Deathsworn (Wattys 2018 Winner)

10 - The Moon Tower

Thud. Thud. Thud. Bard couldn't tell whether it was coming from the crutch or his own heart.

It appeared to get louder as he crossed the drawbridge of Hammar castle, amplifying with every ponderous step. He thought it a wonder the two guards flanking him weren't stupefied.

The Hammar keep was an impressive thing. Like the outer-walls it had been raised back in the Age of Magic, when such work with stone was possible. It had a good many towers, none of them small, and was well fortified by crenelated walls of jagged black.

Walking up from the outer-walls, through the city of Hammar itself and up the hill, had been a torment. Bard's left-side barely obeyed instruction and his head still swam as though lost somewhere in the Great Blue. Bodkin's tunic was a tight fit for him, too, but it was all the Gallowmen had between them that could be worn to a banquet. At the very least it was a suitable green and bore the acorn of House Oak in its centre.

Perhaps she'll see right through the lie. After all, deception isn't a stranger to her. Not once had Orel let on that she was connected to Orl Ejjar. She had admitted only to residing within the walls, a point irrefutable anyway as Bard had walked her there himself. As for being one of Hammar's famous daughters, she'd shed such light as to leave Bard completely blind.

Since forcing Oyvin to allow him to leave that afternoon, he'd been pondering what she could possibly want from him. Part of him wondered if she wasn't enticing him up to the castle to make japes. She's certainly spirited enough. With time running out, though, it was a choice that made itself. Erikk had to be judged.

Two fur-laden guardsmen led him into the courtyard. It lacked stables - Mountainmen never took to horses like their Green Country counterparts - but had ornate columns and bordered passageways leading into the keep itself. One of the guardsmen gestured to a stone bench. 'I apologise, Lord Eran, I must ask you to wait here for the Snowflower, I shall get her now.'

Snowflower? Bard lacked the energy to ask more questions as the Mountainman stalked off. Instead he lowered himself, awkwardly, onto the bench. The crutch Oyvin had lent him was soring the underside of his right arm and his battered body was glad for the brief respite. He knew he was sweating, despite the chill of the night. Maybe a fever has hold of me? Oyvin said I could die yet.

The other guardsman distracted him from morbid thoughts. He was perhaps the ugliest man Bard had ever seen. The right side of his face looked to have been hit with a hammer, such was the lack of symmetry in its structure. His eye was lazy and bloodshot, his nose cocked towards the left. More than half his teeth were missing as well, though the ones that remained weren't brown or rotten. I might have looked like that, had the Blue Lance struck a little lower.

'Lord Eran.'

Bard knew the voice, for his stomach fluttered momentarily. Then he remembered his shame. Even with his head bowed he could see the ice-white of her hair. He imagined the rest as he examined his toes, a tundra princess set against the pale moon.

'Lady ... err ... Orel ... well met.'

'I thought you surely with the Elders. You have a thick head, I think.'

Thicker than you know. Bard lifted his eyes. She was more beautiful than he could have imagined in a thousand nights. A gown of azure flowed from her, a thick, furred collar held in place by a silver snowflake brooch. Gone were any fancies from Green Country; she was her father's daughter now. 'I apologise for how I look,' he said, 'I wasn't expecting to be attending any banquets.'