EPTThe Fog
Part III
Co-written by Martin August (marttorn) and Alex Dellinger (Archas)
Before Restauld could begin his pursuit of the Banker Lord, a task of a different sort would require his attention. He slowly approached the warship that had ferried the trio of Lords to Knyfe Island, taking great case to mask his presence from any hostile eyes. Fortunately, the thickening fog served to conceal his form from sentries aboard the ship. Presently, Restauld managed to locate the bindings that prevented the craft from drifting away from the pier. Having avoided detection thus far, and having never been one to waste an open opportunity, the aging swordsman unsheathed his broadsword and hacked the rope in two. The flurries of snow were now accompanied by an increasingly fierce wind that carried the vessel out to sea. Whatever the fates of Restauld and his three lordly guests might be, he had ensured that none could escape it now.
Now the hunt began.
Restauld's eyes would be of little worth in the fog, so he prayed his ears did not betray him as he began the search for Stafford. While Lord Hugh was no real threat in a battle, the same could not be said for either William or Eustace. Though he could handle a longsword or axe delivered from the front, the possibility remained that either of the two remaining Lords possessed a dagger or knife; a blade of any length will kill a foe from behind, and even an experienced arms-man such as Restauld had no mind to have his throat slit from the rear... or from any direction at all. The broadsword rested upon his shoulder as he jogged along the coast, slowing periodically to listen closely for any sign of a foe (for now Restauld considered each of the Lords to be an adversary). A thought stopped him, however, and he paused to consider its implications.
Just beyond the cottage was a sizable forest, with only a few ancient paths carved through it. The chances were high that both of the unaccounted-for Lords were within its confines, as the forest dominated the majority of the island's landmass. Stafford had most likely entered the grove in search of his comrades; if the Banker Lord had managed to locate either Grant or Mortimer, he might think to bring them to the dock, unaware of the fact that their warship had deserted them. Such an event would force a chance meeting if Restauld were to venture through the wood.
His path confirmed, Restauld left the shoreline toward the forest. There was little wildlife to be wary of within the depths of the woodlands, so Restauld had only human opponents to face. The multiple paths throughout the grove would complicate matters somewhat; Restauld judged that the Lord of Finnstead would take one path, while the Traitor Lord might take another. But where does Stafford go from here? There was nothing to do but continue the search, he decided, and the swordsman resumed his chase.
Though the fog was rapidly thickening to the point where visibility was limited to a stone's throw in front of him, Restauld managed to locate the edge of the Knyfe woods within good time. Being the "Tenant" of Knyfe did hold the perk of possessing intimate knowledge of the surrounding geography, a formidable advantage for any hunter. The three Lords he followed held no such knowledge, which would work against them in the long run.
Restauld stalked through the forest, trusting his ears more than his eyes to pinpoint his targets. If Stafford had not discovered his allies yet, there ought be no reason for the remaining two Lords to disguise their presence, but Restauld could not presume that such a luxury was worth the risk, and so he tread lightly. William was perhaps the more difficult of the two to detect; Mortimer's cunning belied his youth, and would appreciate the value of subtlety in a situation such as this. On the other hand, Eustace was an old, fat and indiscreet man, and would perhaps be more inclined to expose himself via heavy footfalls or crunching pine needles. If given the choice, however, Restauld preferred to locate Mortimer; facing The Lord of Lions in combat first might leave the Tenant in bad shape when the time came to duel the Young Lord. Of course, the hunter could not be choosy, and should an opportunity arise to —
"You damnable fool!"
Without thinking, Restauld dove to the side. That gymnastic act had saved his life, as was evidenced by the monolithic claymore buried in the soil where he had stood only a moment before.
Righting himself quickly, Restauld turned to face the owner of both the greatsword and the gruff, seething voice that had precluded its use. Before him stood none other than Eustace Grant, the Lord of Lions. How in the name of the Six Hells did he manage to catch me unawares? But there was no time for pondering the uncharacteristic subtlety of his new opponent. Restauld lifted the old bastard sword off his shoulder and let the edge fall to the detritus-covered forest floor with a dull thud.
"You’d do well to surrender before I gut you like the pig you are, Traitor Lord," Restauld intoned, masking his inner doubts with an aura of confidence. Eustace replied in turn with a deafening war cry, and charged forward with his claymore in an attempt to skewer the slighter of the two combatants. Restauld deftly parried, clenching his jaw, but as soon as he’d dealt with one blow, the next one came, and the parry was narrower this time. Restauld bellowed his own battle cry and put all his strength into a sweep aimed for the fat man's neck, but Lord Grant halted the broadsword's advance half a second before the blade would have decapitated him. Eustace was far more agile than Restauld had given him credit for, but there was no time to ponder his adversary's hidden athleticism.
Eustace stepped back a few paces, and took to strafing in and out of Restauld’s reach, abusing the greater range his claymore provided to poke and prod for an opening to strike. The damned cur has far too much energy for his years! He gritted his teeth and danced as well he could, avoiding the flurry of stabs and ripostes from the Lord of Lions. Though both combatants were seasoned warriors and stalwart constitutions, the biting cold and the exertions of combat were taking their toll, and Grant's onslaught of blows let up for a moment. Restauld prepared his blade for yet another parry and backed off slightly, quietly thankful for the reprieve, however brief.
"It's not too late, Eustace. Sheath your blade, and I may yet be merciful to you." While Restauld had no qualms about slaying the lumbering Lord, the battle was taking a greater toll on his stamina than he would have preferred, and every second mired in combat was another second for Stafford to muster reinforcements. Grant replied with naught but a cold glare… but then the old blademaster suddenly sprinted toward Restauld with a mighty roar of defiance, claymore raised in an attempt to cleave the Tenant of Knyfe in two. Such a destructive blow would not be halted by a mere bastard sword, and both of them knew it.
As Eustace closed in, Restauld gambled on his survival and lunged toward the Traitor Lord. Caught off-guard by the unexpected motion, Eustace faltered for an instant, giving Restauld the opening to pummel him with a full-speed shoulder ram. Not even a man as stout and hardy as the Lord of Lions could shrug off that sort of impact, and so the momentum of the attack sent the Lord stumbling backward onto his rear, gasping for breath. Before he could return with a blow of his own, Restauld was upon him, and finished him off with a decisive strike that parted his head from his neck.
The head went flying, and landed two meters away from the rest of his body.
The chainmail Restauuld wore felt ten times heavier than it had before the battle, and it was all he could do not to collapse under the duress his body had taken from the battle. Only one of his three foes had been eliminated, and resting now would only buy his foes more time to prepare. But where could Stafford and Mortimer have fled to? With the galleon they'd arrived from having drifted out to sea, and a crippling lack of knowledge of the island's terrain, there was no clear direction in which Restauld might resume his pursuit. The forest was fairly expansive, and with the fog and snow obscuring his vision so, he could hardly formulate a path of –
The rookery!
I’m a bloody fool! How could I forget about the damned rookery?! The rookery was as obvious a target for Lord Stafford and Mortimer to reach as a bulls-eye for an archer. The carrier pigeons there were the only resource on Knyfe to send correspondence of any sort, and the two Lords would surely be there, requesting reinforcements.
Emerging from the grove, Restauld found the rookery nestled by the shore, a mere fifty or so meters from where he had entered the woods. The structure was a queer sort of building, nothing more than a large metal cage shaped as a house, with four shelves for nests and birds inside. The fog was as constricting as ever, but a faint glimpse of something caught his eye: a tall, human form pacing within the shack. So, my prediction wasn't unfounded. Stafford is surely mustering reinforcements. He was almost by the doorway of the rookery, concealed by the haze, when a sharp blow to his spine took his breath away. He toppled, but kept from falling to the floor entirely by using the front wall of the big metal cage for support. A young voice, mad with excitement and power, bellowed behind him:
"I AM THE REAVER OF THE NORTH!"
William’s eyes were wide, and his whole body was shaking with an unnatural frenzy. Restauld spun, still reeling from the impact, to find him wielding a stone war-hammer, the signature weapon of House Mortimer.
"I hear your father was a great man, William. I’m assuming you’re what’s left? Truly unfortunately, eh?" Restauld spat at the young Lord’s feet, and rolled to the side just before the hammer came down for another powerful, yet clumsy, strike. Restauld began to rise, but the chainmail he wore had not absorbed the hammer-blow very well, and only with difficulty did the swordsman return to his feet. Almost immediately, another swing of the mallet came his way. Restauld managed to bring his blade up in time to deflect the weapon, but the trauma from Mortimer's initial strike had done its job; it was proving more and more difficult to parry the frenzied attacks from the Lord of Finnstead. Out of the corner of his eye, Restauld could barely make out a pigeon being released out of the cage toward the open ocean, with a note tied to its leg. Stafford had succeeded in his goal, and now Restauld would have to endure the consequences of his own failure.
The sheer effort of blocking a weapon as dense and heavy as a war-hammer was going to exhaust Restauld before he could resume the offensive. So, instead of parrying the next attack coming his way, Restauld sidestepped the hammer and slashed the Lord of Finnstead's sword arm. A cry of rage and frustration escaped the Young Lord, and he gripped the mallet with his left hand now. Perhaps Mortimer had summoned a bestial strength of sorts, or perhaps he was ambidextrous, but the retaliatory strike from the Lord of Finnstead proved to be more than Restauld's bastard sword could endure. The blade flew out of Restauld's grip, weakened from exhaustion and injury, and embedded itself into the wall of the wooden shack. Stafford was watching the duel from the doorway of the structure, and a sadistic grin was upon his lips.
Madness overtook Restauld.
A deep fury, as potent as any he had ever experienced, broke free. Restauld roared with such ferocity that William faltered in his approach, and even the Banker Lord's expression shifted to one of confusion and surprise rather than contempt. Such a reprieve would not last long, so Restauld took the initiative. The war-hammer was coming down for yet another blow, but he lifted his hands up and slammed his palm right into the head of the mallet, taking the full impact. He could feel every bone in his hand breaking separately, and the pain would have been more than he could bear, but the fury and rage within him kept him steady. With all the force he could muster, Restauld forced the hammer aside and leapt for William's throat. The young Lord of Finnstead coughed and squirmed in a futile effort to escape the Tenant's clutches, and with some struggle Restauld relinquished Mortimer's war-hammer, releasing the grip he’d had on his neck. As if an occult hand was guiding Restauld's body against his will, his arm wound itself back and slammed the truncheon into William’s stomach. The young Lord instantly retched and released a vile mélange of blood and vomit onto the ground. Yet the fury was not sated. Restauld grabbed his foe by the throat and dragged him to the spot where his bastard sword remained wedged into the rookery walls. He threw Mortimer to the ground, and pinned the fool down with his boot.
"M-MERCY! PLEASE!"
Restauld retrieved his blade from the wall, and shoved the tip of his blade into William Mortimer’s throat. A fountain of blood and bile erupted from the wound, and Mortimer's struggle to free himself slowed… stopped. The life receded from his dull, grey eyes and his head fell to the side.
There was yet one more chore to carry out.
Restauld turned from the gruesome sight before him and strode directly to the rookery entryway, where Stafford still stood, terrified. In his frenzy, Restauld had nearly forgotten about the hammer's blow to his spine, but the adrenaline within him had dissipated, and the pain surged stronger than before. He threatened to topple from the agony as he approached the Lord of Bayeux, who was paralyzed in fear. Restauld leaned one hand against the mail armor that covered his back and grunted in pain.
Presently, the swordsman of Knyfe towered over the Banker Lord. He spoke, but his weakened body made little more than a whisper.
"I promised myself I’d have your heart. I am here to claim what is mine."
There was no reply, merely a pathetic whimper as Restauld stared him deep in the eye. Without blinking, Restauld raised his blade and thrust it into the old man. Hugh’s expression contorted in agony as the bastard sword buried itself deeper and deeper into his gut. Finally, the blade reached the heart. The Lord of Lies spasmed once, then fell silent.
Restauld tossed the corpse unceremoniously to the floor of the shack.
The pigeons were terribly frightened from the melee, but he snatched one by its tail feathers before it could flee and returned it to its cage. There was parchment and quill already on the table, courtesy of the deceased Lord of Bayeux. Restauld was lucky to have a father who could read and write, and had passed those skills on to his son. On a small, torn piece of parchment Restauld wrote:
"By right of conquest, I proclaim myself King of Knyfe."
He sent it off with the reluctant pigeon, before turning to return to the docks. A warship was approaching. Stafford's reinforcements had evidently been close by.
He stood by the dock, bastard sword cleaned and re-sharpened, watching the large ship settle in at the pier. A boy of ten or eleven, dressed as a foot-soldier, hopped off the boat to moor the vessel at the dock. Only after he had finished tying the ropes did he notice the bloody and battered swordsman only ten meters from him, and he froze in fear and shock. Five more foot-soldiers, each as diminutive as the first, leapt from the ship onto the dock, and from them the first little boy found courage. The six children (for they could not be called soldiers) drew their blades almost in unison, but their trembling forms betrayed their fear.
It was Restauld now who was left in disbelief.
There must be more of them. These cowardly children cannot be the extent of Stafford's forces! This is some wretched jape, I’m sure of it!
Restauld sprang forward and easily dispatched each of the lads, severing their sword arms from their bodies. The poor wretches squirmed upon the pier, but Restauld paid them no mind. He issued a challenge:
"If there is a man on this ship who is not a craven boy, let him come out and see if he will suffer the same fate as these fools!"
Then he saw the crossbowman lying on the deck. He stood in complete, stunned silence for what seemed an eternity, and then felt the sharp point pierce the chainmail he was wearing. He saw nothing of the bolt; it came only as a brief whistle in the air, leaving a spurt of blood from his stomach.
"HAVE AT IT THEN!" Restauld shook from pain, from cold, and from rage. He dashed toward the crossbowman, inviting him to open fire once more.
There was more than one archer.
Five arrows flashed through the air, and before Restauld could hope to dodge them, they buried themselves deeply into his torso. He grunted, and his knees nearly buckled, but he remained standing.
"Filthy little cu-"
Before he could finish spitting out the epithet, another quarrel struck him between the eyes. Oddly, the blow brought no pain with it; rather, a queer sort of warmth emerged instead. Restauld's world was fading, slowing down. He was only vaguely aware of the crimson stream pouring from his mouth, and was no longer capable of sensing that the torrent had quickened its pace as another bolt pierced his neck.
The aging swordsman finally collapsed onto the dock in a mess of blood and steel, and he knew no more.
The fog was all but gone.
great read, really enjoyed it kekeke!
