Castellan (27 page)

‘Get back to your work,’ Rudolf shouted at the novices as the sergeants quickly carried on marching towards the gatehouse.

Within seconds he was standing before Conrad.

‘Are you going to strike me as well?’

Conrad felt himself starting to blush. ‘No, master.’

Rudolf assisted the groaning Hylas to his feet and then struck Conrad in the face with the back of his hand.

‘Hurts, doesn’t it. All of you now have two weeks on latrine duties, starting immediately.’

They sheepishly bowed their heads at Rudolf and began walking towards the stables where their horses waited to be cooled down and brushed. Conrad caught the eye of the mad Hylas, blood at the corner of his mouth.

‘Imp,’ the lunatic sneered.

*****

It took two weeks for Kristjan’s army to reach the sacred forest hill at Paluküla, the highest point in northern Estonia. The land was still wet after the melting of the snows and ice but it was blossoming into life, the desolate white of the winter giving way to hues of greens, red and yellows with the arrival of spring. Vetseke’s Livs and Russians grumbled that they were heading in the wrong direction but the young Ungannian leader had the look of a man on a mission and so the prince said nothing. Most days he and his men assisted the carts in travelling along waterlogged tracks and through swollen streams. It was tiresome work but the Ungannians appreciated their help and the mood among the warriors was positive. Everyone had heard of Rustic and they believed that their leader had been given a message from the gods. Vetseke knew otherwise but kept his thoughts to himself. One thing was certain: Kristjan would need more men if he was serious about fighting the Sword Brothers. A lot more men.

The sacred hill itself was larger than he had expected, a great tree-covered mound spread over sixty acres. Surrounded by peat bogs, birch forests and clear sparkling streams, the hill itself was dotted with sacred limes, oaks, alders, birch and lindens. There was a small village on its southern side, a collection of wooden huts that were the lodgings of those who protected the site – the keepers of the sacred hill.

Kristjan rode with Vetseke into the village, in truth nothing more than a dozen huts, a large barn and several piles of firewood. They halted in the centre of the settlement and looked around. There were no people, no animals and no insects. Nothing.

‘Looks deserted,’ observed Vetseke.

‘Perhaps there is another village nearby,’ said Kristjan.

‘So, you have come.’

The heads of the two horses reared up in alarm as the sharp voice pierced the air. They swung in the saddle to see the source of the voice behind them. It was a tall individual in a loose-fitting white robe with a hood that covered his head. They could only see his clean-shaven chin and lips. Kristjan was slightly unnerved by his sudden appearance and hidden face.

‘Welcome, Kristjan, son of Kalju, we have been expecting you.’

‘We?’ said Vetseke, looking around and seeing no one.

‘The friend of the Russians must leave,’ commanded the keeper, ‘his presence violates this sacred place.’

Vetseke was a Liv and respected the old religion but he was still a prince and used to giving orders, not taking them. He turned his horse to face the keeper and casually drew his sword. He was about to issue a veiled threat when he suddenly shouted and threw his sword to the ground. Kristjan looked at him in confusion. Vetseke, flustered, smiled weakly at him.

‘Damnedest thing. For a moment I thought I was holding a hissing snake.’

‘Leave your horse here, Kristjan, son of Kalju,’ said the keeper, who suddenly turned and began walking towards the hill. ‘You will not need it.’

Kristjan shrugged, handed the reins to Vetseke and dismounted.

‘Make camp nearby,’ he said to Vetseke. ‘I will not be long.’

He followed the keeper out of the village to the foot of the hill, which consisted of a number of grass-covered ridges, making the climb easy.

‘Do not touch the trees,’ commanded the keeper, ‘they are sacred.’

The hill could be seen from miles around but in truth it was not particularly high and soon Kristjan found himself on its tree-covered summit threading a path between oaks that could have been as old as the earth itself. Their gnarled trunks were huge, their branches twisted into strange shapes.

The keeper said nothing despite Kristjan’s attempts to engage him in conversation. After a while he gave up trying and the pair walked on in silence. He became aware that not only was there an absence of conversation but also of wildlife. No woodpeckers tapping or tits cheeping. No warblers, corncrakes, rose finches. Nothing. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, had goose bumps on his arms and his mouth became dry. The silence was oppressive, as though nature had fled from this place to get away from the gods that inhabited it. He became aware of the thumping heart in his chest. On they went, past lindens decorated with red ribbons, silver earrings and bronze bracelets – offerings to the gods.

Eventually they came to a copse of lindens, all the trees having dark fissured bark, their trunks covered in lichen. The keeper stopped.

‘We are here.’

He pointed to a rather stunted linden, obviously very old, where a large, inverted tear-shaped round grey object nestled in one of the lower branches.

‘You want the help of Taara?’

Taara was the God of War and Kristjan knew that lindens were the trees of the deity. He nodded.

The keeper pointed at the round object. ‘Then tear that apart and retrieve the silver torc that lies within and you will have Taara’s blessing and protection. But before you do know this: Taara will know your true aims and will determine whether they are noble or selfish. You may deceive yourself and your fellow man but you cannot deceive the gods.’

Kristjan was delighted. Rustic had obviously given his blessing to his venture and now all he had to do was break apart some sort of foliage to get a silver token of the God of War. He walked over to the linden tree and stopped when he saw the insects buzzing around. A hornets’ nest!

He looked back at the keeper who stood motionless, the hood still covering his face.

‘You think Taara gives his help cheaply, Kristjan, son of Kalju? You must prove to him that you are worthy of fighting in his name.’

He looked at the hornet’s nest. He had been taught that they were better left alone for to disturb one was to invite the wrath of a thousand stinging demons. He had seen animals and people killed in such attacks, their lifeless bodies swollen and red. He hesitated.

‘There is no shame in refusing the task,’ said the keeper. ‘Only those who are worthy have the courage to attempt what lesser men fear.’

Kristjan remembered the terrible deaths of his parents and sisters, the arrogance and treachery of the Sword Brothers and the dozens of warriors who had marched to this place. He breathed deeply to compose himself and drew himself up.

‘Remove your armour,’ said the keeper.

Kristjan was shocked. ‘My armour?’

‘Taara will be your protection, unless you do not believe in his powers.’

This was madness. He knew he would get stung but at least his armour would afford him some protection. He sighed and removed the mail armour, dropping it to the ground.

‘Your tunic as well,’ commanded the keeper.

Kristjan shook his head. The hornets would be able to sting through the thin material with ease anyway, not to mention his face, neck and hands.

He reflected that he might follow his mother, father, brother and sisters into the afterlife, leaving his disfigured sister as the only surviving member of his family. But, for better or ill, he had come to this place and would not turn back now. He concentrated on the nest, which seemed calm with only a few hornets flying around it. He closed his eyes and asked Taara for protection, then raced forward.

The nest was resting on a branch around five feet off the ground and so he was able to smash his fist into it to knock it to the ground. It fell on the soft earth and he ducked under the branch and drove his boot into the soft, crumbly material. He was elated to see a glint of metal and bent down to retrieve the silver torc, and was then engulfed by a swarm of enraged hornets.

The first thing he experienced were not stings but noise, an angry buzzing that grew in intensity until he thought his ears would burst. The volume of the humming got louder and louder as the insects became more and more enraged. He clutched the torc in his hand and stood. And then pain engulfed him. It was not one or two or even a number of stings but an intense heat that originated in his hands and then crept up his arms as the hornets stung him viciously. It was as if his limbs were being slowly immersed in boiling hot water. It took all his willpower to keep hold of the torc as the insects stung his chest, back, legs, neck and face.

He closed his eyes as searing pain was inflicted on his whole body. He screamed out loud as he staggered away and then tried to run to get away from the hornets. But his efforts were in vain as they kept on stinging him and every part of his body cried out for mercy. He closed his eyes to protect them as his eyelids were repeatedly stung. He tried to swat away his tiny tormentors but this enraged the hornets even more and resulted in more stings. It was as if a thousand red-hot pincers were pulling his body apart. He could no longer scream or even wail, just emit pitiful low moans as his body was tortured beyond endurance. He tried to keep hold of the torc as he fell to his knees and then collapsed face-first on the ground. The last thing he remembered before passing out was the accursed buzzing in his ears.

He could not open his eyes when he regained consciousness, so swollen were his eyelids. His whole body was aflame with itching and pain. Had he been able to see he would have viewed laid out on a bed a naked body that was almost completely red, with a thousand wheals surrounding each tiny puncture denoting a hornet’s sting. He could feel the pain that occupied every muscle and bone of his body and tried hard not to cry out in agony. But he was also aware of cool relief being applied on parts of his frame.

The keepers worked fast, applying fresh bandages that had been soaked in vinegar for at least fifteen minutes to the most injured parts of his flesh. He did not know how many of them worked around his bed but their touch was tender and their skill high. They crushed fresh basil leaves to release the herb’s natural oils and pressed it gently on to a sting to draw the poison. After a day of intensive treatment, during which he was turned frequently so the wheals on his back could be treated, he began to feel partly alive as opposed to being roasted over a fire.

‘The gods are with you, Kristjan,’ he heard, the voice female and soothing.

Gentle fingers applied honey to each sting to calm the skin around it and all the time sweet reassuring voices told him that he would live and not be scarred. On the second day he was able to open his eyes, to see four young women in pure white robes attending him. One lifted his head so he could drink water from a cup while the others washed and treated his athletic body. On the third day the pain and swelling had subsided and the crushed basil relieved his itching. He noticed that all the female keepers had blonde hair, blue eyes and flawless skin. They smiled sweetly and touched him with the gentleness of forest nymphs and his body responded. First by healing itself and then being aroused as he observed the shape of their breasts and the curves of their hips and buttocks. They washed every inch of him and giggled when his manhood responded.

‘Your strength returns, Kristjan,’ said one as she washed his inner thigh with a soft cloth.

He mumbled an apology and redness returned to his cheeks, though it was not the fire of hornet poison but embarrassment as he blushed.

‘You should not be ashamed of your body,’ she told him, her touch doing nothing to dampen his now throbbing manhood. ‘The gods have given you a body that is strong and beautiful. You should be proud of it.’

Nevertheless, the next day he asked for a long tunic to cover his modesty and was given a pair of linen undergarments instead. The keepers informed him that his body needed air to recover and opened the shutters of the hut he was lodged in. Village huts were usually dusty, dim places but this abode was clean, spacious and remarkably airy. The result was that by the sixth day he was able to stand and put on his clothes, minus his old leggings and shirt that had been burnt. He was given fresh breeches and a new shirt and walked into the spring sunshine a man reborn.

Vetseke and two of his senior chiefs came to him, relieved and delighted that he still lived after his ordeal. He noticed that they studied his face and neck for any scars or blemishes.

‘Not a mark on you,’ admired Vetseke.

‘Was it very terrible, lord?’ asked one of his bearded chiefs.

‘Like being thrown on a raging fire,’ he answered.

‘This belongs to you, Kristjan, son of Kalju.’

He turned to see the faceless keeper with the hood holding the silver torc that he had nearly died for held in his right hand. The man lifted his arm and held out the prize.

‘The torc of Taara is yours, Kristjan, son of Kalju. Your prayers have been answered.’

Kristjan took the silver band and placed it around his neck, expecting the sky to crack with thunder. Nothing happened. Vetseke and the chiefs looked around at the empty village, expecting to see an army of warriors spring from the ground. For that is what they came for. Instead a black cat walked nonchalantly in front of them, turned its head to give them a disapproving stare, before wandering off.