"Mallory! Where the bloody hell are you?" The stentorian voice rumbled down the hallway, echoing from the stone walls.

​

Roland Mallory, skivvy and part-time dogsbody, was jolted from his doze by the kitchen hearth. He had been dreaming of cold beer, warm summer days and an even warmer woman. 

​

Dalen Roxley, built like a brick privvy and smelling just as bad, stormed into the kitchen. With a grace that belied his size, Roxley kicked the stool from under Roland and sent him tumbling to the flagstone floor.

 

The next kick was aimed at Roland's midriff but the servant scrambled to one side and rolled to his feet. "What's all that about?" he asked.

​

"I knew you'd be lazing about, you worthless maggot."

​

"I was on duty all night," Roland protested. "I've run errands from one side of the castle to another, been upstairs, downstairs and even to parts of this old ruin I've never seen! I'm knackered. And do you know how many times I had to clean his lordship's chamber pot?" Before Roxley could answer, Roland went on with his rant. "Three! That's how many. Turned my stomach, it did."

​

Roland saw the clenched fist a second too late. The punch caught him in the stomach and he doubled up, groaning, as the wind was driven from his chest.

​

"You will not besmirch his lordship, you dog!" growled Roxley as he grabbed Roland by the hair and forced him to stand up straight. "You're not among the great and the good any more, lad, your father saw to that."

​

"Leave my father out of this," Roland gasped. "You weren't worthy to be his squire, let alone the lord's bodyguard."

​

The knee to the crotch was impossible to avoid and Roland was only kept upright by Roxley's grasp on his hair. Roland gritted something unclean and unintelligible.

​

"What was that?" Roxley bent closer to Roland, the smell of stale beer and body odour forming a cloud around the servant's head.

​

Roland changed tack. He did not want another beating from Roxley. There had been too many of those lately. "Just that you should be the lord's champion, not some common, arrow-fodder bodyguard."

​

Roxley let go of Roland's hair and forced him back against the wall. "Arse-kissing won't get you anywhere with me, you little runt. I should beat you black and blue." He let the threat dangle between them for a moment, as he watched Roland gasp for breath and try to soothe his bruised family jewels. "But I won't. Not today, at least."

​

"Why?"

​

"Because his lordship wants a word with you." Roxley let out a harsh bark of laughter. "Probably wants you to do something important, like muck out the pigs or clean the shitter."

​

Roland's heart sank. He'd been on latrine duty before and it had taken a week to feel clean again. Shawna had not been happy. "I exist to serve," he muttered.

​

"Then get your worthless hide up to the lord's rooms. Double-quick, now or I'll boot your arse up the stairs myself."

​

Roland darted for the door, urged on by a slap against the back of his head.

​

***

The castle, despite Roland's earlier protestations, was not a ruin. Yes, some parts were better maintained than others, while some locations were reputed to be less haunted. After five centuries, three wars and twice that number of seiges, the castle still stood, proud and unbroken, on the hill at the southern end of Mistyford.

​

The town had stood longer than the castle, having grown around the only safe crossing point of the Crystal River for twenty miles in each direction. Of course, the ford had only been as safe as the townsfolk could make it and, back in those days, river piracy and highway robbery had been rife. The first Lord Falck had put an end to that, with mailed troops, cavalry and a wave of summary executions. 

 

Such history Roland had been told by his father. Now, as he hobbled painfully through the castle, he saw some of that history re-told in portraits of the earlier lords, statues and displays of weapons, armour and treasures looted from the vanquished enemies.

 

***

Roland slowed as he approached the Lord Kain Falck's rooms. Two guards, halberds and mail gleaming in the torchlight, stood beside the heavy oak door.

​

"Who are you and what is your business here?" asked the first guard, a heavily moustached thug. Mathias Blackwind, Roland knew, had risen to the post of lord's bodyguard by killing a rival in a bar brawl two summers past. Tread carefully with this one, Roland told himself.

 

"I'm told his lordship has ordered me to come to him."

 

"Told by who?" grunted the second guard. Of this one, Erik Netheridge, Roland knew little, save that he was cousin to one of the lord's mistresses. It was amazing just what one could learn as an invisible nobody, ignored by all, in the halls of the lord.

 

"Sir Roxley passed on the order himself," Roland said. He stifled a smirk as he saw the look of horror on Netheridge's face. The man would not disobey an order from the thunderstorm of rage embodied in Roxley.

 

"Keep an eye on him while I check," said Blackwind, who turned to open the door. Netheridge nodded, lowered his halberd and levelled the point at Roland's chest.

 

After interminable moments, Roland was frogmarched into the lord's chambers.

 

***

 

A man turned from the arrow-loop which formed the room's only window. It was not the Lord Falck.

 

Taller than Roland by nearly a foot, the old man was thin to the point of emaciation, his face long and pale and a thin smile which did not reach glittering grey eyes.

 

"Roland Mallory," began the man. "Son of the late Markus Mallory. Such a shame that a promising knight fell from grace. And you, an indentured servant until you repay the debt your father left behind."

 

"My father ... " Roland gritted - intending to say his father did not fall from grace, he was pushed - then was silenced by the point of a halberd prodding into his back, "... committed a great wrong. I serve at his lord's pleasure until he deems fit."

​

"Indeed," said the old man, who lapsed into silence for a long while.

​

Roland, squirming inwardly, struggled to remain silent. The oppressive quiet grated on his nerves. He knew he should not speak. To do so would invite a beating from the guards behind him. But, as he dug his nails into his sweating palms, the words came unbidden: "Wh ..."

 

"Where is Lord Falck?" the old man interjected.

​

"Er ..." Roland replied. One wrong word could get him impaled.

​

"The lord is ill, as you well know. With the last of his strength, before lapsed into unconsciousness, he instructed me to bring you here."

​

"Last of his ...?" Roland said. "Is he, I mean, has he ... passed?"

​

"Oh, no. Not yet, at least. Though your concern does you credit, it seems his lordship is not long for this world."

​

Roland looked down at his feet. He was conflicted. The passing of the Lord Falck, who had no certain heir, would cause untold trouble within the castle. On the other hand, Roland had no love for the old bastard who had presided over the trial which had led to his father's dismissal, dishonour and execution.

​

"There is one thing we might do," went on the old man.

​

Roland kept his eyes down. He had a nasty feeling that by "we", the old man meant "he".

"The Church of Jotal is known for its healing skills. It is rumoured they make a medicine that can cure the lord's ills. I am charging you with obtaining that medicine. It is the lord's will."