The Shadow of Carnsbel (Closed)

[Jack Trades]

Along a dusty road three brightly painted gypsy wagons rolled toward their destination. They bounced over the rough and overgrown ruts while the passengers inside rode as comfortably as they could. Men and women chatted and planned about how they would perform for the next town. Most already knew, but they chatted anyway because they were hungry, and the thought of new prospects gave them hope of food. One of the men stood slightly and called to a corner. "You there, Storyteller! You got to eat today. Tell us a story."

A heap of oilskin cloth stirred slightly as a broad-brimmed hat tilted up to the addressing. "Very well," a hearty voice rumbled form the shade underneath the brim. His use of their language was a bit broken, but upon rising to his feet in the bouncing wagon, it was good enough when mixed with complex gestures from calloused hands to paint stories they enjoyed. "I won't tell this story in public, but I'll tell it now because your bellies are empty, and the children are with their mothers in the other wagon."

There was a town on the west continent called Donzburg. It is no longer called that, but is now named Carnsbel as is the castle that resides nearby. The castle sat on a bridge which was the only river crossing for a three day's ride. The castle stood about half a league away from the town with a well paved road in between. One of the castle's gates rested on the road, the other formed the end of a stone bridge that spanned the river. The lion's share of its mass rested on an outcropping of land that jutted into the river, using it as a natural moat that mostly encircled the castle. The Count that ruled the castle and the land maintained a personal apple orchard on the opposite side of the river that was renown for superb harvests in both quantity and quality. The road that led up to the bridge was lined with trees that spread into a forest beyond the orchard fields.

Germanic states warred with each other frequently, and the town and castle were not idle bystanders. The castle defended the river crossing and fertile valley that fed armies through farming. The nearest military installation was thirty miles away, so the castle became a proud symbol of stalwart and desolate defense.

This day found a number of men just a little smaller than a battalion leaving the castle under full flag and drums. The commander stooped down on horseback, handing a folded and sealed parchment to a man dressed in green with a hood and a bow slung across his back. The commander was dressed in full plate armor that gleamed in the morning sun. His visor was open and his long beard poked out over his chest.

"Thank you for delivering our orders, scout. Now here are yours: We cannot leave the castle completely unmanned, but our replacements have not arrived yet and we cannot wait any longer. I know their commander personally and he will arrive before nightfall. You are to man the castle and open the gate for them when they arrive. You shall turn over the castle to Sir Imble and resume regular duties under his command. Do you understand?"

The scout looked up from the parchment. A young man's face was clean shaven to regulation under the hood. The unit standard sewn on his chest was still clean and the fabric new. He snapped to attention and bowed. The dirt and calluses of his hand made a sharp contrast with his smooth face.
"Yessir!"

The commander gave a salute and kicked the horse forward and called over a shoulder. "You're way too big for a scout. If you ever want to swing an axe, request a transfer under me!"

The battalion moved on into the valley towards the front of the war, and though it was an arduous task for one man, the scout managed to close the gate behind them. What the scout did next was only natural. He scaled the walls and looked out over the river. He took in the views of the forest, the orchard, and the valley in all their glorious splendor. His chest swelled as he inhaled their fragrances on the wind.

Curiosity took hold of the scout after the gazing. He went into the castle and wandered the halls. It was eerie, much like a crypt with no one but himself there. Rats would scurry as his footfalls startled them, but they led him to the larder. Inside there was food, but the battalion had taken most everything. He reckoned a squad could live off of it for a week or so. Apparently Sir Imble was going to bring supplies as well. The scout helped himself to some bread and continued his tour. He walked through the barracks, the armory, the noble's quarters, the servant's quarters, the kitchen, and a library which had been left fully stocked.

The next hour found him lounging on the finest bed he could find with a window to the bridge, munching a loaf of bread, and paging through a dusty tome. Being at the rear was certainly a cushy job. There was no enemy, actual beds to sleep on, and all he had to do was babysit some stone. He laughed to himself, got up, and took his reading to the castle walls while the weather was nice.

The day passed on uneventfully, but his gaze fell upon the road with increasing frequency as the sun declined. In twilight he watched over an empty road that did not fill as night dressed it in pale colors. The scout took up residence in a guard tower. Such was military life. Reinforcements never arrived when they were supposed to. The scout felt a little slighted at their tardiness. He decide they could sleep outside if they could not rouse him. So he fixed himself some dinner, found a plush bed fit for a noble, and went to sleep.

The next morning the scout rose to find no one at his doorstep. It was now that he began to ponder his vulnerability. Surely no one would fault him for retreating in the face of a siege, but abandoning his post because he was alone would be treated as desertion and mean death by hanging. An escape plan was thoughtfully hatched. He looked out over the valley that led to the town. There was nothing between them and probable slaughter but the castle. He wondered if they could be contacted. So he went to the castle's bell and rang it three times as hard as he could. The scout climbed back to a vantage point. Nothing in the valley stirred, but a noise across the river behind him caught the scout's still-ringing ears. It was a thud and a quiet pained cry. It was faded over the distance, but still audible in the silence that resided in an empty castle. Though more of a yelp, it was distinctly human. The scout rushed over the battlements to the nearest wall for a look. In the trees near the road, where the forest was still dense, he could see the foliage move as two objects converged on a point, and then left in the same direction a little ungracefully. Panic shot up the scout's spine as the realization hit home. The castle had just been scouted!

The scout raced down off the wall, but as quickly as the panic whirled through his mind, so did calculations of his resources. He flew to the armory, gathering weapons and armor. Panic turned to questions. Was there a force behind the scouts? Were they even really scouts if they would bungle as badly as to be noticed that easily? Were they friend or foe? Where were the cursed reinforcements!? There was no way he could defend the
castle. He could think of only one option: bluff.

Armor was assembled on stands, bed posts, planks from sword racks, and bales of hay from the stables. In a fury he constructed scarecrows wearing guard uniforms and armor. The scout found crossbows and bolts to sling on them. He carried them up to the walls where he crawled on all fours, parading the dummies' heads and shoulders above the wall and propping them up in the guard towers. There he unslung the crossbows and set up firing stations in the towers should a manageable enemy force present itself. Once finished, his mind started to slow again as did his panting breath. A nervous stare saw nothing but landscape.

A week passed. No one came.
By now the scout had a steady schedule of "changing the guard", eating, resting, and reading. He made up names for the "guards" to keep track of them. He was glad no one came, but worried about the arrival of his relief and the dwindling food supply. Across the river the ripening orchards teased him with their pleasant fragrance.

Three weeks passed. No one came.
With no one talk to, he started to give the "guards" personalities of their own to entertain himself, but kept to the books to pass the time. By now the local animal patterns were noted.

A month passed. The larder was empty.
The scout cursed his luck. What in blazes was going on!? Left without a good choice, the babysitter turned predator. He started catching rats and cooking them. Moisture was not too hard to find in a dank and mossy castle. Though the search for food yielded more than sustenance. In the dark tomb-like recesses, the scout discovered passages that ran under the castle and outside the walls. He marveled at the design, how well they had been hidden, and how they kept from flooding. His hopes soared over having a furtive way in and out of the castle! Suddenly the sweet smell of ripening apples across the river held promise! His stomach growled.

The scout went back to the barracks while his mind raced, gathering satchels and weapons just in case. He would wait until dark, collect as many apples as he could carry, and sneak back into the castle. He had a problem though, in that the canvas and leather of the only satchels he could find were lightly colored, and stood out against this green uniform gambeson. A dark cover would be needed. After hours of searching the castle, he found a long black oilskin poncho. The fit was perfect. His stomach growled.

That night a shadow emerged on the far side of the river. It crept along the reed-lined banks until it entered the orchard, but it was not alone. Half a dozen other figures skulked about the orchards, picking apples as they went in the darkness. The scout was well trained, and soon closed until he could make out enough of their uniforms and armor to identify them as enemy. One soldier had stopped to rest at the base of a tree while the others kept moving and picking. He looked up into the pale moonlight as it filtered through the trees. The soldier's gaze rested on a hanging apple for several moments before sliding shut. His breathing slowed and his head lolled. He slept for what seemed a few moments. He awoke lazily and looked up, but the apple was gone. The soldier looked about for a fallen apple, but instead saw a pair of hob-nailed boots and made eye contact with a figure hooded in green. He drew a breath to call out, but a calloused hand clapped over the sound and the soldier's throat was slashed in the same motion. He died with a gurgle muffled by oilskin cloth.

Once back across the river, the scout dropped the soldier's body on a kitchen table without ceremony. He put a pot under the soldier's head and untied a blood-soaked piece of cloth from his neck used to avoid leaving a blood trail. Blood dripped into the pot while the scout munched on an apple. He doffed a satchel full of apples. Pulling up a chair, he began to interrogate the corpse. An analytical gaze roamed over the body under torchlight. Condition of the clothing, armor, weapon, boots, items carried, signs of health, disease, and fatigue were all sought. It was unavoidable, but his gaze also fell upon the soldier's face. He pondered the life he had taken briefly before pushing his thoughts to more pragmatic concerns. The scout continued to munch throughout this. After finishing the apple, he set to thinking. What he had just killed seemed to be a well fed and well financed foot soldier. He rose to his feet and paced while pondering.

If the soldier was part of a large offensive force, it did not make much sense for them to be this close to the castle without challenging it - unless they were to intercept movements from the castle, or they felt they were not strong enough to take the castle, and were waiting for reinforcements like himself. If it was a small force, then it would likely report activity to a larger one and disrupt communication. If they were amassing for an assault, his bluff would be called, and escape his only option. If they were camped for a long observation and harassment, they would continue to pick from the orchards, and likely hunt the woods for animals. Even if regularly supplied with food, fresh fruit and meat would be welcome supplements to a soldier’s diet. The supply was not limitless, and exhaustion was inevitable if he was not overrun quickly. The food chain was clear to him. There were too many predators for the area to support. Starvation was imminent. At that moment in his pacing he turned and found himself facing the kitchen table with a fresh carcass upon it. His body could not survive not survive on apples alone. He would only weaken and succumb without meat. No, such a taboo could not be broken, could it? When would his relief arrive? What would they think of his conduct? His stomach growled.

The next morning the scout carried a blood-soaked sack out into the castle courtyard, and then loaded the sack onto one of the castle's catapults. He rang the bell three times, and then fired the catapult. The sack sailed over the river and crashed through the shaggy boughs of the trees of the forest. Festering remains would only invite disease, but it could aid his charade. He did not have long to wait. In less than an hour, the woods echoed with a woeful curse. It blossomed into a wrathful shout until abruptly silenced. No other sounds tracked across the river. The scout did not fully understand the language, but the meaning was clear. Their comrade had been dear to at least one, they wished to remain unobserved, and they were smart enough to recognize what he had done.

The scout did not leave the castle that night, nor the next, but spent them reading, parading dummies, eating salted meat, and above all else, watching. On the third night the shadow crossed the river, and trained eyes spotted an ambush laying in wait. The scout silently stepped deeper into the shadows. Long hours passed. Nothing happened. Trained soldiers stifled their yawns. More hours passed and the eastern sky started to show its first pale shades of morning. One soldier tapped the apparent leader on the shoulder and whispered something. He rose and walked over to a convenient tree and started to unbutton his uniform. The leader started down the line, silently signaling to regroup and leave the area. As they gathered, they waited for the one soldier to finish his business. The early grey light continued to brighten, and one quietly called for him to hurry. One walked over impatiently, and found a puddle that steamed slightly in the chilled dew, but no solider. As grey light started to tinge with color, the puddle became discernibly red. He drew his sword, and the others of the squad followed suit. A search quickly fanned over the orchard, but was called off as the cover of night was lifting.

When the sun was high in the sky, the castle bell rang three times, and a catapult launched another sack into the forest. Several more days passed. The large game of the forest had ceased to be enough presence for the scout to detect. Whether it was through hunting or being run off, they were gone as a food source already. Two nightly outings had yielded apples instead of soldiers, and the scout did not complain. He prayed that reinforcements would arrive. This was absurd. How long could he keep it up? Any morbid curiosity he might have harbored in some unused corner of his mind about the taste of human flesh was long gone. It did not matter which side arrived. Friend or foe, he could leave and not be hung on sight. He could then legitimately warn the townspeople or collapse in a bed while someone else did the guard work. This was beyond his pay scale. The scout growled and thumped a fist against the stone wall and went out to the battlements. That was it, he was leaving, and skipping the country - desertion or not. It wasn't his country anyway. What kind of lunatic general leaves a lone scout to tend a whole castle? The scout's gaze then caught the wandering tendrils of smoke wafting into the wind over the town of Donzburg. There his gaze stayed for several moments. The scout stopped, sighed, set down the satchel he had just grabbed, and turned his gaze back across the river.

Three more months passed.

That night a thunderstorm blew in from the west. The green-hooded, oilskin covered scout made another foray into the orchard. The storm buffeted the trees and the river harshly, but the scout was in his element, and was not bothered in the least. That is, of course, until three enemy soldiers also braved the storm into the orchard. The scout was focused on apples, and all his satchels were nearly full. Their approach was muffled by the storm's rage. His only warning was the sound of a blade drawing. A whirl of wet oilskin and steel flashed in the lightning, and thunder drowned out the cry of steel on steel. The four fought between flashes of light, the soldiers slashing blindly at darkness as the oily shadow retreated. Escape was certain until the scout stumbled on something. He never knew what it was. The nearest soldier had all the opportunity he needed, and pierced the oilskin cloth. His blade ran through the thickness of the dark figure with a wet and fleshy "shlutch" sound. The soldier's teeth flashed in the lightning as he grinned in victory, but in the next instant his hands were about his chest, trying to hold in the flowing blood. The soldier collapsed, but the dark figure still stood. The second nearest soldier rushed the short distance, and the third soldier balked. The soldier's attack was parried by the scout's blade, and his free hand pulled the first soldier's sword free from the folds of oilskin cloth and buried into a chink in the second soldier's armor. The soldier screamed and folded over. The next flash of lightning silhouetted the darkly clad figure with a sword leveled at the third soldier. Conversely, it illuminated the third soldier's face to the hooded scout. He was a young man, barely sporting a moustache on his dirt-streaked face. His eyes were wild with fear, and his lips trembled. The soldier took a step back, then turned and fled. The shadow did not pursue.

Back in the castle, two corpses were positioned to bleed out in the kitchen. The poncho was removed, and blood-stained hands roamed over the fabric of a satchel sporting a large, rough gash in it that allowed a few half-hewn apples to fall out onto the floor. The scout quietly gave thankful prayers until he finally slept.

From the two corpses, the scout could tell their health was deteriorating. Signs of fatigue were present, and malnutrition. He was not certain how many he had killed, or how many there really were, but their numbers did not seem to be replenished. Though he could be reasonably sure that after all this time, the scout and the soldiers across the river had been forgotten by their superiors at the rear of the war.

Two more weeks passed, and he stopped seeing evidence of the soldiers. There were no more ambushes, or raids on the orchard. Large game began to return to the forest, so the scout hunted them. He lost precise track of the days, and the library was almost exhausted. Broken bones littered the grounds outside the castle walls, sucked clean of their marrow and scattered by animal scavengers. Life continued peacefully until the scout spied an odd sight coming from the town. It was a procession. Polished armor gleamed in the sun. Drums hailed the cadence as half a dozen mounted knights lead by one in particularly fancy armor rode a head of three squad's worth of footmen, archers, and plainly clothed people. The scout guffawed in delight to the point of coughing half a lung out. But then just as quickly became incensed. It was about bloody time! The scout waited in the battlements for the column to arrive. As they halted, the lead rider in fancy armor called up. "Hello in the castle!"
"Hello yourself!" The scout's voice grated from his throat unevenly. After all this time without anyone to talk to, it felt unnatural - even painful to stretch those fibers again. He did not avail them the sight of his person, and the rattle of armor responded before the voice below sounded again. "We seek audience with the Shadow of Carnsbel!"
"Who!?" the scout chuckled back. His voice sounded raspy and hollow to him. "I am sorry, but you've found Donzburg. And I am further sorry as I am not familiar with the way to Carnsbel."
"We are not fools!" the voice demanded. "We know where we are and by Royal Edict demand that you open this gate!"
Now the scout poked his hooded head to have a closer look. As soon as it crested, the crowd tensed and an archer nocked an arrow. The rider in fancy armor waved a hand back for them to stand down.
The scout responded. "So who are you then? I have orders to open this gate for an expected arrival and no one else."
The fancy rider spat, "I am king of this land, and my sovereignty will not be questioned! Open this gate!"
At that moment, one of the accompanying knights lifted his visor, and a long beard tumbled out over his chest. He spoke in hushed tones with the king before calling up. "You there, you're a scout, is that right? Do you recognize me? You are expecting Sir Imble, are you not?"
From under the hood, the scout's gaze picked over the knight's countenance. It took a few moments, but he did recognize him. "Yes, I am, and yes, I do."
"I am very sorry," the knight continued "Sir Imble died in the war. I did not find out until after the war was over."
"Over!?" The hooded figure slipped from view. A dozen minutes passed as the arduous task of opening the gate was performed. But as he walked to the opening, a priest suddenly stepped out of the crowd, chanting fervently in Latin and sprinkling holy water at him. A second priest pushed a cross and a strand of garlic at him. Hands went to weapons.
"What's the meaning of this!?" the scout growled, but stood his ground.
"I apologize," the king said calmly as he stopped the priests. "A few months ago, about fifty men surrendered to the town of Carnsbel - formerly Donzburg. They were unarmed, starved, and almost mad when they stumbled into town. They spun stories of a monster that lived in this castle, feasted upon the flesh of the dead, had only been seen once by a still-living person, and could not be killed with a sword. The castle is quite garish in appearance. We came to investigate if the stories were true. If you are a soldier, do you have your orders and insignia?"

The hood nodded and a rustle of oilskin cloth brought forth the folded parchment, pristine as the day they were issued, but the insignia that was sewn on his chest was now pulled from a pocket - frayed, dirty, and blood-stained. "I see, so you thought I was a vampire. Though I don't understand why the town was renamed." His strained voice cracked as tears tracked down dirty cheeks. "What happened? Why didn't you send help? Why was I left behind? What did I do here?"

The discussion carried on as the king and his troops occupied the castle. The town's new name and reputation was based solely on the scout's actions and his habit of ringing the castle bell before launching remains across the river. They settled and spoke over a hot meal of real food, which the scout gorged himself upon. The king apologized profusely for his misfortune, and promised to make it up to him, but there was a problem. The old law stated that the use or loss of crops under his watch were his responsibility to the count of Carnsbel. As a matter of policy, the king insisted on the old ways.

"I agree," said the scout. "I shall pay the damages to myself when the harvest is collected."
"What?" the king was dumbfounded.
"The castle library is quite ample, and the old law also guards against absentee landlords. Nobles who are not present in their lands for more than four months consecutively forfeit their lands to the occupying military commander and/or the de facto governor. I have been here alone for seven months."
The king's jaw hung loose, but he quickly recovered and nodded somberly. The king left shortly after, leaving his blessing with the new count and a portion of his entourage to stand guard.

For the first time in what seemed an eternity, the scout slept soundly.

A few days later, news had spread into town and people had started coming to the castle looking for work and to tour a piece of living folklore. The king also returned with several other nobles. The new count greeted the king warmly, but the king's face was ashen. They congregated in the library, and the new count was seated at a desk. The king spoke solemnly as he presented the new count with a newly published law book. The old count stepped forward, backed by the other nobles present, and mocked the new count. The new laws wrested possession of Carnsbel back into the old count's hands. The old count sneered at how stupid the new count must have been to even have a hope that their rich blood would ever tolerate having a moss-sucking, rat-eating cannibal amongst them.

There was no reply. In the same instant that the old count's teeth closed, a dirk flew out over the distance between them and impaled the old count's eye. The nobles and the king rushed to the count as he collapsed, but he was already dead. And the new count was already gone before they could look back. The castle was searched, but to no avail.

No one saw the count leave, but that night the sky glowed as if it were still twilight. The famed orchards burned to cinders before morning.

In the gypsy wagon, the brawny frame took a small bow before settling to a seated position. The other passengers immediately piped up.
"What an awful story!", one disgusted man cried, "Why would you ever tell that!?"
"I've lost my appetite after that stomach-churner," a woman said.
"He tells it so vividly, it's like he was there," said a younger woman.
"Of course," snorted the disgusted man, "Just as you make men believe you really love them." The younger woman swatted at him indignantly.
Another man chimed in, "The scout wore a poncho that I'm guessing is like yours. Are you saying that it was you?"
A young man cut him off at the end, "Couldn't be. The character wore a green uniform. There's nothing green about Storyteller."
The hearty voice rumbled out from under the weather-beaten brim. "I told you once before. Stories are but stories. Meaning is left to the audience."