open, his vision a blur but just clear enough to see where he was going. He had lost count how many times he had nearly tripped over in his exhaustion.

Aushonians... invading...

The single thought was all that kept him ploughing on, pushing himself to the limit. Pain had long gone, and with its absence there was an even worse feeling. He felt drained. There was no better word for it. Just* drained*. As if everything had been sucked out of him.

Everything.

All pain, taste, smell and sound. All feeling. Everything had faded except that one line of thought. And that was what kept Kymar going. The ground beckoned to him, gravity insisted; yet he defied them both. It was as if the weight of the whole world was at his back, pressing him down. But from somewhere came resistance. Perhaps from the single thought that rang in the empty husk that was Kymar.

It was a futile attempt, for the forces at play made sure they won. Always. But it didn’t matter any more. Kymar was so close now.

Doubled over, his back no longer able to support him in the upright running position, his arms dangled loosely, bouncing off the hard-packed dirt road, as Kymar half shuffled, half scampered to the Outer Gate. Only twenty yards to go now.

Although shallow, the wound Kymar had acquired was now bleeding freely, staining his tunic a dark brown colour. Sweat mixed with blood, running down his left arm, dripping off his fingers onto the dry, dusty earth. Through sweat-laden eyelids, Kymar was dimly aware of two guards posted outside the gate turn to regard him as he came nearer. With every ounce of effort he could summon, Kymar drew a ragged breath and, in all urgency, managed to gasp, “Aushonians!”

Collapsing to the ground in exhaustion, it was in Kymar’s opinion an act of seemingly legendary proportions by itself, and for a fleeting moment the world spun, and his senses suddenly sharpened. Then all dissolved into blackness...

There it was, directly in front of him, the majestic Tronfalle Castle... or, at least, what was left of it. The Outer Wall had taken most of the beating in the siege, and where the walls had once stood close to five men high; they now were barely tall enough to support the arched gateway that led into the South Barbican.

Propped against the left wall, half of what used to be a gate lay against the stonework, the wood showing the obvious signs of rotting, with patches of moss and other plants sprouting from the dead wood. Next to the splintered gate a bit further in, rusty hinges hung loosely in the cracked stone surrounding them, and just beyond that there was a deep groove in the crumbling stonework. Kymar followed the groove upward to a battered and bent thick wooden grating, wedged in the masonry. The portcullis had been lowered down on one side and not on the other, resulting in one side becoming stuck in the brickwork. It was low enough to make Kymar, who was not particularly tall in his old age, have to stoop, but the angle was such that Kymar could walk through on the raised side without having to so much as slouch.

Inside the South Barbican the destruction continued. Rubble from the surrounding walls littered the ground, and from in between the rock, tufts of grass had grown wildly spread like a sea of green around continents of grey. Creepers snaked up and down the inner walls, worming into the cracks of the stone, wearing away at the old mortar carefully laid between the large blocks.

A second gateway waited through the Barbican, to its left a small wooden doorway had once stood defiantly amongst the solid brickwork. Unfortunately, the roof had caved in over the doorway, barring any passage except that of the smallest creature. The arch over the second gateway had also collapsed, large debris forming a sort of barricade to the inner parts of the castle. Yet Kymar negated this obstacle, with some difficulty due to the state of his right leg, but within the space of a few minutes he was gently lowering himself down off the blocks of stone. The ground beneath him was paved with cobblestones, and they were well worn down. Still, it made a change to the dirt road that had preceded it.

Turning left, Kymar saw that the doorway on this side of the wall had not collapsed; in fact, the wooden door was still on its hinges. He hobbled over to door, peered in and remembered...

A flutter of his eyelids and young Kymar awoke. His eyes overloaded his brain with over-exposed images; pupils shrank in aperture, sensitive to the bright light after the darkness of sleep. His mouth was dry, moisture not having touched his lips for who knows how long. His nose picked up a mixture of smells; watered-down wine, smoke, and the reek of body odour. He heard the noise of activity; the clatter of hooves upon cobblestone, the barking of dogs, the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. He recognised the castle’s usual cacophony of sounds.

Kymar took a hesitant swallow, his throat rubbed like sandpaper on his tongue, and as he inhaled his lungs protested at the sudden expansion. He flexed his fingers and swore he could feel them creaking. Slowly, Kymar became aware that he was sweating, and then noticed that the room was unusually hot. The sweat prickled his nerves, that, along with the rough blanket that was laid over his body. It was then that he realized he was lying in a bed and was completely naked bar the blanket.

Kymar’s brain was still trying to catch up with what was happening. His whole body tingled, except for one part on his upper left arm, which itched ferociously.

Hold on... I’m in a room.

Kymar turned his head to the left, an action that sent pain shooting down his body. He could see candles lit and placed on stands around his bed, a dozen to be precise, and just past the candles against the wall there was a small table, with two chairs. Atop the table a couple of mugs stood, a wine bottle next to them saying what they had contained. He turned his head to the right. There was not much at all on the other side of the small room, just another door with a rectangular sliding panel at neck height, and a desk with a bunch of paper stacked on top, held down by a bottle of ink.

Kymar rolled his head back round to the centre position and felt a sharp twinge in his neck. It was then that he started to ache.

The ache came on gradually, seeming to emanate from muscles all over his body. But now, he was really starting to ache. Kymar had never felt like this before; he had never had such a strong ache across his entire body. In some places, where it didn’t ache with so much intensity, it throbbed. Pulsing pain equalled the ache in both strength and extreme irritation. He was just about to scream in annoyance, when suddenly the door to his left opened.

A priest, in his regal robes, entered the room. A crop of brown hair surrounded the bald patch on his head. The priest’s face was in folds of wrinkles, showing his age. His hands were folded across his rather rounded belly and, when he saw Kymar awake, his brown eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“Ah, Kymar, we were wondering when you would wake,” the priest began, “For your interest, if you do not already know, I am called Tolile.”

Tolile waited patiently, while Kymar formed the words he wanted to say.

“Wh...where am I? How...how long have I been asleep?”

“You are in the Gatehouse at Tronfalle Castle and have been asleep for about three and a half days.”

Kymar winced as he shifted position, “I ache really badly.” Then he remembered the Plains, “What about the Aushonians?”

Tolile stepped forward, producing a small container from underneath his robes. As he spoke, he unscrewed the lid and dipped his fingers into it, “The herald is currently discussing the terms of fighting, but we should expect to be under attack by tomorrow.”

“The constable didn’t surrender to them?”

“No. Quite surprising really,” Kymar gasped as Tolile rubbed a paste onto his arm, muscle seared as if on fire, “Considering the force that the Aushonians have brought. Let’s just hope that Lord Oslin will arrive before any real damage is done.”

He didn’t sound very hopeful.

Tolile continued to rub the paste over Kymar and, to Kymar’s amazement, after about five minutes of seeming on fire, the feeling dissipated, taking the ache with it.

“There,” Tolile said, “You should be fine now. A good long rest was all you needed. You’ll feel a bit stiff to start off but otherwise all right.”

“What was that stuff?” asked Kymar, indicating the paste.

“Oh, just a mixture of crushed Cheubric bark, Peplorseed leaves and a number of other ingredients. It works though, doesn’t it? Well, I’m off to pray now. Pray for the lives of the men who will be fighting. Good day, Kymar.”

Tolile left the room and after a few moments thought, Kymar attempted to sit up.

Kymar turned from the Gatehouse doorway. He could almost feel the stiffness in his joints from all those years ago. Well, except in his right leg; he didn’t feel anything there anymore. Kymar stood in the middle of the cobbled road that lead up toward the Keep and sighed. So much waste, and what was it all for? Nothing.

The stables to his left bore no roof, and remained as an empty shell of fragmented stone and mortar. Overgrown with weeds, wild grass and flowers, it would have made a pretty sight at sunrise or sunset, but now, at midday, it looked a mess. Further on from the stables was the kitchen, which had obviously caught fire judging by the smoke stained walls and charred remnants of wooden support beams which had buckled in the flames. From the entrance of the kitchen a covered walkway led across to the right and connected to the Great Hall. Kymar could almost see the servants carrying across platters of food to the Lord and his guests in the Hall; could almost smell the sweet aromas of food; could almost hear the musicians playing their instruments; and could feel the pangs of hunger that accompanied those imaginations.

He had not eaten something decent for so long.

In front of the Great Hall was an adjoining building that had served as the storage rooms, servant’s quarters and smithy. The upstairs level was dedicated to the servants and below had contained the storage rooms and blacksmith. The smithy had not a scrap of metal left; all of it had been taken by pilgrims. The only sign that it ever was a smithy was a large furnace in one corner, blackened with soot. All tools had been taken leaving the walls bear stone.

Kymar walked further on came to a flight of stairs, smooth from the years of weathering. The stairs led up to the wall.

The wall...

Kymar had walked around a bit and stretched his stiff limbs, before once again returning to the Gatehouse and the comfort of the bed. He’d slept the night and awoken feeling rejuvenated. None of his muscles ached, the paste Tolile had used really worked. After nearly four days of rest, Kymar felt energised and ready to attend back to his duties. He was surprised at how quickly he recovered.

The herald had returned, the requests met and now the Aushonians prepared for their assault. They were assembling their belfry towers and mangonels, constructing battering rams and forming the infantry ranks. Kymar had received his own kit, the usual sword, chain mail vest, shield and helm. He was now experimentally swinging his sword, practicing his forms and moves. The weight of the armour felt heavy at first, but then he grew used to it again. When his muscles in his arms started to protest at the exercise, he stopped, deciding to save himself for later.

Then the order came to man your posts. Kymar had been selected to fend off the Aushonian siege ladders and belfry towers, whichever came first, so he climbed the stairs to the wall next to the smithy. From the top of the wall, Kymar could see right over the countryside, the land blanketed with Aushonian soldiers running around like ants gathering food. He fingered the hilt of the sword sheathed at his hip; within hours no doubt he would be killing those ants.

A Captain along the wall was shouting orders, the soldiers by him scrambling to obey. With a rough shove, the Captain sent Kymar to a position further along the battlements. Standing near the edge, so people could pass, he looked down through a chute in the machicolations, the ground far below. Next to each chute there was a pile of rocks, which were to be dropped down when the enemy reached the walls.

Crossbowmen came along the wall, one stopping at each crenel and resting their crossbow on the gap in the stone. Then a team of young boys, laden down with supplies began to hand out extra bolts to the bowmen and long poles with crescent-shaped iron prongs on one end. These were for pushing back the siege ladders.

The young boy smiled as he handed the pole to Kymar.

“You might need this,” he said, grinning.

“And you could do with one of these,” replied Kymar, patting his sword.

The young boy moved on. Time passed, the sun travelling its continuous journey across the sky. Then the Aushonians advanced.

They approached warily, shields raised, and seemed to crawl along at a snail’s pace. Engineers unloaded the parts of the heavy mangonels off a horse-drawn cart just within range. Men pushed a shielded battering ram, fire-proof hides stretched across its wooden frame, surrounded by enemy archers, who fired off arrows while on the move. Squads of soldiers sprinted forward carrying siege ladders to prop against the walls. Unshielded, these soldiers were instant targets for the Eneri Crossbowmen lining the walls. Only their speed saved them.

The air was filled with the twangs of crossbows, the roar of several thousand feet thundering on the ground, and most importantly, the cries of death. Bolts found their targets as the Aushonians charged forwards, men falling to the ground, torsos studded with the deadly projectiles. Some Aushonian squads made it to the wall, pushing their ladder against the fortress and frantically climbing. Screams of terror reached Kymar’s ears as a ladder nearby was pushed back, he saw men desperately clinging on as they fell towards the earth’s embrace. In the distance, Aushonian engineers were hurrying to assemble the destructive mangonels.

Kymar handed a bolt to the man next to him who quickly slotted it into his crossbow and cranked it up. The chink of metal on stone diverted Kymar’s attention and he turned to find a siege ladder in front of him. He grabbed the pole, placed the forked part on the top rung and pushed. The ladder slid slightly, before metal claws fastened to the top of the ladder dug into the stone and wedged it there.

Kymar pushed again but to no avail and, before he could give it another go, the first Aushonian appeared over the edge of the wall.

The soldier went flying with a bolt stuck deep in his neck, letting out a gurgling cry.

“Push it, man!” The bowman next to Kymar shouted, while hastily loading another bolt.

Kymar pushed again, as hard as he could and when the ladder didn’t budge, abandoned his efforts, deciding to draw his sword instead. The crossbow twanged again and the second Aushonian took a bolt in the chest.

“I’m out of bolts!” said the bowman, he too unsheathing his sword.

A third soldier came over the wall, brandishing a sword. Kymar stepped forward and swung, the soldier blocked and returned with a diagonal counter-slash. Bringing his sword up, Kymar met the blade before it could decapitate him, slid his sword round the Aushonian’s blade and thrust it into the gap between the soldier’s helm and padded tunic. The Aushonian crumpled with a strangled cry, blood gushing from the neck wound.

While his fellow soldier had taken on the next soldier to climb the ladder, Kymar hacked at wooden ladder where the metal claw was attached. After a couple of unsuccessful swings, he finally severed the connection and the ladder wobbled precariously as men clambered up it. A face appeared between the battlements at the top of the ladder and Kymar jabbed the point of his sword into the man’s eye puncturing through into his brain. The man disappeared off the ladder.

The bowman, having disposed of his foe and seen what Kymar had done, chopped the other metal claw off the ladder and together, he and Kymar pushed the wooden ladder back.

Panting, Kymar stood and regained his breath. Out over the field he could see the belfry towers slowly moving forward, packed with Aushonians. To his left, the battering ram was assaulting the Outer Gate, and Eneri soldiers hurried to pour burning pitch out over the Aushonians. Kymar was sickened as the stench of burning flesh reached his nose.

“INCOMING!”

Kymar did not know who screamed the warning, but he barely had enough time to look up and see the massive boulder hurtling towards him before it struck the wall with a thunderous crash. The wall exploded inwards where the boulder struck, rock flew in all directions, stone hailed down upon the ground, and clouds of thick, heavy dust filled the air. Kymar was tossed from the ramparts like a rag doll, catapulting through the air to hit the hard ground with a thud. Bone snapped in his arm, Kymar wasn’t sure which one; stones pummelled his body, as they rained down from above, and a large, jagged rock landed next to him with a dull thump.

Disorientated by the speed at which things had happened, it took a moment to realise that the rock hadn’t just landed next to him. His right leg was literally squashed under the impact of the rock; blood was starting to seep from the top of his right thigh, where the edge of the rock was. Kymar’s left fore-arm was at right angles, white bone protruding out from the break and something sharp was digging into his back, uncomfortably so.

Kymar absorbed all this information in a moment of shock, as if detached from his body and all feeling, before his system rebooted and was suddenly aware of his injuries as a reality.

The sudden onrush of pain made him faint, consciousness lost...

There, right there. That was the stone that had crippled him. The stain of blood was still smeared across the underside, and it was lying next to a slight depression in the ground, where he had lain. Those five seconds had changed his life forever. Such a short time but such a massive impact. He was lucky to have survived, a foot further more and he would have died. Or was he lucky?

Was he lucky to have survived an event that left him crippled for life, turned him into a beggar, an object of mockery and something for drunks to beat up? Would he have been better to have died right there? Quickly, and in the disorientated state that he was, painless?

Would anyone have missed him?

Would anyone have cared?

No.

He should have died there, in that depression, blissfully detached and unaware, but instead he was made to suffer. To live his last days a starving man, living off scraps even the dogs deemed unhealthy to eat. Why hadn’t death claimed him? He was old, far older than most people. Why was he still living? There had to be some purpose. He knew what it was like to live in poverty; he was even lower in the social status than peasants. Yet he still existed in the world.

Turning, Kymar placed his hands upon the remaining crumbling battlements and looked out across the fields. At first, there was just the grass blowing in the wind, but then appeared something else. Something different. Kymar thought he was imagining things. It wasn’t possible. Out in the fields, the ghosts of the Aushonian army had materialised, and were advancing on the castle. The mangonels were being carted into position; a silvery battering ram was trundling towards the gate. Ghostly figures of men ran with siege ladders towards the wall.

Kymar panicked. What was happening?

He looked down and gasped. An ethereal sword was sheathed at his waist, and he wore a chain mail vest, translucent in the sunlight. He reached for the hilt of the sword and found it was solid in his grip. As he drew the blade, he noticed movement around him. Looking up, Kymar saw that thousands of ghosts stood along the wall, facing the oncoming enemy. They held a variation of different swords and waited silently.

A ladder clattered against the battlements.

The man to Kymar’s left spoke, a mixture of whispers in varying voices cascading together to form the words, “Let us die together.”

With that, the first ghostly Aushonian clambered over the wall and attacked Kymar. A flurry of blows and he was on his back foot, desperately trying to counter the ghosts’ ferocious strikes. Kymar managed to direct the slash to his right side and into the stone, dipping the point of his sword under the Aushonians and cutting up into the groin. But instead of crumpling to the ground as any normal opponent would, the Aushonian pulled his sword back and seized Kymar’s moment of vulnerability to plunge the ghostly blade into his chest.

Cold, ethereal steel pierced Kymar’s heart.

From its perch on the roof of the Great Hall, a single crow watched as a lonely old, crippled man clutched his chest and collapsed on the battered wall, before swooping down to investigate its new found meal.