Derek grunted. “Neither will theirs.”
“Small help that’ll be when their siege ladders go up.” Satisfied, Aran slid the finished arrow into his quiver, which was already half full. Without pause, he took up his knife and set to carving another shaft. “Seen Edwin lately?” “He’s in the old chapel.”
“Praying to Blessed Paladine? I hope he gets an answer.”
Derek glared at the knight. Aran grinned. “You could try enjoying a joke now and again, my friend.”
Scowling, Derek shook his head and looked away. Aran had always been good at hitting close to the mark, be it with arrows or words. Derek had the awful feeling Edwin was praying to the old gods. That was the last thing he needed!
Derek turned and gazed across the castle’s inner ward. At the Great Hall, several servants scrambled to cover a window whose shutter had been torn free by the storm. Sir Pax and Sir Winfrid were deep in conversation near the Northeast Tower. A footman chased his cloak as the wind bore it across the courtyard.
A dark shape appeared in the sky, plummeting toward the castle from the east. Derek caught his breath and touched Aran’s arm. The red-haired knight stopped whittling and looked skyward.
“What in the Abyss?” he asked, then his eyes widened. “By Huma, hammer and lance!”
The object was-or once had been-a man.
The body struck the keep’s western wall with a sickening thud, and fell onto the roof of the granary. Several knights dragged the body down to the courtyard. By the time Derek and Aran arrived, the corpse lay out on the cobblestones, covered by Sir Winfrid’s deep blue cloak. Aran cleared a path through the crowd, and Derek stepped up and pulled back the shroud.
Derek looked on the body. It was one of the scouts- that much was sure from the garb-but the face was too battered to tell more. Numerous slashes had torn the man’s flesh, as if he had been mauled by the claws of some animal. The slashes were long, deep. The talons that had made them must have been as sharp as spearheads.
Despite his best efforts, Derek shuddered as he covered the body again. “Take him into the chapel,” he said with forced calm. “Return to your posts.”
Reluctantly, the men began to disperse. Derek turned and marched toward the gatehouse.
Sir Winfrid hurried to catch up. “My lord!” he called.
Derek stopped and turned. “There was something else, my lord,” the seneschal said, proffering a wet roll of parchment. “A message affixed to the body.”
Derek took the parchment without a word, then turned and walked into the gatehouse. Aran followed him. Once he and Aran were sheltered from the storm, Derek unrolled the message and held it up to catch the torchlight. The ink had run in the rain, and a smudge of blood marred one corner, but the words were still legible. To Derek’s surprise, the script-written in a sure, flowing hand-was in fluent Solamnic:
“To the lord of this castle: Look on your own death. Surrender. The Dark Lady.”
“Well, now,” Aran said, with an awkward, forced smile, “that’s that, what?”
*****
It didn’t take long for word to spread. The enemy was coming and given the choice between dragons and the hobgoblin patrols that roamed the surrounding hills, the servants, squires and footmen chose the latter. The knights at the postern gate held valiantly against the terrified men and women who sought to flee Castle Crownguard. In the end, Derek ordered the Knights to stand aside rather than risk a riot. By dusk, only the knights and a few brave commoners remained. And, while news of the Dark Lady’s warning strengthened many knights’ resolve, some of the younger ones were starting to lose their nerve.
As night came on, the storm grew more fierce. The wind howled. The cloud-wracked sky blazed with lightning, and thunder shook the castle’s very stones. Aran gave up working on his arrows in disgust and turned to polishing his sword. Derek stalked the inner wall, keeping the knights heartened. He found a few of them missing from their posts. He thought they had deserted.
“My-my lord,” said Sir Pax. “They’ve gone to the old chapel.”