“I won’t.”
Derica winced and twisted her fingers as he slid down the muddy side and into the water. He stopped sinking when he was up to his knees. Surprised but cautious, he took a few more steps across the ditch.
“It looks like this is all there is of it,” he announced. “Still, we can’t get the horses across. The sides are too steep.”
Derica immediately began to descend into the ditch. “I am coming with you.”
He slugged back across the water. “Wait, sweetheart, don’t get your feet wet.”
He carefully took her in his arms and carried her to the other side. Derica deftly climbed to the top of the bank with a strategic shove from her husband. Emyl, his hands full of swords, slid down the muddy incline and trudged across the water as Garren hoisted himself out on the opposite side. Lowering a helping hand, he pulled the old man out of the ditch and took his weapon.
The great gatehouse loomed overhead. Derica stood there a moment, inspecting it, wondering if she could hear Bryndalyn and Owain calling to each other. Garren whispered a ghostly moan in her ear to tease her and she made a face at him. He took her hand as they crossed under the half-raised portcullis.
Inside the curtain wall was a massive outer bailey. The ground was muddy and uneven, and there were no outer buildings. But there was another, taller, curtain wall severalhundred feet away. There were also three massive towers they could see set within the wall. Most of all, another ditch lay between them and the inner wall.
“Another trench,” Derica observed. “They were certainly obsessed with entrenching this place, were they not?”
Garren cocked an eyebrow. “When an enemy is laying siege, one is grateful for all of the protection a castle can provide.”
“You saw the walls around Framlingham. They are enormous. But since I have lived there, we have never truly seen a siege.”
“But you would be grateful for them in such an event, I can tell you from experience.”
They had crossed the outer bailey and now stood looking down into the deep, stone-lined ditch. It was wider than the first ditch, filled with water and debris. Garren glanced over to his far left and could see, almost butted against the outer curtain wall, a drawbridge crossing over the ditch and leading into another gatehouse. They made their way over to the bridge and gingerly walked across the wet, rotting wood. Garren inspected the chains that fastened it and they were old and rusting. He wasn’t comfortable with the bridge and made sure Derica was quickly off it.
The passage beneath the second portcullis was long and damp. It smelled of rot. When they emerged on the other side, it was into a smaller inner bailey where the true scope of Cilgarren came to light. There were four massive towers including the gatehouse, all of them at least three stories into the sky. To Garren’s right stood several buildings; a great hall, perhaps a chapel, and then kitchens off to the left of the larger structures. Over by the north tower was another building, possibly the stables. There was also a kiln.
“Amazing,” he breathed.
“What do you mean?” Derica asked.
He was at a loss where to begin. “This place is a massive, fully-functioning fortress that has been abandoned. Why, in God’s name, would someone just abandon this?”
Derica didn’t have an answer. The place was indeed large and intricate. She let go of his hand and pulled her cloak more tightly around her, wandering through the bailey and inspecting the towers from a distance. While Garren kept an eye on her, she went to the long, low building that held the great hall and peered into the open door.
It was dark inside, but there was enough weak light that she could see a few broken stools, a table that was missing a couple of legs, and other debris scattered inside. The hall itself was good sized with a massive stone hearth. She took a step inside the door, smelling the dampness and mold. It was eerie.
She thought of Bryndalyn and Owain. Perhaps they sat at this table once, long ago, and toasted their happiness. Perhaps they had enjoyed the fire in the hearth or danced across the floor to lively minstrel music. She could almost hear their laughter if she listened hard enough. Derica wasn’t quite sure why the tale of the pair sat so heavily on her mind except for the fact that, for the first time in her life, she knew what it was to truly love someone and she could never imagine losing that love. Bryndalyn did not survive the loss and she doubted she would, either. There would be nothing to live for.
A low, desolate sound suddenly pierced her thoughts, howling eerily through the musty air. It echoed off the walls, lifting the rafters with its mournful sound. Startled, Derica bolted from the room and into her husband’s line of sight. Though Garren’s expression was unreadable, he had heard the sound, too, and unsheathed his weapon in a deliberate motion.
“Derica,” he said calmly. “Come to me, sweetheart.”
Another wail filled the air and Derica didn’t need to be told twice; she darted back over to Garren, panting with fright.
“Garren, what is it?” she gasped. “Ghosts?”
He shook his head, his eyes riveted to the structures around him. “I am sure nothing so unearthly,” he said evenly. “Stay close.”
He handed her the charger’s reins and paced into the center of the ward. Emyl also had his weapon wielded, the old man as calm as Garren was. Once a knight, always a knight, no matter how long it had been since he’d last whiffed the scent of battle. Both men were acutely vigilant as they visually inspected their surroundings for the origins of the noise.
The wail came again. Garren turned, hearing it come from the north tower, or so he thought. He motioned to Emyl to flank him as he made his way to the entrance of the tower. Derica huddled against the charger out of fear and warmth, watching her husband with anxious eyes. It took her a moment to realize that Garren had not put his armor back on after removing it to cross the first trench. Not wanting to call out to him and distract him, she could only watch and pray that whatever situation he was about to face did not injure him.
Her first indication that all was not well was when the charger suddenly started. Derica would have fallen to the ground had hands not grabbed her. Trouble was, they were not her husband’s hands. A scream erupted from her throat.
Garren swung around in time to see someone grabbing his wife. He took a step in her direction when a body suddenly came flying at him, a man dressed in dirty rags that blended in with the gray sheets of rain. The man had a weapon and Garren brought his sword up instinctively, deflecting a heavy blow. He was involved in his own fight, terrified for his wife, furious at the inconvenience of having to battle for his life. He was about to shout for Emyl when he saw that the old man, too, had been set upon.
Derica was howling, swinging fists and kicking feet. A fine lady though she might be, having grown up with three older brothers had taught her something about self-defense. She was desperately trying to find eyes to gouge her fingers into. When that failed, she took to kicking furiously at the knees of her attacker. One foot made contact with a kneecap and the man released a growling yelp. It was enough of a break for Derica to swing around and kick him, as hard as she could, in the lower abdomen.
