You Wonder How These Things Begin

Chapter 1: Wintertide

Liseth lordes in god entente

And herke a tale of wondirment

Of leve and eek of wer

A reuler taks his bolde asent

To be a croune ifilledment

His name was Cunnor

The Wolf, the Lady, and the Mere: I

***

It’s a difficult thing, being alive for the rest of your life.

But sometimes warmth spread through his bones and tugged upon his eyelids until they were heavy and happy. And those moments, moments like tonight, might make it worth it.

“Enjoying yourself, Selvo?”

He opened his eyes and met Eleanor’s smirk from across the room. Her arm was wrapped around her husband, Allus, as he strung together a melody for the evening, plucking at the strings of his lyre. Holly berries flashed crimson from the corners of the room, and the sharp bite of the pine garlands was heavy in the air of their small tower, mixing with the crackling hearth and whatever Eleanor had warming in a bowl over the fire. 

Despite all that had happened, Selvo wondered if he had ever been content before. Even Brother Mowe’s absence couldn’t shake the glow in his heart.  

“Quite,” he sighed.

“And you never did any of this as a youth?”

Selvo had to laugh.

“Elyit save, no. Too pagan for my father, and then afterwards… ” he frowned at the memories, shaking his head. “Well, there wasn’t much afterwards for me.”

Eleanor nodded. She knew. Eleanor drew closer to her husband, leaning against his giant frame. Little Allec sprawled at his parents feet and swayed to his father’s music. 

And then there was a rustling at the door. A scratching noise that rasped through the heavy oak. Allus’ music faltered. Selvo turned in his seat, a hand on his dagger.

“Someone there?” called Allus.

No reply came other than a low whine. Thin. Wild.

“Papa, what is that?”

Allus shook his head and began to rise, but Grey was there first.

“Bloody interrupting our cheer on this night of all nights.”

“Grey! Don’t—”

—Grey wrenched open the door with a scowl as the cold wind rushed into their room—along with the pale blur of a great hound.

“Flehrka!”

They all jumped back in surprise as the creature leapt across the space, it’s tongue lolling. In a blink it had found Selvo and flopped onto its great haunches, belly in the air, and tail wagging.

They all stared at the creature—

—and began laughing. Raucous, deep, and free. Selvo’s smile crinkled his eyes and he buried his face in the neck of the wolfhound. Grey took another look outside, shrugged, and shut the door once more.

“You two can’t be separated,” laughed Eleanor.

“I wonder how she found me here?” asked Selvo.

“Lad, we’ve all been making do with the basin for weeks,” said Grey. “I’d wager its not too hard to sniff us out.”

Selvo nodded, his hands scratching under the wiggling dog’s chin. “There will be hell to pay if they find you here, my lady,” he soothed.

“Tonight?” said Eleanor. “No one will notice a thing tonight. Half in their cups most like. Let Flehrka stay.”

Selvo looked up and nodded, a smile on his face. The hound gave a soft woof and pressed against Selvo anew.

The gathering settled in once more, circled round the hearth, Eleanor rose and pulled free the simmering bowl Selvo had eyed earlier.

“Good?” asked Allus.

“Quite.”

“What is it?” asked Selvo, shifting under the weight of the great hound draped across his lap.

“You’ll see,” whispered Allus.

“Alright now,” Eleanor stood tall in front of the crackling fire, her summer eyes glowing with the shine of the hearth. “I was able to find a little wine for us, a little spice, and a little honey—no, don’t ask me how. A lady must keep her secrets.” She straightened once more before continuing. “This year has been quite different for us all. We’ve lost homes. Livelihoods. Friends and family.” Despite the words, she smiled. “But we’ve also found this—all us here in this room. I am grateful for each of you who’ve come into our little life—whatever may come, this has been a kindness.”

The room sat in silence. The hearth flickered. All eyes watched Eleanor.

“I’ll start us off with the usual,” she lifted the bowl. “To those here in good cheer and might, and those who’ve gone beyond our sight.”

“Wassail!” The whole room cried together. The hound barked. Eleanor sipped from the bowl and passed it to Allus’ mother, Brinda.

“Think of something to drink to,” Allus whispered to Selvo.

“We all do it?”

Allus nodded. Selvo watched Allus’ mother rise with the bowl. 

“I’ve seen many seasons,” said Brinda. “More than my age can account, some more trying than the others. But each one has passed. Each night ends with the sun.” She smiled and raised the bowl. “To light.”

“Wassail!”

Brinda passed the bowl to Grey who rose, his copper whiskers ablaze in the ruddy light.

“Never been much for words—”

The room descended in cries and guffaws. Selvo found himself joining in.

“—but, I suppose I can wrestle something up.” Grey stood straight and raised the bowl. “Life was dull, life was a bore, then I met you all, it became a bit more.” He hid his grin with a cough. “But don’t mistake these words for praise, I’m stuck with you lot, my merry band of knaves.”

Cheers called from around the circle. Grey took a sip and offered a deep bow.

“See lads,” he winked at Allus and Selvo, “that’s how you use words.” 

“Next, next,” called Allus.

Grey passed the bowl over to Selvo. He steadied the sloshing wine and stood.

“I’ve never done this before,” Selvo furrowed his brow, “but I’m glad I am now. And I think—well I know—that is because of you all here. You’ve shown me—”

 —A steady bell began to toll from outside. A light and clear note that carried from down in the village.

“Is that usual too?” asked Selvo.

“Not as such,” said Brinda, “perhaps a Norfield custom?”

But then again, the bell was fast. Getting faster. Selvo stared out towards the village as if he could see through the stone walls. The hair on the back of his neck pricked.

“It’s frantic,” said Eleanor.

Allus was up and moving towards the doorway. Selvo watched him peer into the winter’s night. The toll carried louder upon the frosted air—hurried.

“The village?” asked his mother.

There was a glow in the valley below. Hateful. Selvo felt a chill crawl down his body—scouring away all the warmth he felt moments ago.

Allus looked back at the group, his breath short. “They’re here.”

~

The festive night twisted into chaos—frightened and hurried. Selvo was pulling his armour on as quick as he could, fingers shaking as he worked to lace leather ties, knot points, and cinch belts. Nearby, the others tugged on gambesons and looped arrow bags round their waists. 

“Why would they come here?” whispered Brinda.

No one replied. The room was filled with a frantic silence. Muffled grunts and heavy breathing. Working to get the mail up and over his head, Selvo found it twisted and tangled.

Bloody goddamn h—

“—here,” said Eleanor. “Kneel.”

Selvo did as she bid and Eleanor lifted the hauberk over his head for him to wriggle on. From the chapel within the keep, a bell began ringing in response to the village alarm. The two discordant notes tolled a baleful tune.

He didn’t bother with his livery and moments later his bascinet sat snug about his head. Eleanor straightened the edge of his aventail with a tug.

“Stop them.” Her eyes were fierce. “Stop them.” 

She turned and kissed Allus. Selvo was already moving towards the door, Cedric just behind him.

“Be safe,” called Eleanor’s voice once more.

And Selvo was running—out through the tower, across the icy yard, and towards the gatehouse. Ahead the sky was aglow and dancing, picking out the crenellated wall in a silhouetted menace. A row of blackened teeth before a fiery maw.

Choking down bile, he ran harder.

From behind came the cacophony of barking hounds. Yells of alarm and urgency warbled from festive-garbed servants and watchmen alike. Over it all, the bell tolled.

They’re here, it seemed to say. Death drawn nigh.

Selvo reached the gatehouse. Men were milling. A few were armed, others were drunk from the feast—some were both. Looking out through the stone archway, Selvo peered across the white expanse to the village below. Fire leapt up from a few of the buildings. Thatch flared. Dark bodies ran two and fro, while the blaze shone red upon naked flesh. Thin cries drifted upon the frigid air. Screams of terror. Of pain. 

A biting shiver ran down Selvo’s spine.

They’re here.

 “Bloody hell!” came a bellow from behind. “Saddle the horses! Standing about gawking—the horses!” Sir Eric huffed across the bailey, tugging on bits of armour as his squire chased after him with the rest. “Where are your spears?”

Selvo joined Cedric in passing out the spears stored in the gatehouse.  Allus and Grey ran to help in the stables. The marshal barked orders to ready the gathering retinue to sally forth.

“I want a tight lance about me,” snapped Sir Eric. His squire continued to fasten pieces of his harness. “Men-at-arms to either side, the rest of you follow as you can. I don’t expect good order, but don’t go off on your own. Where are the bloody horses?”

The baying of the hunting hounds warbled across the castle.

“Ware being drawn between the buildings,” continued the marshal. “Stick to the high street. The bastards will—”

“—What the devil is going on?” cracked a new voice. Selvo looked over to see Lord Norfield stumbling across the snow. He remained dressed for the feast.

“My lord?” Sir Eric said. “The bandits are here.” He pointed to the south. 

Selvo saw Norfield’s mouth fall agape as turned to stare out the gate. The baron’s face went white.

“Your lordship will need his armour,” ventured Sir Eric. “Your charger is being—”

“—I did penance… ” mumbled Norfield. “That the Redeemer might be merciful. To spare me this torment. Yet, here the devils hath come.”

People are dying—

—Screams carried upon the wind.

“My lord?” The marshal’s brows knit. “Our foe is within the village.”

“Close the gate!” Norfield’s eyes widened, reflecting the glow of the flames.

No! 

Selvo turned at the clacking sound within the gatehouse. Whoever was manning the winch must have heard the command—the black portcullis began to lower over the tableau of burning buildings.

“Percy, pull yourself together man!” barked the marshal.

Norfield whirled on him. “How dare thee speak to me in mean regard?” He staggered in the snow.

They’re dying—

“Redeemer save,” said the marshal. “You’re the sheriff.“

—just as they did before—

The gate continued to close. The winch creaked. A horse would no longer pass under those iron tipped teeth. The first villagers appeared, running up the road. Horror was written upon their faces.

“Our folk approach,” called Sir Eric. “Hold the g—”

“—No!” cried Norfield. He stumbled forward. “Drop it shut now!”

“My lord!” cried Selvo, finding his voice. “Send someone—send me, if you won’t go yourself!” The marshal cursed a foul stream next to him.

“They are in the Elyit the Redeemer’s hands.”

The gate continued to lower. A man could no longer walk under it.

—and once again, no one is coming to help them.

The gate was nearly shut.

No longer.

Selvo darted forward with quick strides. One. Two. Three. And then he was diving, sliding along the snow as he slipped under the raking teeth. He rolled over, and stood, his amber eyes searching for the pale shapes in the shadows.

“You bloody fool.”

“Keep lowering it!”

“Selvo, what do you—”

“Bloody hound!”

~

He was running. The fleeing villagers watched him with widening eyes as he sped past towards the screams. Down the hill. Sliding. Working to find his breath as his heart raced and the reality of what he had done began to take shape and form.

What am I doing?

Ahead lay the demons. The creatures that had haunted him in both sleep and waking life. They would be there, waiting. Naked and smiling with their knives. He was going to greet them. 

Alone.

If Selvo was lucky, they would be unarmoured once again. That would help. Perhaps he might manage to wound one, even slay one—he’d done it before—but then—

—one of their blades would find purchase. Tickling through his armor. Bleeding. And then another. And another.

I’m going to die. The thought rattled through his mind.

Selvo ran on. The screams neared. He could now see it was the church that burned brightest—flames licking along its tall steeple. The crowning arbor crackled within a golden inferno.

This was different than before, when the fight had been thrust upon him. Now, he ran towards the fray. He had time to consider it and with a sickening turn, he knew he was scared. He felt it in his bones. His heart. Every step was the drumbeat of the rising terror in his own gut. Of his doom.

Just when I was beginning to write something new. 

And yet, his legs churned beneath him. Relentless. His steps felt sure. His choice felt right. It was a thing the knights in his book might have done. Sir Leovere or Sir Beyvel would not have turned aside—they’d have done the same. Fearless.

What if I’m not like them? Was the clenching in his stomach was proof of that truth?

Nine years.

Nine years since the demons first appeared in his life. Nine years since they took everything from him. Nine years of being haunted by their grey faces leering in shadows of his mind.

Perhaps he wasn’t without fear, but if his death was here, then so be it. He could no longer stand idly by than he could stop the sun from setting. Something within in him burned. It was a fire that shuddered and billowed in time with the leaping flames before him. It was Allus’ kind eyes. Eleanor’s smile. It was Grey’s wit and Cedric’s stillness. It was Brinda and little Allec. It was Mowe’s care.

Nine years since I fled them.

But now, Selvo ran towards them. The spear in his hand shone in the leaping flames.

Something within growled.