Swift-Shadow Murders Chapter 3: The Haunted Monastery
Or how Ruaidhri & Augustin screwed up their investigation
The mountains that dominated the local area were large, inhospitable it was said and reminiscent of those Highland mountains that formed the spine of the isle of Bretwealda. The Highlands that filled Caledonia were immense, with those of Norwend no less impressive. It was therein the northernmost reaches of the great isle to the west of Gallia that Ruaidhrí was born, and it was there that he had grown up. Mountains such as those that were to be found there and in Arvois were an uncommon thing to the Brittians, and many of the peoples to the east of Gallia. Yet to the Caleds and Gallians, they were as common as blades of grass and no more daunting than grass.
It was for this reason that though he was not daunted by the great spiralling heights, of the mounts that he and Augustin spent much time journeying towards and climbing steep roads, he was nonetheless impressed by the size of these particular mountains. Ruaidhrí was to more than once struggle to urge his horse forward, one that his companion had lent him at the start of their journey, and one that proved an exhausting one.
“Are you certain that it lies atop this mountain?” He was to ask of his guide, who walked a little ways ahead of him and the horse he rode upon.
Holding onto the reins, Augustin glanced back at him from over his shoulder with a cheeky grin. “I never said Master Ruaidhrí that it was atop the mountain, but among them.”
“But I had thought-” Ruaidhrí began, only to catch himself. Hesitant to say more, for fear of seeming foolish in the eyes of the other man, he was to say instead. “How many more hours is it until we reach the monastery?”
“It should take us the rest of the day and a part of the night to reach it, Master Ruaidhrí,” Augustin replied with a short laugh, as he inhaled deeply only to exhale.
Shivering due to the cold, Ruaidhrí observed the woodcutter closely, studying how he smiled and seemed immune to the cold. Where before he had given the impression of continuous nervousness, of being a breath away from taking flight, the more they climbed the calmer he became. One might have thought him born on the mountain, or somehow a part of it. It was an unusual aspect of the man’s character.
“Why are you so serene here?” He was to ask of his guide after some time.
“Serene? I am not certain that is the word I would use to describe my present state,” Augustin remarked amusedly only to laugh. “I know only that I felt apprehension in that town, and that now that I am where the gods intended me to be, I feel happy.”
Ruaidhrí fell silent, unsure of what to say in response to this simple statement. He had no wish to say it, and might well have denied it however he at once understood why the man felt the way he did. The mountains were a place of utter stillness. Life is a storm, this Ruaidhrí had known since his earliest days and it was only up there in the mountains that he was reminded of his homeland. It was this sudden feeling of homesickness that he would have denied, as all who feel homesick always do. Because to acknowledge it publically, at least to the minds of most men was to admit to weakness, to the most unmanly sense of feebleness. With Ruaidhrí still a lad, one who aspired to and certainly thought himself to be a man.
“I do hope the monastery comes within view, within the hour,” He said feeling tired all of a sudden, as though the weight of the world were upon his shoulders.
Augustin hummed yet did not disagree, the same satisfied, strange little smile on his bearded lips.
The monastery when it rose into view seemed to jut out of the landscape ahead. Surging out from within the valley, it was hardly as grand as the castle to the south, or the village that surrounded it. Built of stone it was small, and hardly as impressive as some of the temples or cathedrals that Ruaidhrí had observed in his time in Brittia. Hardly twenty meters wide and about twice that in length, it was almost half that in height and seemed almost on the verge of collapse.
Though it almost appeared shabby, there was a quiet grace to it. A dignity seemed to pervade the whole of the area around it, so that it seemed to Ruaidhrí’s mind akin to an elderly man who has only grown in dignity with age rather than becoming bent and twisted with it. Amazed by it and the beauty of the valley which in the late autumn was covered in orange, red and green as the local trees had begun to prepare for the winter that was to come Ruaidhrí could not help but stare.
“Beautiful is it not?” Augustin asked of him, as they began their long, slow descent down the road through the mountains.
“Very much so,” Ruaidhrí replied almost whispering as though he feared he might disturb the great landscape that lay ahead of the two of them. “You have never visited this place before now?”
“Never, my friend I know only that it is a popular place for the people of Arvon to go on pilgrimage,” Augustin informed him with a soft look to the monastery. “It is dedicated to the goddess Marianne, who is the patron goddess of our kingdom. I have heard it told that the Duke of Norençia and even the King have had occasion to visit her once upon a time.”
“Really?”
“Yes indeed, but I am not certain, mayhaps we will have to ask the abbot once we have arrived thither,” Augustin told him cheerfully never a man to let himself remain melancholic for long. Not when he was outdoors in the mountains, and so near a temple or monastery, as he was a simple soul, one who revelled in the simplest of joys that life had to offer him.
His joy though was to prove infectious, as the two travelled and chattering the whole of the way, down the mountain they were to find the main road to the little out of the way monastery uneventful. The lack of danger, and lack of any other travellers on the road surprised the both of them, not simply because of how dull the journey was but because there were few places to hide. And also because of the wealth of the temple’s vineyards which were famous according to Augustin, and were gifted to the monastery by Augustin I d’Arvois nigh on a century ago.
“I had heard there to be bandits out and about in this area in recent years, but I was not certain then with the return of Vifombre, I felt certain that the rumours had to be true.” He was saying to his younger companion, who was to consider those words at great length.
Hardly pleased by them, or by the great expanse all about him, as he feared capture still by those who had seized Marculf. It was as they made their descent that he was to first notice something other than the grandeur of the great mountains that towered above them. The lad was to take notice of how many of the trees to and from the monastery had been shorn of a great many of their branches. What he also noticed after some time, was the thickness of the mud that clung to Augustin’s boots and seemed to seek to suck him down into itself. There was a morbid air to the mire, a wickedness that might have appeared wholly imaginary to some but that to Ruaidhrí seemed more real than most men.
It was with a start that he realized he had been caught staring, with Augustin throwing him an amused glance, asking him why he stared. It was as he looked more closely that Ruaidhrí was to say to his friend, “Halt! Stop Augustin.”
“Why?”
“Because… you are stepping over the steps of those who came before us,” Ruaidhrí warned him suddenly, pointing one long-fingered finger at the muddy steps that lay ahead of them, past the grove of trees that had begun to shed their multi-coloured leaves.
Many might well have thought it foolish to be concerned over such a thing, it could well have been nothing. It might well have been little more than the recent steps of pilgrims, who sought little more than their own redemption rather than any real harm.
And yet, there was a seed of doubt that was long since planted deep within Ruaidhrí’s heart. Such was the doubt he carried he carried deep within him, as he journeyed north that he could not help but at once think that it was Vifombre’s men. Certainly, he knew it to be more reasonable to assume that it was the Comte’s men, but his instincts told him it could not be they.
Every year, Augustin had told him hours before, the abbot came down from the abbey in the mountains, to visit and bear witness to the annual tourney of Arvois. It was for this reason that no messengers were ever sent, as the abbot knew exactly what date it was to be held upon, because it was always held on the same date, year after year.
“There was no need for messengers you see, not when the abbot knows the dates of all celebrations,” He explained with a glance over his own shoulder at present. “I have heard that in the spring the Comte sometimes visits this place, or sends his daughters, wife and some small number of servants to visit but never does he send messengers in the autumn.”
“If such is the truth, I think we should be even more wary of this place,” Ruaidhrí muttered expecting his friend to berate him as his sister Seonag would have.
Augustin instead of scolding him, for his grim mood and cynical view of this valley preferred to nod, no less struck by the shift in the air than he was. It was as though they had gone, from the happiest of Yuletide paintings or carvings in a temple, to the bowels of Queen Hella’s dark and nefarious realm.
The trees barren of leaves or near barren gazed down it seemed, with an ominous hostility that bore down on his spirit. So harsh, so black and grey were they that one could well have been excused, for thinking them guards rather than trees. Thick-limbed and harsh, they seemed as though they might wish to reach out to strangle the life from the travellers.
The leaves on the ground were the only protection they had, from the mire beneath their horses’ hooves, flimsy as it was. Slowed as they were, by the mud beneath them they were nonetheless to find themselves before the abbey doors within a matter of hours.
The suns’ were already in decline, by the time of their arrival so that the two of them were to hesitate with their previous uncertainty returned in full force. Augustin for his part was struck once more by his ever-present timidity, while Ruaidhrí was left doubting himself. The two of them glanced at one another, then the doors to the monastery before the adult man was encouraged to knock on it.
Reluctant to do so, he was to say in a quiet voice, “But what if they consider it rude? I do not wish to anger or offend the monks.”
“Bah, we ought to care little about politeness, as their lives could well be in danger just as ours are.” Ruaidhrí insisted stubbornly, annoyed by his friend’s continued uncertain.
Augustin fell silent looking from him, to the doors wherefore he knocked his fist against it once more, his mien grim. Quite what he expected from the monks, Ruaidhrí could not say, he could only guess that what the older male expected was different from what he foresaw might come to pass. Certainly, he was raised to be pious, but try as he might Ruaidhrí could see no wrong in pushing his way into a temple, especially since they were supposed to welcome all who wished to come pay their respects to the gods. And push his way inside, was precisely what he intended to do, as he threw the doors open and set foot into the fourteen meters long hall of the Abbaye d’Arvon.
Almost double that length in girth, it was a magnificent hall that seemed to still ring with the music and the chants of the monks. The building interior was magnificent though it lacked the sort of awe-inspiring beauty that could be found in places such as those cathedrals that dominated so many of the urban centres of Gallia and Brittia. Even Caledonia had begun to construct them, though they were slower to arrange for them to the knowledge of Ruaidhrí. There were some in the rural places of these kingdoms; with the child fairly certain that there were few that might well have competed with the simple beauty of this temple.
It was with a start that he realized that there was nothing man-made or made by the hands of any other folk or kindred of their people in the whole of the lands of Bretwealda to compare with this simple structure. It was with more than a little disillusionment and grief that he realized just how different men of Gallia were from those in Cymru and Norwend, and even Brittia.
If only, he told himself we could build as they do, and wondered, nay prayed that the Caleds had indeed as Seonag and even Marculf had heard that they had built as grandly. If only so that the isle of Bretwealda might boast of some small glory to compare with that which the Gallians had achieved in the usage of stones and woodwork.
Observing how quiet the principal temple hall was, Augustin became even more worried than before. This was strange, and he did not much like things queer. Too much had gone awry in recent days in his view, and good men and women such as Seonag and her brother had been put too much trouble, over this Vifombre mystery. It was thus his view that, so long as the suns’ were in the sky, the wind brushing along through the meadows, mountains and fields and that there was danger on the horizon it was his duty to keep them safe. He misliked danger, disdained his own cowardice and yet deep within there was a fire that would not dim.
“Stay here, I shall investigate the monastery,” Augustin informed him, sounding for the first time since he had met him stern. Moving towards one of the doors to the left hand side, to begin exploring the monastery interior, he was to disappear down one of the hallways.
The older man gone, Ruaidhrí was left to his own devices. Not that he had much longing to be left alone, heated with passion for the cause for which he had sworn himself, he paced up and down the length and breadth of the main hall. He might well have cursed, were he not the pious younger brother of Seonag, who had never tolerated such behaviour (due to her feminine sensibilities). It happened though that in spite of his respect for the goddess Marianne, and his own upbringing that he could hardly bring himself to wait for very long.
Never particularly patient in those days, it was not long before Ruaidhrí was to find his way thither before the same door that Augustin had disappeared down. Sucking in a breath, he very nearly disappeared down that darkened hallway after his friend.
He might well have followed him that is to say, if it had not been for a sudden clamour from behind him that made him leap into the air with fright. Moving hurriedly, to behind one of the nearby temple benches, he stared as the door to the right of the main hall was thrown open.
Cackling as might a hyena after a successful hunt, one of the largest men he had ever seen in all his life stepped out from behind the shadowed door. Dressed in the raiment of a warrior, and with a great many arms girded to his waist, he was easily one of the most intimidating figures Ruaidhrí had ever seen in his life. At first he could only gape, uncertain of what to do wondering as he did so how he could possibly hope to survive the next hour, with nary any means of escape.
Turning to race away, he was to come near to running headlong straight into another warrior, this one dressed in ring-mail with a large helm on his head. The brown haired man with the short beard stared down at him in surprise, the two having just moved to round the same corner near the end of the hallway just past the door at the opposite end of the said hallway from whence Ruaidhrí had just come from.
Staring up at him in alarm, while the older male stared back in surprise then amusement, he was however to prove rather more swift than his would be killer. Seeing the man reach for his knife, Ruaidhrí swift as a mouse plucked the man’s other one as the memories of his time on the streets of Jingluo in the distant east, as a member of a small group of thieves came flooding back. Stabbing him with his own knife, he drew from the man a short grunt of pain and surprise even as he felt the man reach down to grasp at his wrist.
“Seize him, Robert!” Yelled the man who was just a few steps behind Ruaidhrí himself, drawing his sword as he ran.
Robert might well have done just that, had Ruaidhrí not proven himself once more the quicker of the two of them. Trained as a thief, and with all the slipperiness of a youth accustomed to beatings as a child, he slipped his slender wrist from Robert’s hold and dropping to the ground threw himself forward between the other man’s spread legs.
This bewildered the two men, with the one’s advance screeching to a sudden stop while the other stared after Ruaidhrí in bewildered amazement. The two men exchanged a glance, one that bespoke to despite the circumstances a fast-growing respect for the lad. This sudden halt though did not last long, as the two were certainly no fools to stay where they were and to gape after the youth who sought to escape them.
“We must not let him slip away!” One of the two cried out after Robert, who nodding his head turned about almost at once, only to give chase after Ruaidhrí.
Ruaidhrí for his part did not remain idle either, racing passed one doorway, then down yonder across another hallway so that he reached a new one. This new hallway though differed from the prior two, and was in the eyes of the boy a marked improvement to the previous two.
Where the prior two had had only a duo of locked doors each, a visible sign that the enemy had already gotten to them and had taken over those rooms, he thought, this one though had three doors. All three of whom had been thrown open, with the third one leading to stairs much to the elation of Ruaidhrí, who decided to attempt his luck there, and seek to lose his pursuers by going down deep into the underground prison of the monastery. It was there where the abbey tended to imprison their miscreants, with those individuals typically spending a day or so in the cells until they had learnt their lesson.
The hope Ruaidhrí had was that he might discover down in that place, someone who might be able to help rescue him from the men hunting after him.
Whatever hopes he had, were dashed as he the man behind him caught up with him and he was seized by the leg at the top of the stairs. Throwing himself after him, the warrior seized him by the heel in order to deny him entry further down into the cells.
“Not an inch further, boy,” shouted the warrior furiously, as he called out over his shoulder, “Charles I caught him! I caught him!”
“Perfect, now to see about finding out what he knows!” Charles cheered at once, but two meters behind his friend. “Pull him over!”
“Let me go! Release me!” Ruaidhrí yelled back at the two of them, as he struggled and kicked back at those who had grasped him by the heel.
The two men laughed at him, “Look at him struggle and resist! He squirms more than some of those monks did!”
This was the last thing that Charles uttered, with Augustin arriving to the surprise of him and Robert upon the scene only to make use of his axe first without a thought to negotiation. Seeing only Ruaidhrí’s fear and pain he went blind then, sweeping aside the ferocious brigand nearest to him, with his half-severed throat, Augustin made for Robert.
The brigand, who had chortled not long before, was soon consumed with agony and horror as his hands were severed at the wrists. Before the man could properly come to terms with the great loss he had just suffered, Augustin put an end to his life.
Cleaning his axe now that he had finished his bloody work, the panting woodcutter wiped his improvised weapon clean. Turning his gaze away from it he was to fix hard, almost frightened eyes upon the youth he had just rescued he turned away to move towards one of the other rooms, one further down the hallway from where Ruaidhrí had fled.
“I erm heard you scream, do take care,” Augustin stuttered gruffly, before he timidly glanced down at the corpses visibly ashamed. “I shall see to hiding these corpses, for until such time as they can be properly buried, then will search the nearest rooms. You go on and continue your search of this fair monastery.”
Still half-frightened Ruaidhrí gathered together his courage, and reluctantly made once more for the prison interior. It was a semi-underground part of the building, with the walls brick and mortar while the ground was unpaved. White stones greyed by age and lack of care decorated the walls, so that whenever Ruaidhrí trailed a hand upon them it came away with dirt. To the left hand side were a number of cages four in total, as the small hall that was the prison was but twenty meters long and half that in width. Each of the cells was almost five meters by five meters in diameter and length, and were filthy. In each of them ran a small sliver of water that cut under the stone, and came in from outside with small bars that prevented anyone from trying to swim beneath them to liberty. The cell bars were black if slightly rusted in some places, and hardly all that impressive to look upon. Most of them were empty to his disappointment.
Therein the small cell farthest from the door to the prison, lay the last thing that Ruaidhrí had expected to discover; one of the monks. The man was tied up with long cords that had been carefully put together, in the local village and that bound the monk tightly and prevented him from moving. Struggling to move, he shook his head from left to right, as though in warning. Hardly able to speak, due to how there was a bolt of cloth clamped over his mouth, as a kind of make-shift gag, the monk sweated profusely and stared at him as he approached. Entering the cell, Ruaidhrí made for the monk that he might remove the gag and with the small knife girded to his belt, began to cut away at the ropes that restrained the cleric.
“Fly from this place, you fools!” the monk shouted from where he was bound, and seated to the back of the room.
Suddenly sensing someone behind him, Ruaidhrí turned hoping to find Augustin.
It was not the woodcutter, but another man. This one was much more thickly bearded, and far more swarthy with an air of malice about him. To either side of him were two men no less formidable looking, with the other two blond-haired and blue eyed and bore a distinct similarity to one another so that Ruaidhrí instantly knew them to be brothers or cousins.
Ruaidhrí was quick to heed the monks words prepared to attempt to flee, when the thought of what Marculf might have done under his circumstances crossed his mind.
Escape as Marculf had once called it, was either the better part of valour or the wasteful effort of those longing for death. At present, he could not quite determine which it was, so that Ruaidhrí did little more than begin to back away.
“Hide little bunny, hide,” The tall man mocked in his native Gallian.
Another might have done as commanded, yet not Ruaidhrí. And why was this? The reason was a simple one; Ruaidhrí hated to do as others commanded, especially as of late. At present, he ceased to look for any means of escape and instead searched for the means by which he might seize the means by which he could defeat the brigand.
To one side of him the newly liberated monk studied the large brute with no less terror than the youth had. The two of them though were to think of two very different ‘best solutions’ to the current situation, with the monk preferring that the boy beg or that he might throw himself forward while Ruaidhrí slipped away. As to Ruaidhrí himself, he was to determine that the only solution to the current problem posed by the man before him, was battle itself. He would prove himself, he swore no matter what others might think.
Preparing himself to lung at the other man, who seeing his knees bend and tense, knew what to expect and his hand which held his hatchet rose in preparation for the suicidal charge of his foe. Those men behind him, seeing what Ruaidhrí had in mind guffawed loudly none of them having any faith in his ability to carry out what he had in mind.
It was at this time that a bellow broke through the silence of the cell, as a great-axe split the skull of one of the men to the rear of the small group of brigands. Stricken and bewildered, the laughter and joy of these men soon transformed itself into a great cry of terror that was torn from the lungs of all the warriors.
None of them had known to expect Augustin’s attack, which even if they had would have shocked and horrified with the violence with which it struck. Hardly satisfied with the shedding of the blood, of one of the brigands who had suddenly appeared to menace the boy, Augustin was to hew down the man next to him.
This second man’s throat was severed in one single swing, a testament to the great strength of the woodcutter which could well have convinced any that there might be a drop of Herakleian blood in him or that he was an Ogre or part Iron-Elf. Such was the vigour of his swing that it carried him forward, not that the maddened peasant cared one whit about his own safety or balance at a time such as this. His only thought was for the safety of Ruaidhrí, for whom he had sworn to protect from all danger the moment he had embarked on this great quest.
The last of the trio of bandits gaped while his friends were slaughtered before him, so that it was only by the greatest force of will that he was to at last raise up his weapon and his buckler in self-defence. Turning his back to the youth behind him as he did so, being quite naturally more concerned about the monstrous individual who had just cleaved through his friends, he forgot all about Ruaidhrí.
If the tall man had forgotten about him, Ruaidhrí had in turn not suffered from the same lapse in memory. Leaping forward, once he saw the knife that was girt to the man’s waist drawing it as he did so, he took it up and did what he had longed to do; stabbed the man’s side with it. Cutting between the man’s hauberk and the ring-mail that covered his legs, Ruaidhrí drew back his blade only to stab again with greater fury on his second strike.
The scream that was wrenched from the man’s lips, caused Augustin to momentarily freeze. However, he was much too consumed by battle-fury to do much more especially when the fury took hold once more, when he saw the man bash Ruaidhrí in the side of the skull with his shield. It was the last thing he ever did, as Augustin tore apart a good deal of his face, before he cleaved his skull open.
“Fly Ruaidhrí, fly! You and this monk both!” Augustin cried out as he made to grasp the youth and pull him up to his feet.
“But Augustin-”
“What do you think you are doing by hesitating now, go, flee boy!” The monk interrupted furiously pushing the boy out of the cell and towards the doorway he had entered through. “We must escape from this place!”
No matter how much Ruaidhrí protested, he was soon whisked away just as the sound of male voices reverberated once more throughout the monastery. It was with a start that Ruaidhrí realized there were still more brigands present.
It was with a second start that he reached the conclusion that the monastery had to be where they had located themselves. There was nowhere else they could hide, nowhere that they might find solace from those guards who hunted after them with all the fury of a she-wolf who fears for her children.
“We must leave now!” Augustin declared sharply, seizing the boy who attempted to wrestle himself free.
“But what of the monks?” Ruaidhrí objected at once.
“We will be safe, I do not think they mean to kill us, not immediately that is.” The monk said.
It was a lie, this much even Ruaidhrí could tell. The monk trembled and shook with fright, so that Ruaidhrí felt his heart tear with pity and compassion for him. It was sinful to do what these brigands had done, he told himself hardly able to believe how nefarious they had proven themselves to be.
Augustin though, would hear none of it hoisted him over his shoulder and began to flee from there. Leaving the monk behind them, he fled for the whole of three minutes before he was confronted and surrounded by a number of brigands. At the head of the brigands stood in the middle of the main hall to the temple, not the Knight of ‘Vifombre’ but another man, one whom Augustin recognized at once.
Staring at this figure, who sneered defiantly at them, both men froze. Ruaidhrí was in the middle of one of his many accusations of cowardice and protests at being carried in such an undignified manner, while Augustin was in the midst of racing past a number of stunned men who had just begun to chase after him.
Both of them gaped, as they recognized the figure who stood before them. “You!”
"Fly from this place, you fools!" Tolkien homage?
Good chapter