Gold in the Wood, Chapter 2

Cairn Realplay Literary Adaptation

Chapter 2

Through Lirathil’s window came smoke and screams of the dying. She had been told to remain in her bedroom, but now she poked the slightest sliver of her face into the darkness of the stone corridor outside. It was empty, and a moment later she was scurrying away in her baggy nightclothes and bare feet. The screech of sword on shield echoed through the corridor, how near she could not tell. Lirathil held her breath as she rounded the corners, expecting each time to find dire brigands lying in wait. She tried to imagine her death with as much pain and gore as possible, to better prepare herself for the grim inevitability of it all. The rebels were coming to kill her family, and now they were here.

Lirathil descended a flight of stairs, heart pounding in her throat, turning down a second corridor, and then a third, but they were all deserted. Where had everyone gone? She imagined her friend Thime sitting in a locked closet, and Lirathil finding it, giving the secret knock so she would open the door and they could hide together. She pushed the thought out of her mind. There was no time for dreams.

She passed a row of arched windows, bracing as each opening revealed a blast of bonfire-heated air, roiling light, and a concert of yells and clangs. Lirathil averted her eyes towards the inside wall, but on it she could see shadows of the desperate melee in the courtyard below. She did not want to know if the Lakefort was falling, did not want to think about its defenders dying in the cold mud. Instead, Lirathil put her head down and sprinted around the corner and straight across the exposed landing foyer, anticipating a crossbow bolt in her side every step of the way. It never came though, and then Lirathil was passing through the open double doors of the Great Hall, as she did most every day. She stood in the uncanny emptiness of the darkened hall, momentarily forgetting why she had entered. At the high window, in his finest robes, was the Lord of the Lakefort.

Lirathil caught her breath instinctively, straightening. Then she was striding across the hall with a forcibly measured pace. Her bare feet slapped against the cold stones, and Lord Konnig turned. On his face, Lirathil saw momentary fear, then annoyance draining away to his usual infuriating placidity.

“I thought Shalma had told you to stay in your room,” he said flatly.

“It was filling with smoke,” she protested, hiding her breathlessness, “And there’s fighting in the yard. What’s happening? Are the rebels here? Why is the Great Hall Door open?”

Her father took a tone of bemused rationality, “Well, there tends to be smoke and fighting when a castle is attacked. Still, that’s no excuse for your misbehavior.”

Lirathil pushed down the panic welling in her chest. “So what, do you want me to go back up there?” she asked with muted incredulity. She was not interested in navigating this tonight.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Look.” Lord Konnig pointed out of the unpaned oriel window in front of him. Lirathil stood there for a few seconds, watching Lord Konnig gaze out into the courtyard, flame light dancing on his face. In his other hand was his jeweled goblet, which he used to gesture impatiently to Lirathil, eyes still fixed on the scene below. She sighed and moved to join her father at the window.

A gasp escaped Lirathil when she was able to perceive the battle in full. The combatants stretched across the courtyard and spilled out into the fields beyond, with no indication of where the conflict was headed or who fought on which side. In the center of the scrum was a massive creature lustily swinging a club the size of a mature coniferous trunk. Lirathil watched in horror as it scraped its massive claw down a flight of outer stairs, throwing limp combatants to the ground, where it promptly stomped on them.

“A cave ogre? Will the guards be able to fight it?” asked Lirathil quaveringly.

“No,” replied Lord Konnig wryly, “At least I hope not. It cost me dearly to bring it here.”

Lirathil watched in disbelief as the cave ogre went about crushing humans on both sides of the fray.

“That’s terrible,” she said eventually, voice barely above a whisper. Now that her eyes were adjusting to the light of the burning stables, Lirathil could make out the sky blue of the Lakeguard on the tunics of fighters lying in the mud. There was absolutely nothing she could do. The Lord of the Lakefort and his daughter watched the carnage in silence for a time, twin masks floating in the window, illuminated by the fire below and the moonlight above.

“I’ll tell you what’s terrible,” said Lord Konnig eventually, grimacing, “Rebels’ resolve. It’s so easy to say that our kingdom should be different, but none of them ever agree on the contents of the change. Such is the tragedy of originality, I suppose. Just look at what’s happened to this ill-fated uprising. Some of our esteemed rebels recently decided that they didn’t like how their new leadership was shaping up, can you imagine that! So, to our great fortune, the rebels rebelled against their precious rebellion. Doesn’t make them loyalists though, two wrongs don’t make a right. They’ll all be put to the sword in the end. Just what they deserve.”

He turned to his side with a look of triumph, but Lirathil was already gone. She was running away, ignoring her father’s calls as they echoed down the corridor behind her. She did not know where she was going, but perhaps she could find someone else, it didn’t matter who. Sister Sashwick, Captain Gotarr, Thime. She ran down another passageway, turned the corner, and froze. She was standing face to face with a brigand, both of them attempting to quietly catch their breath. He wore scarred, mismatched armor and his face was darkened with a gritty film of soot and sweat. He held his sword out at Lirathil with both hands.

“Who goes there?” said the brigand sharply, quietly. “Who do you serve?”

“My name is Thime”, she replied, “I’m a washermaid.”

He looked down at her fine spidersilk nightgown. “Are you of the Lakefort?”

“Please sir, I have nothing,” she pleaded.

The warrior grunted and reached towards his belt and then at Lirathil. She scrunched up her face, expecting to feel a dagger slide between her ribs. But it didn’t, and after an excruciating moment, she opened her eyes again. The brigand was holding something in his soiled, bandaged-wrapped hand, which he dropped in her palm. It was small and hard and cold against her skin, but it was too dark here to tell what it was, and her hands were shaking too fiercely besides. She looked at his harsh face questioningly.

“It is a secret,” intoned the rebel, “Protection for those without. Haven for those who have none. You just have to know where to look.” Then the fighting man pushed past Lirathil, leaving her shivering in the darkened corridor, alone.