Once Upon an Autumn Eve (22 page)

On Liaze rode, and the shout became louder, and finally, as Nightshade broke out from the forest and into the open, the sound came clear.

Straight ahead, the land fell away into a forested vale before her and toward a marge of twilight at the far end; a glittering stream tumbled o’er rocks at the bottom of the dell. Down in the notch a tangle of trees marched up the steep slopes to either side, but to the right and on the very brim of the vale and amid a twisted snarl of woods stood a vine-covered castle, or rather the remnants of one.

And it was from there the yowling came.

And the words of Lady Skuld echoed in Liaze’s mind:

Liaze frowned.
Can this be the howling one? Someone within that wreck?
But then she recalled the hostler’s warning.
“Well, I’d steer clear o’ that place, ’f’I were you, ma’am. It’s got an evil reputation.”

Liaze sighed and said to the black, “Evil or not, my lad, I cannot let this pass,” and she reined Nightshade toward the ruins.

26

C
ircling ’round to come at the remains from a less tangled way, Liaze urged Nightshade forward. And as they approached the snarl of woods surrounding the ruins, louder came the yowling. The stallion seemed to take it in stride, but Pied Agile and the geldings snorted in apprehension and drew back on the tethers, dancing and sidle-stepping nervously. “All right, all right, I’ll not force you to go,” said Liaze, and she reined the black to a halt and dismounted. “Besides, I doubt you can work your way through the beringing clutch I see ahead.” She tied the animals to a nearby tree, and strung her bow and took up her quiver, and loosed the safe-keeper from her long-knife in case the blade were needed.

“Ward the others, Nightshade,” she said, patting the stallion along his neck, “while I find out just who or what is wailing like a grieving banshee.”

She nocked an arrow to string, and then slipped this way and that past clawlike limbs reaching out to grasp.

Now and then beyond the branches and boles Liaze caught glimpses of the castle: walls whose upper reaches were broken, rubble lying at the foot; turrets with missing shingles or holed roofs; thick wooden outer gates that gaped wide; and, on the upper levels, curtains, tattered and gray with age, stirred in the windows like uneasy wraiths.

Clearly, it’s been abandoned a goodly while, for it seems more damaged from neglect than from ought else. And did the stableman not say whoever it was that had lived here had fled? Yes, I recall: “Who fled?” he repeated my question and then answered: “Them wot lived there, ’at’s who, or so the tales tell. Seems a wizard or warlock cursed the place long past.”
Liaze caught another glimpse of the ruins and again the threadbare curtains wafted in and out.
Can it be ghosts or spirits possess the place? Is that what the wizard did—call up a haunting?

Liaze pressed forward, her eyes her main defense against lurking foe; her ears were now useless, for the closer she had come, the louder the howling, and all other sounds were drowned under that wail.

Now she reached the outer wall, where vines grew upward thickly, their tendrils digging deep into the mortar, bringing slow ruin to the bastions. She made her way through the open and age-worn outer gate, and across a leaf-littered stone courtyard she stepped, and weedy grit and dirt ramped low against the walls of the main hall, blown there by winds long past. And here, too, the inexorable fingers of vines climbed upward and grasped at the stone to gradually erode away its strength.

Liaze paused for a moment and looked for the spoor of a beast or beasts, for, given the howling, this place might be the lair of one or more such creatures, but she found no tracks, and there was no odor of a den.

The castle door was open, its wood also badly weathered: all the softer parts were eroded away, leaving behind close-set, grainy ridges standing gray in relief; the studs and bands yet holding the stark, worn planks together were green with years of verdigris.

And still the castle shrilly wailed as of someone or something in unendurable torment.

As she stood before the portal, Liaze berated herself for not having brought wax to stopper up her hearing, for the anguished yawling was earsplitting, and it pierced her to the bone. She frowned and tried to locate the source, yet it seemed to come from the very stones themselves.

Gritting her teeth, she stepped o’er the threshold and into the hall beyond, but she took no more than a step or two before she was driven out by the agonized shriek, and she knew that not even beeswax could fend off such terrible grief.

Liaze backed away and stood a moment in painful indecision.
Ah, Mithras, this is more than I can bear.
And she turned and fled out through the gateway, and took refuge behind a bastion wall, where the howl was somewhat less piercing. She replaced the arrow in her quiver and shouldered her bow and slapped her hands over her ears to mute the sound even more, for she had to think.

Are the stones of the castle shrieking in pain? If so, how can I ride with the howling one? Lady Wyrd told me that I must take him with me, and a castle in the old tongue is a “he,” a
masculin
term, but I cannot take an entire castle
anywhere!
—Wait, Liaze, and think! Did not Lady Skuld also say “He is the one who loudly cried”? Perhaps there is someone inside who started this howling. But how can I find him when I can’t even get more than two paces inside the door?

Liaze sighed and shook her head and glanced back in the direction of the horses.
Surely there must be a way, else She Who Sees Through Time’s Mist would not have said what she did.
Liaze’s brow furrowed in thought.
If she did not steer me wrong, then there might be an answer in her words. What else did she say? Recall, Liaze, recall:

Soothe as I would a babe? Soothe what? Soothe the castle itself?
Again Liaze reviewed Lady Wyrd’s rede, seeking a different answer, but she could think of nought else to try.
Though it sounds completely foolish, mayhap that’s the answer, or at least I think it might be. Ah me, if this works—ha!—only in Faery.

Liaze gritted her teeth and prepared to step into the full of the yowling again, wishing that she had something, anything, to lessen the wail somewhat.

Back through the gate she strode and to the very threshold, for ’tis said that the doorstone, though not the heart of a home, is the first test of approval, for it is there one might be welcomed to step within.

Liaze knelt on the stone and stroked it, saying, “Shh, shh, my sweet one.” She began crooning a wordless song—
Soothe as you would a babe
—and slowly the wailing diminished . . . and diminished . . . and diminished. And Liaze murmured, “Shh, shh,” and the wailing fell to a weak cry, and that in turn was replaced by a faint
shh . . .

Liaze got to her feet and drew her long-knife and quietly stepped into the manor and crept down the corridor beyond—
Silence is golden in some high halls / Tread softly to not be heard
—and doors were standing open all along the way.

She looked into the rooms and chambers and halls, dusty with disuse, the furniture tatty, tables and chairs dilapidated, books and pamphlets yellowed, all things within shabby beyond redemption, and no person or persons did she see. As she quietly moved throughout, all about her the stone walls and floors and ceilings murmured
shh . . .

She found no one on the ground floor nor the second or third ones. Up into the turrets she went, sections of the roofs open to rain, but, again, no one was there. She pondered a moment in the hush, and then nodded to herself.
There must be chambers below ground.
She found a lantern, its oil yet within. She knelt and huddled her cloak ’round in the hope of muffling sound, and she thumbed the striker. The lamp lit, and the soft
shh . . .
murmured by the stone of the castle changed into a faint
whssh . . .
of a burning wick.

Liaze took up her long-knife and the lantern and stood, and, with the blade in her right hand and the lamp in her left, she crept down to the first floor, where she found a way leading below, and at the bottom of the steps she came into the wine cellars ’neath. Therein were abandoned—perhaps useless—stores along with dusty bottles in racks, and large kegs along one wall. And she found an open door at one end of the cellars, with a stone stairwell leading down. Deeper she went, into dankness and darkness, her lantern illumining the way, heading for what she imagined might be and in truth were the dungeon rooms.

Past several barred lockups under the cellars and below the main hall she came to a large damp chamber, and water seeped across the floor, and a faint odor of excrement wafted on the air. Therein sat a bronze cage in the middle of the wet stone, a large padlock on the door, and within the pen lay a bundle of leaves amid a scatter of small bones and bits of fur and—
No, wait! Those are not leaves, but a little person or a child in rags instead.
Liaze raised the lantern for a better look.
’Tis a small man.
He lay on his side, his knees drawn up against his chest, and his hands were clapped over his ears. His face was twisted in agony, with his eyes squeezed shut and his lips tightly clamped. He shifted in the glow.

Liaze reached through the bars with her long-knife and tapped the flat of the blade against the being’s arm.

His hands yet over his ears, the man jerked back and looked at her, his gaze flying wide, and then he squinted against the light, and flung up a hand to en-shadow his eyes. It was then that a second look of startlement flooded his features, and up he sat and took his other hand away from his ear and cocked his head and listened; then his face collapsed in relief, and he quickly pressed a finger to his lips and gestured a
No, no
to Liaze, for he would have her make no sound.

Liaze nodded in understanding, and then she motioned at the lock.

The being—a wee brown man in brown tattered clothes and standing no more than three feet tall—quietly got to his feet and pointed at a far wall. And on a peg hung a ring with a single key dangling thereon. Liaze fetched the key and slipped it into the lock.
Snick!
the lock opened, and the stones of the castle clittered
Snick . . . snick . . . snick . . .
over and over.

Cautiously, Liaze edged the door open, and the hinges emitted a muted squeal, and the castle began quietly squealing in kind:
eee . . .

Out slipped the wee man, and he and Liaze crept up the steps and into the wine cellar above, and then started for the following stairs. But the wee man turned and tiptoed to the wine racks and took up a dusty bottle and then another, and he eased back to Liaze and up they went, and all the while the castle softly squealed.

They quietly stepped along the central corridor to finally reach the outside, and dusk was on the land. In the twilight, past the outer gate they went and through the woods and to the horses.

There the little man set one wine bottle down, and against a rock he broke the neck off the other and took a long drink. He then offered the bottle to Liaze.

Liaze gestured
non
and said, “What is your name?”

The little man shook his head and pointed to an ear and shrugged and in an overloud voice as of one who is hard of hearing, he said, “F’r the moment I canna ken y’r soft words, m’lady, f’r ma tortured ears yet ring wi’ ma verra own howls.” He glanced at the packhorses and said, “I see ye ha’e cookin gear. Could I borrow a stew pot? And ha’e ye anythin t’eat?”

Liaze laughed and stepped to one of the geldings and began unlading equipment and supplies, while behind her the little brown man took another long pull from the bottle, then reached under his shabby clothes and unbuckled and drew forth a many-pocketed belt.

27

A
s night drew down and Liaze unladed the animals and fed them each a ration of oats and then set them to graze, the wee brown man cleared a patch of ground and lay stones in a ring, and then he gathered a bit of dry grass and twigs and branches, and shortly he had a blaze going. Liaze handed him a small pot, and he asked for water, and soon steam rose in the air. He scrabbled through the pouches in his peculiar belt, and finally found what he was looking for. It appeared to Liaze to be nothing more than a few small dried leaves. The man crumbled two of them into the bubbling water, and added a pinch of sulphurous powder taken from another belt pouch.

“Is that tea?” asked Liaze, frowning, as she handed the man a biscuit of hardtack.

“I still canna ken y’r soft words, lady, but gi’e me a moment and I’ll be as fit as new.” He gobbled up the biscuit, washing the dry tack down with wine, all the while watching the bubbling pot, the liquid of which was turning a sickly yellowish green.

Finally he removed the vessel from the fire and after a moment, while it yet simmered, he drank it all, his face screwing into a knot of disgust.

“Hoo.
Brrr.
Nasty,” he said, a shiver racking his spine. He took deep breaths and looked somewhat ill, and Liaze thought he would vomit. Yet he managed to keep the concoction down.

“Might I hae a second biscuit, please?” he said. “It’ll help settle ma stomach.” Liaze reached into the food sack and drew out another. This one he gobbled up as well. And when it was gone, he said, his voice softer, “All right, m’lady, ma hearin, it be comin back.”