I’ll be listening.

A steady, heavy rain had drenched the cloak hood over Athelstan’s high-domed helmet and filtered through his mail to soak the cloth underneath. The narrow trail he followed was mud up past his destrier’s hooves so that every step was a struggle. He felt he was half deaf for the constant torrent of water and the ceaseless sucking and smacking sound of his horse’s steps. It had taken the better part of a day to make what should have been a ride that ended by noon, and only now that he was within a hundred yards or so of its walls could the miserable soldier see his destination: Watchtower-by-Whitecliff.

He’d been told it was a castle, but now that it hove into view through thick mist he saw it was a single, squat tower, not even quite a holdfast for it lacked any palisades or walls around its pathetic barracks and stable. It was made of dark stone, though in the pitted and scraped blocks enough seawater had lashed it that there were deposits and veins of salt. Along the side facing away from the sea moss had crept halfway up the tower and had blanketed the barracks. A guard stood by the door to the tower, a man who must have been even more depressed than Athelstan leaning on his spear, lacking a cloak and bundled instead in a green blanket. The guard looked at him disinterestedly until he lowered his hood, and then stood to.

“Who goes there?” The spearman commanded. He had a short sword sheathed on the left side of his belt, and a misericord hanging from a loop on the right side that was more rust than steel.

“Sir Athelstan Morbrick. I have been sent by Lord Gulford to take charge as captain of the guard to replace your last commander.”

“Oh. Aye come on in then,” The guard made a half-hearted bow and then banged on the door as Sir Morbrick reached him and hopped off his mount. The bar to the door made a crash as it was pulled loose, and it swung open—a thick, heavy thing, inlaid with black metal roundels and painted red. A boy of perhaps ten years in rough-spun cloth stepped out and, at the guard’s command, took Athelstan’s horse to the stable. The guard grinned at his new captain. “Cold enough for you, sir?”

“Never mind that. Stay vigilant.”

Inside the tower was warm enough, with two hearths on either side of the lowest floor that served as the armory as well as kitchen. Spears and swords and odds and ends of armor littered shelves and racks all about the place on one side, while on the other an implausibly fat, bald man in his fifties tended to a small cauldron full of stew on the other. Stairs led up to the other floors on the right, next to a door that led to the small roofed path to the barracks he had seen on his way in.

He greeted the cook, who never gave his name and just grunted in his general direction, nodded to a man suiting up for his watch at the door, and then went up the steps. Athelstan hadn’t possessed any great illusions about where he was going when Lord Gulford sent him on his way. It was no great honor to watch the coast, and not likely to be manned by the most disciplined or motivated soldiers, and after he was given his limp in a ridiculous battle far north against those painted savages Athelstan knew his fate had changed. He would never again be commanded to take the vanguard in a great charge or be allowed to volunteer to climb the walls of a holdfast or castle. His days of covering himself in glory, butchering marauders, and leading foraging parties to steal as he pleased were over.

That suited him fine. He was an old man for a knight, in times like these. Thirty-two years old, and he hadn’t enjoyed more than three of peace since he became a man, squiring for a man who took a spear to the nape of his neck so long ago. He’d killed, he’d burned, he’d captured and ransomed other men, he’d been captured and ransomed. His life was so full of adventure that if it got any more exciting, he’d surely drown in it. The quiet boredom of watching for a fleet of raiders from across the northeastern seas would be a reprieve—if he served out here long enough, maybe the lords would forget he ever existed, and he could find a mistress in one of the nearby villages, grow old and raise his children in the tower to be its garrison forever.

He shook his head to dispel the fantasy, as well as get some of the wetness out of his hair—long, black, ringleted, matted from the month it had spent most of its time under his helmet—and he opened the door to the second floor. Inside he found six men—if his orders were accurate, that was nearly everybody. Counting them, the guard outside and the guard getting ready for his watch, the cook and the stable boy, there was only one man missing. The six in this chamber, which served as the tower’s hall, all stared at him with weary, bored eyes. Not much for standing and bowing to their lords, this lot. Athelstan introduced himself and that prompted the men to give him a little nod. Good enough: Sir Morbrick guessed these people were little more than peasants who had stolen enough as men-at-arms to buy the sort of armor that caved in at the tap of a hammer. He didn’t expect much of them.

“Who here’s the sergeant?” Athelstan asked.

“He’s upstairs, in your chambers, milord,” Said a blond youth with pale blue eyes and wispy white whiskers.

“Right. Well, as you were.”

The sergeant of the guard was the oldest of the men he’d seen thus far, save for the cook. He was a giant, taller by a head than Athelstan, bald on top of his head with coarse black hair erupting everywhere else—his arms, his nose, his ears, his neck. Once again, Athelstan introduced himself, and for once he received proper courtesy.

“Met the other lot, did you milord? They’re a pack of scoundrels, I’ll admit, but they do their duty well enough. They train every morning, too, under my watch, so as sorry as they look and act don’t fear, they’ll be worth their weight in gold in a fight.”

“Glad to hear it,” Although I don’t expect any fighting, except perhaps when we’ve emptied a cask of ale or two, “What’s your name, sergeant?”

“Egbert,” The big man said, “Son of Egbert.”

“As my right-hand man, I need to trust you with some…sensitive information.”

Egbert’s eyebrow raised at that, while Athelstan reached into a leather pouch underneath his mail, and drew from it a small purse of the same material, and from that a scroll still bound by its string. He unfurled it and handed it to the sergeant, who shook his head.

“Apologies, milord. I never learned letters.”

Athelstan shrugged, unsurprised, unfurled the note and read it aloud.

To the Knight Sir Morbrick of Wednesfield,

As you take command of Watchtower-by-Whitecliff, beware. There are rumors of an inbound fleet of raiders from the northeastern corner of the world making its way south along the coast. Our spies in the town of Killings, which has long served as a port-of-call for our alien enemies, has warned us that one of the watchtowers is to be taken by deceitful tactics. We do not know which keep, nor when they plan to mount this strike, but we believe they will attempt to infiltrate the castle with men under the guise of smallfolk. Should any come to seek refuge with your men, keep a close eye on them, search them for weapons, and be prepared to put them to the sword with no notice. We wish you the best of luck. Beware. Beware.

Lord Gulford of the King’s Council

When he was finished, Egbert looked at Athelstan with just a hint of dismay. As much as it was unexpected, he seemed to value maintaining his composure—that was a good sign. Clearly, Athelstan realized, this man had been put in command after the former captain’s death from dysentery for a good reason. He spoke carefully,

“What do you think the odds are they’ll come here?”

“Worse than impossible, better than certainly,” Athelstan gave his sergeant a wan smile, “There are eighteen watchtowers in this part of the country. Some are just stone blockhouses with two men and two horses, instructed to ride for the nearest holdfast with word. Others, like ours, are formidable enough—they wouldn’t stand against a real army, but as the letter says, we’ll be up against infiltrators. Probably a dozen men with daggers and clubs, if my experience has taught me anything.

“The more pressing issue is that of smallfolk seeking refuge. It’s almost certain to happen—that little uprising at the end of summer burned most of the villages north of Whitecliff, and these things always lead to scattered groups wandering the countryside in hope of finding safety. The king decreed three years ago that it is the duty of all watchtowers and holdfasts to admit as many people as they dare, so if some come this way law and honor demands we accept some of them, at the least.

“No matter, though. As the letter said, we must maintain vigilance, and that’s what we’ll do. More importantly, if we catch them in the act, we’ll upset the raiders’ plan and might convince them to leave without having to fight them. Tell me, has there been anyone coming here hoping for sanctuary?”

“The stable boy and the cook both,” Egbert sighed, his fears not alleviated, “They came about a day apart from one another, the boy from the north and the cook from the west.”

“The west?”

“I don’t know what the truth is, but he claims his village was attacked by bandits from a nearby forest—he says they’re getting bolder every day.”

“It could be the truth,” Athelstan shrugged, “Or it could be he was a bandit and the rest of his fellows were killed. It’s not for us to investigate—should the number of refugees continue at a trickle, it might be that they’re massing strength slowly, or it might be the realm is continuing to fly apart as it has been for the past twenty years and everyone is innocent. I’m going to my chambers now, Egbert. See that the men are well fed and well rested. As tight a ship as I plan to run, I’d rather not see my men mutiny for want of mutton and sleep.”

Sir Morbrick left Egbert, climbed to the fourth of the five levels, and found—as he expected—quarters of the Captain of the Guards. There was a thick, narrow mattress sitting on a simple wooden frame, next to a desk and stool where stacks of blank paper sat by an inkwell and quill. Athelstan shed his cloak, his armor, his clothes, put some more wood in the small hearth burning by the shuttered window, and draped himself in quilts. He was worried that after the excitement of arriving to his new post he might not be able to sleep, but he could scarcely complete the thought before he plunged into heavy dreams.

#

Athelstan’s life at Watchtower-by-Whitecliff was cold, tedious, and without any serious trouble. Every day, in the morning, around noon, at around sunset, four spearmen would patrol the surrounding countryside. His predecessor had let the guardsmen choose their own watches and spent most of his time in the tower—especially after he caught a chill and started expelling every crumb of food and drop of water out both ends until he died—but Sir Morbrick went on one patrol each day, getting to know his men. They were as he expected: all illiterate, all from faraway lands they desperately wanted to see again, and all bored out of their minds. All were the younger sons of artisans, not peasants, so they kept their home by the sea well maintained. None of them save Egbert and a sallow man with a widow’s peak named Wilfred had seen battle—the king called them up, trained them with a master-at-arms for a few weeks, and sent them straight to Whitecliff.

All day at least one man was on the fifth floor of the tower, ostensibly watching the sea, though it was impossible to keep them from stealing a few hours of sleep up there and, when two men had the watch at dusk, playing dice. That suited Athelstan fine: as long as the only people there were his men and the two peasants, he didn’t expect any trouble. His limp was getting a little better, and his pain had lessened. He was close to no longer cursing that blue-faced idiot savage whose last act was to spear his leg, although every morning when he woke the knight remembered fleeting dreams of how he’d killed the man.

I’ll be listening.

That had been an exciting little skirmish. Ten knights on horseback against two score half-naked barbarians with sharpened sticks and stone axes: a charge at dawn, horses thundering in a line with pikes forward, running them down as they had their breakfast. Although their cause was hopeless the savages hadn’t fled, and the knights had to dismount to kill the last group of six or seven who had gathered in a circle, jabbing outward with their weapons. Sir Morbrick remembered how confidently he strode toward them, shield up and sword at the ready, blocking a spearpoint with his shield and gutting one with a quick jab. The very next moment he had a spear in his leg, thrust through the thigh that was exposed only because the straps for his cuisse had rotted away in those chilly, wet months just after winter and he hadn’t been able to get it repaired.

I’ll be listening.

A stupid mistake. Athelstan had put it off because, somehow, he had believed the northern savages would have neither the skill nor the intellect to exploit his weakness. In the moment he didn’t remember any pain—just the knowledge that he had been struck, abstract and far away in the heat of battle—and without thinking he thrust his sword into the man’s throat, sliding it out as quick as he had pushed it in. Blood came pouring out his attacker’s mouth, thicker and quicker than the stream from his own leg, and a moment later they were both on the ground. In the time it took Sir Morbrick to collapse the rest of the enemy were dead or dying, a pile of pale flesh, orange hair, and blue faces all soaked in the dense red of their own gore.

He’d survived the bleeding, the fever that followed, the long days of lying on a litter tended to by his friends and the camp followers they paid handsomely to keep alive despite their unspoken conviction that he would not survive to see autumn. Lord Gulford, that arrogant little man who seemed to crave war not for glory or new lands but only to obtain a new haggard unflowered captive girl for every week, had come into Athelstan’s tent twice: once to tell him to hurry up and die a few days after the skirmish, and again much later to tell him that if he wasn’t going to the next world then he was going to the sea. Thinking about it, the knight concluded that his lord probably hadn’t written that letter—it was likely some scribe sending the same form to every Captain of the Guards in every watchtower, feigning concern at the same time as he tried to put fear in their hearts. No matter. Sir Athelstan Morbrick was alive, and he would keep on living. These days that was enough for him. He had his regrets and he had his anger, but his vanity had bled out of him that day.

One afternoon, a month into his watch, after exercising his aching leg on a patrol with the men, Athelstan had retired to his quarters to compose a letter asking after his wife all the way back in Wednesfield when his door was thrust open. Egbert stood in the opening, a look of alarm on his great ruddy face.

“There’s a group of smallfolk coming from the northwest, milord,” He said, his voice quavering a little, “A dozen or more, heading this way.”

“Are they armed?”

“Not that I can see, but they could be hiding daggers and clubs in their cloaks.”

“Fetch my horse and two others—you and Wilfred will come with me to meet them.”

“Aye, milord.”

It was good to be back in the saddle, Athelstan thought. There wasn’t much need for the horses usually—other than the occasional mounted patrol, the animals stayed in the stable or were sent to graze in the fields nearby. Morbrick himself hadn’t ridden since he arrived, but on this gray day threatening rain he realized how much he’d missed it. They trotted off to the gaggle of shambling peasants, Egbert flying the king’s banner, Wilfred armed with his halberd and Athelstan with his sword, unarmored save for mail and helmets. The smallfolk were dirty, bedraggled, dressed in white tunics and brown trousers. Most were women, and none of the men had any color left in their hair. They were all scrawny and short, and most were bowed beneath bundles of clothes and cooking pots and waterskins. A few small children were clustered at their center. Athelstan counted twenty-two total.

“Ho there,” He called to them as the horses were brought to a halt, “Which of you is the leader of this lot?”

“I s’pose that would be me, milord,” Said a balding man whose face was cratered and crevassed by a long-ago pox, “Tybalt of Oldwood, if it please milord.”

“Where are you headed?”

“South, as far as south goes. We ask that you give us shelter for the night—at least for the women and children. We’ve been walking a long way, milord, and you are the first of the king’s men we’ve seen so far.”

Athelstan considered them a moment. They couldn’t all be infiltrators, he decided—women and children would be a good cover, but they would truly have to be smallfolk on the run for the deception to work. He turned to his two companions. Wilfred sneezed and spat, looking disinterested and a little annoyed. Egbert’s fears seemed to have dissolved; he shrugged.

“The women and children may stay in the tower hall,” Athelstan declared, “And the men can sleep in the barracks. We ought to have space for all of you. One night, and one night only. After that, you must be on your way.”

“Oh, thank you milord,” Wailed one of the older women, getting to her knees, “If I slept one more night in the rain, I’d drown or die of a chill, I know it, I know it, milord!”

Sir Morbrick had to smile at that, just a little. He felt somewhat heroic, giving his castle to these wretches if just for a night. If the rain was coming down hard tomorrow, as he suspected it might, he’d give them more time.

“Come on, then, we speared an elk yesterday, as permitted by the king once a month; you’ll eat well tonight.”

He turned, spurred his horse, and left Egbert and Wilfred to act as escort. For once, his leg didn’t bother him in the least.

#

That night, as Athelstan feasted the peasants and his men in the cramped “hall” of the watchtower, the rain came down hard with powerful western rains and the steady, rolling din of thunder. He placed two guardsmen by the door and two on the top floor—everybody else was permitted to dine with him. It was unlikely the northerners would come down the coast tonight, lest they dash their fleet on the rocks below the cliffs, but even so if his men had the chance to catch a glimpse of faraway sails in-between lightning bolts he didn’t want to waste it. He kept his dirk and his misericord on his person, and the soldiers who ate in the hall retained their arms as well. A near generation of war had taught him the value in caution, especially when safety was guaranteed.

Their meal had the meat and bread and salt of a proper castle feast, if nothing else. This wasn’t the sort of place where men could season their food by drowning it honey or butter, they didn’t couldn’t inlay their meal with roasted nuts and spices from distant lands. It was a simple pleasure. Even so, all gorged themselves as much as they could, picking the moose clean in one go, along with some salted trout Egbert had purchased from a river fisherman during his last expedition to resupply the garrison a week or two before. When it was done the ale flowed, though there wasn’t enough for anyone to get especially drunk. Feeling chivalrous, Morbrick ate and drank only as much as his men; this early on, it was unwise to take total advantage of his position at the top, at least with such a sullen bunch.

The feast was nearly finished when one of the guardsmen by the door, a redheaded youth named Kurt who might have been handsome were he not so badly marked by a childhood pox, appeared at the door to the hall. He looked alarmed, to say the least.

“Milord,” He said, “There’s another traveler at the door asking for refuge. I…I think you will want to see him right away.”

Athelstan nodded, got to his feet, and went down the steps, past the cook who took his meals quietly by his oven with the stable boy. The door was closed but the man had been admitted. He was sodden with rain, a stout figure in brown robes with tonsured hair that was beginning to grow back on his ruddy dome, thin as the stubble on Kurt’s chin. A monk, no doubt, with a big grin on his rotund face, cheeks bright red and a great big grin splitting his face to reveal two rows of yellow and brown teeth.

“Who might you be?” Athelstan asked.

“I am Brother Waygood,” The monk said, “And I’ve been on a long, long walk about the country, sir.”

“From where?”

“Killings, if it please my lord. And an apt name that is, these days,” He heaved with hearty laughter.

“How do you mean?”

“It’s been put to the torch. Forty longships, maybe more, they came to use the town as their base, as they have in the past. When they overstayed their welcome, they burned and pillaged and raped as they pleased.”

His words did not match his expression, his mirth. “You tell it true?”

“A monk does not dare lie, no sir.”

“Then what’s so funny?”

“It wouldn’t be right to say, no sir. I haven’t been able to stop laughing since I left.”

“You’ll tell me what’s so amusing, or I’ll gut you for the Northman raider you look to be.”

That made the monk burst into another series of guffaws. “They strung up Father Cooper by his ankles, my lord, and beat him with cudgels until he pissed blood. And after, all the dead children linked their arms around him and danced, singing God has come and God has went, hiding in Heaven where his servants sent.” He laughed so hard at that Athelstan wondered if he might rupture.

“He’s lost his bloody mind,” Sir Morbrick said, his mood fouling, his gut churning, “Kurt, what do we have for a dungeon?”

“A dungeon? Oh. Er, nothing, milord.”

“The stables for him, then. Clap him in irons.”

“There are no irons, uh, milord.”

“Surely there’s rope? Bind him, bring him some bread, and keep a close eye on him.”

“Truly, milord? He is a man of God, is he not?”

“Didn’t you hear the blasphemy he just spoke? If he was a man of God once he’s a madman now. If he’s a liar he’s a raider come to fill us with fear and hope that we’ll lock ourselves in the watchtower and let his own kind pass. The stable, boy. I want a man watching him every hour of every day, whether he’s laughing or snoring.”

With that, Sir Morbrick stormed upstairs to the hall, where he summoned Egbert, and then went up to the top floor to find his two guardsmen, surprisingly, doing their duty. One watched the sea while the other sang a bawdy song about a whore who tied gold coins in her hair every time she laid with a lord until one day her neck snapped from the weight. He sent the singer off and told the watcher to pretend not to hear a word that was said, then told Egbert the tale.

“We should boot them all from the watchtower,” Egbert said categorically, “Put them back on the road where they belong before they slit our throats.”

“No. We have an opportunity here. It seems obvious to me now that the monk and some of the peasants must be raiders. If they are, we must watch them closely. If they’re stupid enough to make their move, we can light the signal fire and warn the rest of the kingdom. And if they catch on to our suspicions, they’ll try to leave of their own accord—eagerly. Then we will do the same.”

“There’s a lot of risk in that plan, milord. What if they sent the monk? What if he’s their signal to strike, and they’ve planned for us to know of their presence? The Northmen are strange folk—I’ve dealt with their kind before. They’ll stab you in the back if they’re desperate—but they prefer the fury of a pitched battle. You kill them when they’re trying to sneak up on you, and they don’t get to meet their foreign gods after they die.”

“I’ve made my decision. Go from man to man, tell them I want half the guard to stay awake and keep watch on the peasants in the barracks. Those who sleep will do so here, in the tower. Tomorrow we’ll switch the guard and those who were awake can sleep through the day.”

Egbert bowed stiffly when Morbrick left to his chambers, as grim-faced as his captain. A moment later Athelstan sat on his bed. He cursed under his breath, a long steady stream of words he’d heard in his years fighting alongside foul-mouthed men-at-arms and mercenaries. His old wound flared up then, red-hot spikes that crept into his gut and tied it in knots. When he laid down and closed his eyes there was the face of the painted savage who had torn him open all those months ago, baring his crooked black teeth in mocking laughter. As he drifted off to an uneasy sleep, he heard the man cackle and shout:

“Sooner or later, armor or bearskin makes no difference. You’ll die just as I did, and you’ll scream, won’t you? You’ll scream much more than I did. I’ll be watching, brave knight, I’ll be listening.”

#

That morning was a terrible one. The rain continued to pour down in sheets, borne on foul cold winds so cold they penetrated the stone walls of the watchtower and soaked the air within, clinging to the flesh so that with both hearths burning in the barracks and both in the watchtower provided no true warmth. When Athelstan opened the shutters to the eastern window in his quarters he saw the peasants were arguing with Egbert and Kurt at the stable. The old man was red-faced, roaring at them with the fury of someone much younger, decrying them for tying up their monk, who was now little more than a sodden, gibbering mess among the straw and horse dung.

Sir Morbrick donned his chainmail and helmet, boiled leather and gloves, sword belt and riding boots, and then joined the commotion. With a hand on the pommel of his weapon he demanded to know what was going on.

“These lot want to get on the move,” Egbert said, “They want to take the monk with them.”

“Truly?” Athelstan smiled, “I thought you would have asked to stay another day, in a storm such as this. And why bring the supposed man of God with you? He’s lost his mind, and he can’t speak of anything but blasphemy.”

“I’ll remain under no man’s roof who binds one of God’s servants like this!” Tybalt of Oldwood growled, “I’d rather freeze and starve on the road!”

“And what of the women and children who walk with you? Would they rather freeze and starve?”

“They…they wish to remain. But I cannot leave them, either. It could be a long time before anyone comes along who might escort them to safety.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to remain.”

At that, the other men among the refugees emerged—a few from the door, the others clambering out from behind the shutters, soon surrounding the three guardsmen. A moment later the guards who had been posted in the barracks came out, swords drawn, demanding the men go back inside.

“What do you plan to do, Tybalt of Oldwood?” Morbrick had a vicious grin on his face. The rest of his men emerged from the tower now. All nine of the king’s men facing off against a ragged band of seemingly-unarmed peasants that outnumbered them only by a handful, “If that’s truly your name.”

The old man stared at Morbrick, aghast. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean you’re no poor beggar looking for refuge,” Athelstan unsheathed his own blade now, “You’re a damned raider come from the north to see your fleet along the coast.”

The old man did not have any idea what to say to that. His mouth hung open, broken teeth and gum fluttering as he searched for some words to get him out of this predicament. “I…I…I’ll remain here, then. Please, just—just let us take in this monk before the chill kills him.”

“I say let the chill do him in,” Egbert said.

“I can do him one better than that,” Wilfred chimed in and, rushing for the monk with his blade in hand, raised it over his head. Although Tybalt cried out in anguish, the monk merely looked up at the guardsman with mirth in his crazed eyes, beaming as cold steel rushed down to meet the place where his neck met his shoulder. There was the sickening sound of meat giving way and blood spurting against the downpour. The mad monk’s head lolled to the right, his ear resting on his shoulder, sinew and bone and still-pumping arteries exposed to the scant light of day.

“Monsters!” Tybalt wailed, “Demons! You’ll all burn in Hell for this! I swear it!”

Athelstan stood there, weighing his options, when Egbert thrust forward with his sword and gutted the old man, too. With that, the damage was done: the guardsmen were hungry for more blood, and the pack of horrified peasant men had nowhere to run. They were set upon by the eight men under Athelstan’s command, slashed and stabbed and cleaved in two. The youngest and strongest of the smallfolk, blood pouring from a wound in his side, came charging at Sir Morbrick with his hands held out, matted hair and bushy black beard jumping with each footstep.

The knight didn’t respond. He stared at the onrushing madman, sword held limp at his side, feeling as though he was merely an observer to the bloodshed, playing no greater part in it than the guardsman last night had in his ribald song about the whore. He was nearly bowled into when Kurt disembowelled the attacker with a thrust of his spear through the back, the hefty steel point bursting forth right where the man’s stomach sat. Stopped in his tracks, the bearded man looked down as the spear was pulled out of him, brought his hands together to gingerly touched the hole out of which his life’s blood gushed.

“No,” The man blurted, “No, no, no, no! No! NO!”

As quick as that, the peasant fell flat on his face in the mud, twitching and writhing the way people sometimes do when they first wake in the morning and stretch their limbs, until he went still. The patch of muddy ground in front of the barracks was now a sea of gore with isles of corpses, and the madness was over. Each of the guardsman seemed only now to realize what they had done, and looked over the mess exhausted, heaving breath through open mouths. A few—Egbert and Wilfred, the redhead who otherwise made no more sound than a mouse—laughed nervously and lightly.

Sir Morbrick looked over them, and his eyes fell on Egbert’s.

“What…what in the hell was that?”

“Bugger the whole lot of ‘em, milord,” Egbert said, “They were raiders. You said it yourself. We had to do it.”

It was too late to chastise them. Too late to save the lives of those who may have been innocent. Athelstan shook his head, sheathed his sword, and forced himself to smile and offer a laugh like his comrades.

“Yes,” He said, “I suppose you’re right. Fewer mouths to feed, as well.”

“Ha! They are, at that,” Wilfred grinned, and gave the dead monk a little kick.

My soldiers are monsters in human skins, Athelstan realized with a start, but they may have saved my life as well as their own. “Well,” He clapped his hands together, feeling more than a little out of place, “I guess that’s it for the half-watch on the barracks, then. Those of you who need it, get some rest. Kurt, you’ll have the door today.”

“Aye, milord.”

#

I’ll be listening.

Athelstan Morbrick stood in the top floor of the watchtower, resting against the wall, his eyes on the eastern sea as the sky turned dark and infinite. The clouds had cleared up just enough for the sun to cast vibrant hues on those that remained, casting shadows from the cliffs that blackened the waves crashing upon the shore. The captain of guards felt sick as he never had before after a battle. In the past, he’d rampaged through towns after the gates had given way, had seen his fair share of supposed noblemen raping women, gutting old men, running down children with their horses. Always he had been able to accept it, to sleep that night with an empty mind.

Getting old was difficult for a soldier, he decided with a sigh. It would have been better to die in that field, his steel against the barbarian’s wood spear. Easier, quicker, simpler. Now he was the commander of a band of murderers, men who had killed with no true provocation, slaughtering a mad monk and a terrified old peasant. He rubbed his thigh, near the wound. Oh, God, he thought, how could I let this happen? As the last light faded away he hung his head and choked down tears. He raised his head.

Ships. Dozens of them on the sea. Longships—smooth hulls close to the waterline, long and sleek and gliding under sails of a deep blue fabric, round shields of a hundred different colors lashed to the sides, the ghostly shapes of men patrolling the deck. They had come from nowhere—how had he not noticed them? Morbrick turned, already yelling for men to light the signal fire on the roof. He saw Egbert standing behind him, in the center of the chamber.

“Egbert, for the love of—get the damn fire lit.”

“I’m afraid not, milord.”

“What?”

It was then that Athelstan noticed steel in his sergeant’s hand. Wilfred had appeared at the door, similarly armed. The knight had only his dirk—and he did not deign to reach for it.

“What is this?” He asked instead.

“There will be no fire lit tonight, milord. No signal to the next watchtower at Heathe.”

“This is treason.”

“In order for it to be treason, we’d have to be king’s men.”

“Northerners.”

“Aye, milord. Your intended charges are buried in the woods, as they have been for many weeks. We came upon them not long after the last captain died in his bed…or on the privy, whatever the case may be.”

“Is there nothing I can do to stop you? The king would reward you if you were to come to his aid now.”

“No, there’s nothing you can do. I’m sorry, milord. The truth is we all rather liked you. We had hoped to send you off somewhere for awhile, when those damned peasants showed up.”

“What will become of the women and children?”

“The younger ones will be all right. My boys have no use for crones and suckling babes, though.”

Sir Morbrick nodded. “Go on then. There’s nothing honorable about what you must do, but you had best do it well, nonetheless.” He turned away, to look back out at the sea. The sails were almost the same color as the paint on that barbarian’s face. When the steel slipped into his back, to the left of his spine and upward, cold metal slicing through the tissue of his heart, he took in a sharp breath.

Listen all you want. I will not scream.