The Lion's Crown (The Emberlyn Chronicles Book 1), page 7
“We saw it fly across the ceiling,” said Sir Stephen.
William tapped the open page. “They seem to fly, this says, but they must travel along something solid. Although neither up nor down mean anything to them, they must move along some surface, even if that be the surface of still water. If that’s true….” He smiled. “It can be trapped! Quickly, grab as much peat as you can!”
Holding his torch in one hand, he scooped three peat logs up in his other arm. He unlatched the door with his elbow and went out. “We will build a wall of fire,” he said as the others followed him. “There’s enough peat inside to completely encircle the tower.” He turned to Alfred. “Rouse some of the villagers. We will need help if we are to do this quickly. We’ll build the ring of peat then make sure the wraith is still in the tower before we light it. And see if you can find some oil and kindling so it will catch quickly.”
As Sir Alfred went off to gather help, the others set to work building the ring of peat. Each time he went back out, William cast his eyes up at the large open windows of the upper story. Within half an hour, a dozen men were helping them, and the ring was completed ten minutes after that. Various types of oil and grease were collected from the villagers and poured across the peat.
William spread the men out along the barrier and made sure there were enough torches to provide coverage. “Is it still in there?” Harold asked, coming up beside him.
William looked over at his comrade. His color had returned, though he still looked exhausted. “I believe so. The moment I see something move, I’ll give the order to ignite the peat.”
As he spoke, Harold let out a sharp breath. William followed his gaze. A dark shape had emerged from one of the windows and was gliding down the wall.
“Now!” William yelled. “Set the fires!”
The torches were lowered against the ring of peat, and flames rose up and spread along it. On the side facing the bog, William didn’t see any flames and ran around with his own torch, Harold following at his heels. “It won’t light,” Sir Alfred said as he and two of the villagers held their torches to the peat. “Not enough oil on this bit.”
William and Harold set their own torches against the peat. It smoked, and the edges began to glow, but the logs refused to light quickly enough; they hadn’t used enough kindling either. He looked toward the Fenhold and saw the wraith speeding around the outside of the tower. It seemed to be panicking. As it rounded toward him once again, it dove down and rushed along the ground directly at him.
William lifted his torch and thrust it outward, and the wraith veered off to the left, gliding along the inside of the fire wall. Shouts rose up along the line, and almost before he had a chance to turn, it was coming back around on the right.
It rushed over the unlit peat and past William, grazing his left arm, and an agonizing chill ran through his body. He fell, dropping the torch, but managed to turn in the direction of the wraith. It was speeding toward the bog. It rose up over the berm and disappeared from sight.
Harold helped him up, frowning. “The pain will diminish in a moment,” he said.
William grimaced and picked up his torch. “At least now we know it’s no longer in the tower.” He looked up at the Fenhold then toward the full moon. “I want two men on the upper story—one of us and a villager. From there we can see over the berm and look for the return of the wraith.”
“I will stand first watch,” said Sir Stephen, approaching them.
William looked at the stars. It was not yet midnight; they could still get a decent amount of sleep. “Very well. Find four vigilant-looking men from the village and press them into service for the night. One will help keep watch in the tower while the others keep this fire burning. Be sure they know they’ll be handsomely paid. Wake me for the second watch. Sir Alfred will stand for the third, and Sir Harold will have the final watch. He should have the longest stretch of uninterrupted sleep after his experience with the wraith.”
“You were also touched by the wraith,” Stephen said.
“Yes, but it only grazed me. I’ll be well enough.”
He was about to jump over the peat wall to return to the tower when Edgar Marsh, the alderman, came up beside him. “It’s the Blackmoor boy, you know,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“He brought that creature to the village. About a week ago he disappeared into the Bleaklands. People are saying he got all the way to the Hobswood before his sister found him. The wraith… it’ll be drawn to him now. It’s a mistake to take him with you.”
William frowned. Apparently word had gotten out that Owen Blackmoor was going with them into the Hobswood. “I thank you for your concern,” he said, “but I must abide by my king’s command.”
He left the old man standing on the other side of the fire and went into the tower. Neither Penelope Blackmoor nor George Ashberry had mentioned this to him. If the wraith was attracted to Owen Blackmoor, there could be problems. They would be marching directly into its home come morning. If they’d been able to trap it in the tower for the night, they might have had a chance to escape it, but now….
He shook off his doubts. Owen Blackmoor was going with them regardless. They would be facing an untold number of dangers in the Hobswood. At least the wraith was one enemy they knew how to defend themselves against.
Sir Stephen came in with a group of villagers. Three of them gathered up armfuls of peat and went back out while the other followed Sir Stephen up the steps.
There were lanterns in the supplies the king had prepared for them. After finding one, he lit the candle inside it and set it down next to his bedroll. He knew it would be some time before he could sleep; the chill from the wraith’s touch was still in his bones, and even though his body felt drained of energy, his mind was racing. He picked up the small book about the Hobswood and tilted it toward the lantern. He wished now that he’d read it more closely during their journey along the Peat Road. It was true that the stories were folk tales and superstitions, but there was some truth in them; the wraith had behaved as the tales in the book had said it would. Whatever else he could learn from them could save their lives.
He turned back to the section that contained stories about wraiths. Now that he knew such things were real, it would be wise to study those stories first. In the morning, as they made their way into the Hobswood, he would ask Penelope Blackmoor and George Ashberry about the stories from their village. The smallest detail might be of value, and if they knew something that hadn’t been recorded in his book, he wanted to hear about it.
He had read through the sections on wraiths, hobs and demons before his eyes began to feel heavy. He flipped through the book one last time before setting it down. There were stories about more than a dozen fantastical creatures: vampires, werewolves, unicorns, trolls, dragons… could all of them be real, or could a handful of real creature have spawned stories about several that didn’t exist? These tales were as old as the Kingdom of Emberlyn—older. Who could say how they had changed from generation to generation?
William blew out the candle in his lantern and closed his eyes. His mind conjured up images of the creatures he’d been reading about. Even though the stories varied in their descriptions—sometimes contradicting one another altogether—there was enough there for him to be able to visualize them. And as his thoughts ran through a menagerie of the bizarre, he was comforted by one fact: there were stories about good creatures in the Hobswood as well. Even the hobs, mischievous though they were, could be helpful at times. If the stories were to be believed, not everything in the wood would be trying to kill them. Not everything… but as the numbness in his arm began to finally fade, he decided there was less comfort in that than he’d hoped. Wraiths were nowhere near the most dangerous thing he’d read about. There could be demons; there could be dragons. And he knew it would take more than a wall of fire to keep him and his comrades safe.
Chapter Ten
The Black Trees
Their small hut didn’t look any different. The things Penny had packed for her and Owen amounted to little more than clothing, combs, soap and washing cloths, blankets and pillows, two bowls, eating utensils, a few candle stubs, a rusty old lantern and food. All of it easily fit in their two satchels.
She wondered if that was really all there was to her life. The hut itself held memories but there was nothing tangible to tie it to those memories. It looked like all the others in the village. Without their few personal items, the house had no meaning. As she sat on her bare mattress, she held her little book of legends in her hands. It was, she realized, the one thing she could not replace. She could leave it here, in the care of a friend, but what if she never returned? It would be safer in the village, but what value did it have if she couldn’t look at it herself?
She flipped through the worn pages for a moment, lingering on a few of her favorite images and trying, in vain, to decipher the text accompanying each. She knew the shapes of many of the letters but had no idea how to form them into words.
At last, she tucked the book into her satchel, closed and latched the shutters on the single window and stepped outside. As she shut the door behind her, she let her hand rest on the latch for a moment. It wasn’t quite true there was nothing left from her parents. She remembered her father attaching that latch when she was a girl. Looking up, she saw the nail her mother had pounded into the door to hold wreaths of fresh flowers in the spring. Penny hadn’t carried on the tradition; now she regretted that more than seemed reasonable. Thinking about it now, there were a dozen small things about the house that were linked to specific memories of her parents. She tried to make an inventory of them in her mind so she wouldn’t forget.
Fighting back the tears, she turned to see George and Owen approaching. She’d asked George to watch after Owen while she packed; George had been ready before dawn, and the packing had gone much more quickly without Owen around to get into things.
The two men reached her, and George smiled. “Ready to go?”
Penny glanced at the door latch and the nail one last time. “No. But we must.”
George sighed. “Yes, we must.”
She handed Owen his satchel and took his hand. As they neared the Fenhold, they saw that Sir William and his men were ready to leave. The commotion during the night had woken her, and afterward George had told her all about it, as he’d been one of the men who’d helped build the peat ring. The knights looked exhausted.
“Right,” said Sir William as they formed a circle next to the tower. “We should get acquainted.” He introduced the other knights. When it was done, he tapped the ground with his walking stick, looking uncertain. “I suppose we can travel across the bog together, but once we reach the woods, only Owen can enter with us. George, you and Penny will follow behind.”
“Is such strict adherence really necessary?” George asked. “No one will ever know.”
William turned and looked out toward the bog. “Until last night, I had happily dismissed the king’s astrologer as a charlatan. But now, after encountering that wraith, I do not know what might be true or untrue. I therefore choose not to take the risk.”
He turned and started toward the bog. His three knights stepped in line behind him, and Penny let Owen follow them before taking up the rear with George by her side. They passed the trenches where she had been digging peat the day Owen had disappeared. She supposed someone would make use of the peat she’d left drying beside her hut. And the vegetables growing in her garden. How long would it be, she wondered, before someone salvaged the latch and the nail in the door and anything else that might be of value?
She fought the urge to look back at their hut as they climbed up the side of the berm. Sir William stopped at the top, scanning the expanse of the bog. It was a clear day, and the sky was dappled with fluffy white clouds, but the bog looked as dark and gloomy as ever.
“It’s no wonder they call this the Bleaklands,” Sir Stephen said, wiping his nose with a scarlet silk handkerchief.
“George, Penelope,” William called.
They went up next to him.
“Is nothing known of the interior? Nothing at all? The best place to enter, for instance?”
“No, nothing,” George said.
“Penelope—”
“I prefer Penny, Sir William.”
“My apologies. Penny, your alderman told me that Owen went into the bog not too long ago. Did he reach the trees?”
“He did.”
“Can you tell me where?”
“I can’t say for certain. The horizon comes and goes once you’re in the bog. It’s easy to lose your way.”
Sir William frowned. “I suppose we should just march straight toward the trees, then?”
“If I may, sir?” said George. “We’ll find ourselves neck-deep in mud if we do that. It’s best to change course as we go to keep to the drier patches. The ground is usually firmer where the moss and grasses are growing.”
William nodded. “There seems to be very little of greenery, though. There must have been more in the past to lay down so much rich peat.”
George pointed. “Just there is a dry-looking rise. I recommend we begin there.”
William continued down the berm, heading toward the area George had indicated. They made their way slowly through the bog for half an hour before running into trouble. As Sir William stepped off a moss-covered mound into what looked like a patch of mud, his leg sank up to the thigh. Water rushed up from the mud as his leg went in. After pulling him out, the others probed the ground with their walking sticks. Everywhere they put their sticks into the ground, the result was the same. Deep, loose and watery mud seemed to stretch all around them. Sir William turned to go back the way they had come, but the dry ground had inexplicably vanished.
“This is but a taste of what lies within the Hobswood,” George said quietly. “This land is accursed, and the farther we go, the more accursed it will become. I beg you, Sir William, bring an end to this folly.”
William shook his head. “I will not quit before even reaching the forest,” he said. He turned back toward the Hobswood. “Very well,” he said. “We go through the mud.”
He stepped off the little mound they’d crowded onto and sank to his waist. He began struggling forward, and the others watched him for a moment before, one by one, they also plunged into the mire.
Owen seemed thrilled by it. He sloshed ahead of Penny and George to wade beside Sir William. “Please don’t let him go ahead of you, Sir William,” Penny called.
She saw William raise his hand in response before a fog closed in all around them. “Halt!” she heard Sir William say, but his voice sounded distant.
She grabbed George by the hand and stood still, listening. She could hear voices ahead, but they sounded like they were moving farther and farther away. “Sir William!” she called. George also called out, but there was no answer.
“The bog knows what we plan,” George whispered. “It’s trying to keep us out of the wood.”
Penny squeezed his hand more tightly. “We should walk forward,” she said, “and be very careful not to change direction.”
They began moving again, and they hadn’t taken a dozen steps before a figure loomed out of the fog. Sir Stephen turned, and relief spread across his face as he saw them.
“I thought I was lost,” he said, quickly moving beside them.
“We are,” said George.
“I don’t understand it,” said Stephen. “Sir Alfred was just in front of me, and then… he wasn’t.”
Penny held her free hand out to Sir Stephen. “Take my hand,” she said. “If we all hold hands, we won’t lose each other at least.”
“And if everyone else stopped when Sir William called the halt,” said George, “the others might be just ahead, just out of sight.”
“But also out of the range of our voices?” Stephen asked. “It’s not possible.”
“It’s possible in the Bleaklands,” Penny said. “Let’s continue on, slowly.”
As they began walking again, another shape emerged from the fog. It was Sir Alfred. He joined their chain, and a few minutes later they found Sir Harold. They continued forward, certain William and Owen must be just a few paces ahead, but after they’d traveled for five minutes, George called for them to stop. “Look!” he said.
The fog thinned slightly, and great black trees materialized directly in front of them, within a stone’s throw. A few feet in front of them, the ground rose, and they climbed up out of the mud and onto the bank.
“Link hands again,” Sir Harold said. “This fog is still devilishly thick.”
Penny frowned, wishing he hadn’t used that particular word. Devilishly.
Sir Stephen, who was now on the far right end of their chain, set down his walking stick and drew his sword. Sir Harold looked over at him. “A precaution,” Stephen said.
Harold nodded then turned back to the bog. “Sir William!” he yelled.
A small, distant voice answered. It sounded like it had come from a mile off, but a second later, two shapes emerged.
“It’s them!” cried Penny.
“They’re no more than fifteen paces away, but until now, it might as well have been fifteen miles,” Sir Alfred said.
“And how did we go past them?” asked Sir Stephen. “I feel certain we didn’t turn.”
“Don’t trouble your mind with it,” said George. “Just be glad we’ve found them again.”
They helped William and Owen up onto the bank, and Penny pulled Owen into an embrace. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
She looked him over and nodded. “Thank you, Sir William.”
“For what?”
