Feast

Flint’s eyes sparkled as he flashed Luthar his best grin and gave him a twirl.

‘How do I look?’ He asked, fluttering his eyelashes like some highborn lady.

‘Bloody better than I feel.’ Grumbled Luthar, plucking at the high collar of the ridiculous surcoat he’d been given. ‘Who the hell chooses to wear this kind of regalia? I’m done up like a docker’s tart!’

‘I’m sure Lady Wedderburn will be impressed; you look very handsome.’ Flint’s laughter spilled over as he looked Luthar up and down once more.

‘Come on let’s get this over with.’ Sighed Luthar before having another tug at his neck. He’d no mind to spend hours being choked to death in some stuffy hall.

They’d been given a tent only fifty yards from Lord Wedderburn’s own canvas quarters in the outer ward. It was simple enough, but more comfortable than sleeping under the stars. Four pallets were laid out with straw mattresses and furs for warmth, then in a second room, a table, chairs and a few bottles of the finest whiskey and brandy Luthar had ever tasted.

Ed and Lucas had already begun their feasting along with the rest of the garrison’s squires and stable boys. Flint and Luthar would join them later as they were to sit at Lord Wedderburn’s high table, a thought that set Luthar’s mind to worry. What would a Lord want with two men of the guild he’d only just met? Surely a discussion about their encounter with the so-called seed of Lazmurol wouldn’t warrant this kind of attention. Sighing, he checked himself in the hazy mirror once more before following Flint out into the grey evening.

A chill wind buffeted them as they turned toward the hall, heads bowed against the cool air and occasional speck of rain. Luthar felt a fool in the garb, far too tight and fancy for his taste. Why couldn’t he have been given something like Flint’s gear? It at least had no frills or fancy stitching all over it.

‘Oh cheer up Luthar, you can’t attend a Lord’s feast with a face like a spanked arse!’

‘It’s this bloody collar, feels like my head’s going to pop off!’

‘Take the bones out then.’

‘The what?’

‘Come here.’ Flint shook his head at Luthar before grabbing him none too gently by the collar. He fiddled a moment before Luthar felt instant relief. He held up two small white bones, no more than a couple of inches each. ‘Never leave these little bastards in, they’ll suffocate the life out of you.’ He tossed them casually over his shoulder before giving Luthar his best grin.

Luthar noticed the birthmark on his left temple protruding from his tied back hair. The desire to ask overcame him.

‘Flint, where did you get that? Injured again?’ He asked, hoping the joke would head off any offence he may give.

‘This?’ He touched it with his forefinger, making to rub it off his skin. ‘I was born with it, marked by the gods I reckon! Anyway, let’s get a shift on, I’m starving!’ Without another word he set off at a steady trot. Curiosity satisfied, Luthar followed on behind.

After passing through the gatehouse and into the inner ward, they entered the great hall through a huge set of wooden doors and were greeted by a plump, balding herald who was dressed in the most outrageous finery. The Wedderburn oak was emblazoned on his chest, striking against the grey of his surcoat. Frills and tassels drooped from each wrist in all colours of the rainbow. Even his collar was a garish green colour, or at least the little of it that showed beneath his jowls.

‘Good sirs, names please!’ The herald demanded with a flourish. He was clearly a showman who enjoyed being at the centre of attention.

‘Flint and Luthar of the Warrior’s Guild.’ Flint replied, raising his eyebrows a fraction.

‘Family names please, I must announce you correctly or Lord Wedderburn will be most displeased with me. I find he is most demanding when it comes to details.’

‘He’s Luthar Shoresmith, I’m Flint, err –’

‘Godsmark.’ Luthar cut in. ‘Fancy forgetting your own name Flint! I reckon all them blows to the head are catching up with you.’

‘Very good sirs.’ The herald opened the inner door and stood just inside to announce them as Flint stifled a laugh. ‘My good Lords and Ladies. May I present to you Flint Godsmark and Luthar Shoresmith. Brothers of the Warrior’s Guild of Teraditha!’ The voice he adopted for announcing them was impressive, Luthar thought he could feel the foundations shaking with the noise. Lord Wedderburn’s thundery growl couldn’t hold a candle to this.

Nobody paid them any mind as they walked to the high table, most were already three or four ales deep and concentrating on laughing the loudest at their neighbour’s joke. As they ascended the few steps onto the dais, they heard another thunderous announcement, this time Lord Wedderburn had entered the great hall. Conversations stopped and were replaced by the scraping of chairs and benches on the stone floor as everyone in the vast room stood up in respect for their Lord.

Luthar and Flint stood behind their chairs whilst Lord Wedderburn took his place at the centre of the high table and motioned with both hands for everyone to be seated once more. No sooner had the low buzz of conversation started again then a serving boy had poured the three of them a glass of wine and the first course of deliciously thick pottage was served. Luthar had only taken a few mouthfuls when Lord Wedderburn leaned over to engage them both in conversation.

‘Edryg has more information about that sword you retrieved. Weapons of its kind were common in the Confederacy in the second age, the ruling classes preferred them as they could be trained to recognise only one master. Nothing worse than being run through by your own sword, eh lads?’ He allowed himself a small chuckle before continuing. ‘Where this example originated, we cannot say, but Edryg tells me there is a scholar at Threftall university who might shed more light on the subject.’

‘We’re escorting a trade caravan north to Threftall overmorrow.’ Began Luthar, excitement rising at the prospect of working for a powerful Lord. ‘We could take it with us, my lord.’

‘Hm, very kind of you to offer your services Luthar. I feel this is more than just a two-man job though. I would like Edryg to escort you along with one of my best men, just to be on the safe side. I’m sure our esteemed court mage would like to make the acquaintance of this seed of Lazmurol should he try to retrieve his weapon.’

‘Very good my lord.’

‘Now enjoy your dinner, there is plenty more food and wine on its way. At least for tonight, forget your troubles and enjoy yourselves.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ They both said in unison.

Luthar, suddenly ravenous, demolished the fish course, followed by venison and strawberry tarte. A final course of cheese and yet more wine was served to complete the feast. He felt that he may bust out of his fancy new clothes at any moment, such was the weight in his guts. Soon, his and Flint’s age-old debate over the best swordsman in the guild was broken at the arrival of a worried looking messenger boy, eager to speak with his lordship.

‘My lord, there’s been a break in. Two men have been caught trying to get into the stables through a postern gate. We’ve got them in the dungeons, but they’re demanding to speak to the men of the guild.’ He shot an apologetic look towards Luthar and Flint.

‘If it’s not something, then it’s something else. Come on you two, let’s go see what these would be criminals would have from you.’ Lord Wedderburn stood up unsteadily, an evening full of wine clearly taking its toll. ‘I’ll see to it we get our brandy afterwards; don’t you fret.’

He led them out of the great hall and into the dark, cool night. A steady rain fell on them as the sodden ground of the inner ward squelched under their feet. The messenger boy set a surprising pace considering his short stature, obviously wanting to be back inside next to his fire. They kept their heads down and followed in silence, puzzling over what could be wanted from them.

They skirted around the stone base of the circular keep before heading down a few steps to a low iron door set in its side. Hinges squealed in protest as it was opened into a low stone chamber, completely bare except for a warming fire in the hearth and a long wooden desk, behind which a guard sat scribbling at some papers. He snapped straight to attention when he saw who had entered his realm, ignoring that they’d set his papers to fluttering.

‘My lord, thank you for coming.’

‘Sergeant, please show us to the prisoners. I do not wish to be distracted from my duties as a host for too long.’ Lord Wedderburn’s manner was firm and commanding yet struck the fine balance of not being condescending or demeaning to his subordinates in any way. Luthar couldn’t help admiring the man for it.

‘Right away my lord.’

He pulled a huge ring of keys from a hidden drawer in his desk and jangled noisily across the room to an iron gate on the other side. Iron clattered against iron as he worked the lock deftly to allow them access. As the gate swung open Luthar wondered if these were the only hinges in all the three kingdoms that had seen a pot of grease in the last year.

The sergeant led their small group through a maze of low tunnels. Most of the cells were empty, with only the occasional thief or murderer gazing intently through the bars. The further they walked, the more prisoners seemed to have given up hope and sat hunched in the shadows, defeated and silent. Finally, they stopped at a cell much larger than the rest, flanked by two stern looking guards who straightened a bit more at their approach.

The cell contained a bed along each side, a writing table and two chairs, with a bucket in one corner. One bed was occupied by a large man with his face all in shadow, only a pair of tattered boots hanging over the edge of the mattress were visible. Another man slouched easily in a chair with his feet up on the table, seemingly without a care in the world. As they came to a stop he smiled at them, revealing no more than three teeth which were rotten and brown.

‘M’lord Wedder-’

‘Speak when you’re spoken to thief!’ The sergeant had retrieved a heavy club from his belt and banged it against the bars as he spoke. His face turning red with anger at the supposed insult to his lord.

Lord Wedderburn remained calm, laying a gentle hand on the sergeant’s shoulder, and giving him a nod.

‘Speak your piece.’ Was all he said, his deep and commanding voice as smooth as a mill pond.

The thief considered the four of them for a moment, eyes working furiously to take in every detail. He lingered a moment longer on Luthar, chewing his tongue as he went.

‘So, you’re the mighty Luthar Shoresmith then?’

‘I am indeed.’ Luthar replied flatly. He was getting sick of all the great and mighty nonsense.

‘And Flint? No family name to carry I understand.’

By way of reply Flint inclined his head slightly, eyes fixed firmly on the thief who seemed unmoved by the obvious hostile reception.

‘Then I bring you an offer from the Cult of Lazmurol. Join us and become rich and powerful beyond imagining. With your skills Luthar you will be the right hand to a new emperor, one who will instil peace and order across the world. Think on it, you’ll have everything you could ever want, money, power, women, land, anything!’ He’d risen as he spoke and now pressed his face to the bars, looking like he may squeeze himself through the tiny gaps.

‘No thank you. I’m happy with my place in the guild.’ Completely bemused, Luthar had to suppress a smirk, the man was clearly mad. ‘What is this Cult of Lazmurol anyway?’

‘We believe in changing the face of the world for the good of all men. We will bring back the mighty Lazmurol to rule over us all. The weak and feeble men you call kings will crumble in his path and fade away to dust!’

‘That’s enough of your drivel, and I’m late for my evening brandy. Sergeant, see that these two are punished suitably for their crimes. I’ll bid you a good evening.’ Lord Wedderburn made to exit the dungeon before a commotion in the cell broke out, making them all turn back.

The large man had got up from his bed and was choking the smaller thief against the bars. The two guards looked at the sergeant for orders, but he deferred to Lord Wedderburn with a look.

‘Leave them to it, one dead thief is no skin from my nose.’

Then the chanting started, a harsh guttural language that made Luthar want to plunge his fingers in his ears and run. The large man became louder and louder as he let his companion drop to the floor lifeless. He pressed right up against the bars and thrust out a grubby hand in an apparent attempt to grab Luthar. His blue eyes wide and terrifying, spit flying from his mouth as he chanted ever louder. Luthar tried to move his feet to run but found them stuck to the floor.

His chanting stopped and his voice changed back to the common tongue, deep and throaty as one would expect from a large man in later life.

‘Luthar Shoresmith, I curse you. Your life is no longer yours, but now belongs to Lazmurol himself. When our new Emperor rises, you will be bound to his will. You will serve and obey as his champion. By this act of resurrection, I seal this declaration to the very soul of Elliciphyre, chief amongst the defilers.’

With a pained expression plastered across his face, he cupped the dead man’s face in his hands, and stood straight, dragging his limp body to a standing position leaning against the bars. The lifeless form shuddered for a few moments, then let out an anguished gasp as he bent forward and placed his hands on his knees, panting heavily.

‘Welcome back to our world brother.’

Flint stared at Luthar with wide eyed surprise. Luthar stayed back, dumbstruck at what had just happened. A man rising from the dead in front of his very eyes and a curse placed on him. Should he feel different? Or something should happen? All sorts of thoughts raced through his mind as he stood there looking a fool in front of one of the most powerful men in Peccothia.

‘Have these men separated into the cells furthest from each other. I won’t have this nonsense in my keep!’ Lord Wedderburn’s calm demeanour slipped for a split second, his words dripping with wrath. But as quickly as it had slipped, he replaced it and recommenced his usual smoothness. ‘Come on you two, I think Edryg might like to hear of tonight’s performance over that glass of brandy.’