Ale and Tales

Ale and Tales

The giant wooden double gate doors of Merefen groan open with a loud creak, parting a receding tide of thick fog that swirls in tendrils, obscuring the opening gate.

“Hold the gate. State your business, old man.” A voice shouts down from the wall where shadows cast distorted shadows on the dismal walls.

“I bring news for Lord Aiseld,” the peddler’s voice calls up, struggling to be heard over the tormenting rain. “We seek warm lodgings and refuge from this infernal rain.”

Algwain peers up at the stormy sky, raindrops thrumming on his fatigued face as his ears tune into the creaking of taught bowstrings.

“Such a woeful welcome, my lord,” the peddler mutters under his breath. “I had it on good authority that Merefen was welcoming to all.” The cob fidgets and relieves itself with a steaming torrent of piss.

“I am no lord, old man.” The guard’s voice swells with pride. “I am the commander of the gate.”

Algwain rises on his numb, sodden feet. The cart rocks beneath him as bowstrings strain, arrows poised, ready to fly. He passes the girl to Eifear, pulls back his hood, and looks up through the gray wall of fog. Silhouettes of men gaze down from the drab stone wall. “I am Algwain, General of the Garrison of Ossan.” Algwain hears murmurs of dispute and unrest.

“Algwain, you say? Well, general, where are the rest of your men?”

“Porker? I know that’s you. Open the gate; we’re drenched to the bone, and I’m in dire need of a good drink.”

“Alright, Algwain,” a bald head shaped like a cannonball, peeks over the rampart. “Welcome back to Merefen. Welcome home, general.”

The giant wooden double doors creak open in an age-old protest barely heard over the rhythmic drumming of the rain and the howling wind. The cob steps into a dismal courtyard, drowning in rain-soaked puddles, sludge, and steaming dung. A single, indignant old goat bleats from a dank and miserable corner. 

Algwain hops down from the rear of the cart, his bare feet splashing into a slimy puddle of muck. The cobblestones are rough beneath his bare feet. 

Small stone outhouses surround the courtyard, from which dozens of weary eyes peer. A half dozen armed guards stare down, vigilant, at the courtyard from the rampart. 

Algwain sniffs the musty scent of damp stone. It’s a dismal welcome.

A round, ball-like man barrels down the stairwell from the castle wall. You look like shit,” Porker says, rolling in front of Algwain with a welcoming grin.

“Aye, and you’ve lost weight?”

“Nah, I’ve gained a few kegs.”

“I can see.”

“Where the feck are your boots?”

“Long story.”

“You’re a general now, eh?”

“Aye, General of Ossan Garrison. I served as captain to Aldard.”

“Did you now? Where is the great bear?” The fat old guard scans the horse and cart. “He owes me a few ales after losing a hand of Elder Flagget. The cheating bastard.”

“A story for later, if you will?” Algwain rubs his temples.

A concerned look falls on Porker’s face. “Let’s get you cleaned up and fed,” Porker says, slapping Algwain’s back and embracing him. “Good to see you, lad. I’m sure you’ve grown.”

“Nah,” Algwain grins, “you’ve always been short and fat.” Algwain gestures to the peddler. “This, old friend, is Nirtesh, a trader from the west.”

“Is that right?” Porker casts a skeptical look at Nirtesh.

The peddler grabs his tall wooden staff and steps down into the courtyard’s grime. His bare feet splash into sloppy puddles of muck. Porker looks down at the old man’s wrinkled feet and raises his eyebrows.

“This is Eifear and Eindred.” The bedraggled soldiers peer from beneath their hoods with vacant, bloodshot eyes. Their sodden clothes cling to their skin, covered in filth. They give Porker a solemn nod. Eifear holds the bundle of child close to his chest; her protruding feet kick in silent distress.

“A bairn?” Porker looks at Algwain with surprise. “It looks like you lads have had a rough time. This way, general.” Porker gives Algwain a mocking, deferential bow. Then, he marches ahead, his boots slapping through the cloggy muck.

“I have urgent news for Lord Aiseld.” Algwain breaks the trudging silence, his bare feet slopping through the puddles.

“Lord Aiseld is on a hunt.” Porker sighs, troubled.

“A hunt in this weather? You can barely see the nearest man.” Algwain shields his eyes from the rain.

Porker comes to an abrupt stop at the doorway of the main hall, and his voice drops to a whisper. “I’ll have you housed in the main tower, away from prying eyes. We have tales to share, lad.” Porker leads them into a dimly lit main hall, where an abysmal fire burns in the giant hearth. An eerie silence descends upon Algwain and his company. Porker rubs his small hands together and then brushes the rain from his long beard. 

A single maid walks from the dark recesses of the hall with her head bowed, ready to serve. “Have the general and his guests housed in the main tower. Draw them hot baths. They will sup in their chambers.” Porker musters a dank smile. “There is little to celebrate in Merefen until Lord Aiseld’s return.” Porker nods to Algwain. “What about the bairn?”

“She will chamber with me.” The old peddler’s cataract eye flickers with a flash of blue light and catches Porker off guard.

“Strange fecking times indeed,” the guard mutters to himself. “I’ll find you lads some clean clothes and you some new boots.” He stares down at Algwain’s feet, shaking his head. “Talk later, general.” Porker turns and barrels out of the main hall.

They follow the maid through the dark hall, walking between the dank trestle tables, which smell of damp wood, until they climb a winding stairwell, spiraling upward through dismal shadows and murky light.

Algwain sits, contented, by the meager hearth in his chamber, his eyes hypnotized by the flickering flames. He nurses a bowl of steaming, meaty broth, its scalding heat kissing his lips and dripping into his beard. 

A knock on the door interrupts the peaceful silence. The chamber door creaks open, and Porker squeezes his bulk into the room, with a loud heave. In his arms, he lugs a large wooden barrel of ale.

“How’s the pottage?” Porker edges into the room fat arse first.

Algwain turns from the fire to the door and says, "It tastes like home,” raising his eyebrows at the sight of the ale barrel. “Is it going to be like this, then?”

“Aye, it is.” Porker lumbers into the room and dumps the barrel of ale before the hearth. He removes the lid from the barrel and dunks two flagons into the ale, filling them to the brim. “Drink. That’s an order, general.”

They stand, knock their flagons together with a loud clink, and chug their ale in gulping silence. Not a drop goes to waste. “Feck, that’s good.” Algwain licks his lips in appreciation.

“I brewed it myself,” Porker says, resting his free hand on his massive belly. “Used last winters the old grain barrels to ferment it.”

“I can taste it,” Algwain says as he dunks his flagon into the barrel and fills it to the brim.

“You, first, general.” Porker burps and pulls up a chair to sit beside Algwain. The pair sit in silence, their eyes bewitched by the firelight.

It’ll take a few more ales before I get going,” Algwain says, running his hands through his cleaned hair. “For now, I’m all ears, old friend. A hunt, you say?”

“Aye, a hunt. Three turns past,” grunts the old gate guard.

“Three turns? What of Lord Aiseld? Where’s Lady Aiseld?” Algwain takes a large gulp of ale. “Where are Elfred and Adela and the household guards?”

Porker sucks his breath and runs a large hand over his bald head. “Lady Aiseld and Adela went for a ride on Oldren Glenn six turns past. They never returned.”

“They went alone?” Algwain shakes his head in disbelief.

“Don’t be daft,” the old guard scoffs. “They went picking wildflowers with a dozen household guards. I mean, there’s nowt out there except wind and rain.” An invisible weight hangs on Porker’s shoulders. “They sent a search party and didn’t pick up a single track or scent. It drove Lord Aiseld mad. He searched from here to the borderland. I thought you might have some word?”

Algwain shakes his head in silence.

“Four turns ago, a herder wandered to the gate, dragging the carcass of a butchered goat.” Porker chugs another gulp of ale. “Flayed to the bone with no innards, and its carcass turned inside out. I ain’t seen nowt like it.” Porker gulps down his ale. “What beast does that? A bear? There’s not been a snowcat in these parts for over a hundred great cycles.”

Algwain shudders and closes his eyes as visions of the burning farmstead; haunting shadows tearing through human flesh fills his mind.

“Lord Aiseld figured that whatever butchered this goat also found Lady Aiseld and Adela. He sounded the hunting horns, emptied the kennels, and charged out with Elfred and three dozen men wielding swords, shields, and bows. They never came back.”

Algwain massages his temples, restless and fidgety. He holds his head in his hands as silence descends in the chamber.

“We saw you coming through that cursed fog. I admit my heart leapt.” The old guard slumps back into his chair. “Well, the rest, you know. It was you. I’ve served this house all my life, for sixty-three great cycles, and I’ve seen it all. But this? These are dark times, Algwain.”

Algwain can’t find any words. The fire’s embers splutter and fly from the hearth in a gust of wind, causing the hair on the back of Algwain’s neck to rise, sending an icy shiver down his spine. “I don’t know what to say, old friend.” He places a comforting hand on his fat leg. “Dark times indeed.”

“What about you, general?” Porker sucks on his teeth. “I hope you come with better tidings?”

Algwain downs his flagon of ale in a single gulp as he wrestles with words that elude him.

“Where’s Aldard?” Porker saves Algwain from the lingering silence.

“Dead.”

“I’m sorry, lad. I didn’t know him well. We played a few hands of Flagget many cycles ago. His reputation was right enough. A good man.”

“The best man I knew.” A quick sigh bursts from Algwain’s lips. “Ain’t no man I know who can take down the great bear.”

“What do you mean?” frowns the old guard, with a curious look.

“I fear you will not well understand the words I tell you.” Algwain delves into unwanted memories that resurface. The unearthly whispers, chitters, and chatters as darkness descended, and the dying screams of his kin as their flesh was torn from bone. 

“Try me.” Porker places a reassuring hand on Algwain’s shoulder.

“Five turns ago, we marched from Ossan in nothing but rain, sleet, and snow. Three dozen good men. We bagged a few braces of pheasant and hare, then made camp at the Standing Stones and got a half-decent fire going.” Algwain’s voice quivers, and his leg shakes. Porker holds his leg still. “It was a good night, by our standards. Aye, we were dead tired and marching on weary feet, but heading home. We found comfort in some skins of strong wine.” Algwain chuckles. “Aldard stashed them there for the journey home. Right enough, a good man.” His mind wanders, straying back into the darkest night. “I remember sitting around the fire and looking into the men’s eyes as they emerged from the shadows.”

“Who did?” The old guard leans toward Algwain, his eyes searching him with intent.

“You’re going to think I’m mad.” Algwain pulls at his hair and rubs at his beard with a growl.

“I’ve known you since you were a boy. I watched you grow up within these castle walls. Trouble? Yes, but not mad.”

“It’s not who, but what.” Algwain fidgets. “The shadows came from the shadows.”

“Aye, shadows are but shadows. Are you sure you haven’t had enough ale?”

“No, I mean, the shadows attacked us.” Algwain puffs in short-tempered frustration.

The old guard scoffs but holds back his chide when Algwain turns and faces him with furious eyes.

“The shadows tore through flesh like water over rocks, slaughtering us one by fecking one. They sliced and clawed flesh from bones with such ruthless wickedness you cannot imagine. Old friend, I only wish my memories were untrue, and this is a vicious nightmare. Yet here I sit, bearing the scars.” Algwain stands and pulls up his shirt to reveal the healing claw and bite marks.

The old guard gulps in surprise.

“This is only a fraction of the scars we carry.” A darkness seems to descend on Algwain as he sits and hangs his head in his hands. 

“You didn’t fight back?” Porker rubs his temples.

“Our blades and arrows met nothing but thin air.” Algwain’s fear and anger flow like a stormy tide. “Aldard died fighting their leader, a man armored as black as night. A knight who can cleave a man in two with a single blow. A knight who flies Galt’s sigil, the dragon on his breastplate. We fled on Aldard’s last command, fleeing across the moors through a living nightmare. I stumbled across a farmstead by chance, and only by firelight did we survive the night. I burned every scrap of wood and every piece of cloth, even my fecking boots.” Algwain wriggles his toes in his new boots. “Eindred and Eifear held the door as shadows tore the skin from their legs like morning blankets. The shadows fled at dawn, and only Eindred, Eifear, and I survived. All others died in the slaughter.” 

Algwain slumps back into his chair, staring into the old guard’s bewildered eyes. “The child was alone, hiding under the table. Her parents, butchered with their livestock, turned inside out. As for Nirtesh, the old peddler, he arrives at our most desperate time with four blankets, an empty cart and healing herbs. What are the chances, aye?”

Porker’s words stutter from his mouth, falling flat in structure and meaning.

“The old peddler knows our names, yet we did not give them; when the shadows came again—" Algwain stops short. “Do you believe in the old gods?”

“Go on.” Porker’s encouragement surprises Algwain.

“All I can say is that whatever craft this old peddler possesses is something from folklore. Darkness became light, and the shadows turned to clouds of shining silver dust. Whoever or whatever this man is, he is not of our world.” Algwain barks in laughter and slumps forward. “I’ve gone fecking mad. Go on, say it. I’m fecking mad.”

“Feck me,” belly laughs the old fat guard on rosy cheeks. “Right enough, you’re on the verge of madness. I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it myself.” Porker takes a huge chug of ale and dunks his flagon back into the barrel. “Two nights back, the lads and I stood on the rampart waiting for our Lord Aiseld’s return. We watched the night sky erupt in balls of light as the stars fell to earth, like tears of rain. We saw a lightning storm like we’ve never seen before. A storm of such brilliant light, thundering with a thousand screams.” Porker shudders. “It chilled me to my bones.”

“You believe me?” Algwain nods.

“Believe is a strong word.” Porker falls silent for a moment. “I don’t doubt your word, Algwain.”

“Like you say, these are dark times.” Algwain nods in acceptance.

“Dark times need more ale,” chuckles the old guard. “The world’s turning inside out, and nowt makes sense anymore.”

“What other news? Bring a smile to my ugly face.” Algwain slouches back into his chair.

“Nothing good.” The old guard shakes his head. “A few turns back. Lord Aiseld received a summons from the prince.”

“Prince Madon?” Algwain’s brows rise in surprise.

“The young prince summoned all the lords to Castle Galt. He means to take the throne. Lord Aiseld refused the summons. He wouldn’t bend the knee to the prince while King Eiden lives.”

Paroooooom. Paroooooom. The trumpets sound.

Porker bounds to his feet with surprising agility. “Sorry, old friend. Ale and tales can wait. Duty calls. Two blasts, riders approach the gate.”

“Can it be?” Algwain eyes the tubby guard with a hopeful expression.

“I dare not hope. To see Lord Aiseld’s return would be a welcome sight. I’ll come by later. We’ll finish the ale, aye?”

“You don’t want some extra hands?” Algwain casts Porker a furrowed look. “We’ll earn our keep.”

“I’m sorry, Algwain. You’re to remain in your chamber.” Porker winces with a weary farewell nod. “Try not to drink all the ale.”

“I don’t understand?” Algwain’s chair grates on the stone floor as he stands up in protest.

“I wish I could tell you. I’m just following orders.” The old guard walks to the chamber door.

“Orders? Who’s in command here?” Algwain places a firm, halting hand on the old guard’s shoulder.

“Try not to hold a grudge, lad.” Porker brushes Algwain’s hand away and opens the chamber door. The long shadows of armed soldiers dance in the corridor’s low light. “Stay in your chamber, and I’ll share another ale and tale with you later.” Porker strides from the room, “I’m sorry, lad.” He winces as the door latch clinks shut.