Prophet of Moonshae - Douglas Niles [3]
The storm swallowed the sounds of the old man's passage-,concealing it, at least, from the guards, though the hounds once again took up their howl. Now, however, the figure raised his head to stare at the doorway and the glaring lantern light reflected from his bright, widely set eyes.
The men-at-arms stiffened as they beheld those gleaming spots of light, like supernatural apparitions come to haunt them. They felt no relief when they realized the glow came from the eyes of the trespassing figure. A twenty-foot palisade of sharpened stakes surrounded the grounds and manor of Earl Blackstone of Fairheight, with a single gate that remained closed and guarded. There was no simple explanation for the presence of this bizarre and apparently maddened intruder.
"Who are you?" demanded one of the guards, reflexively lowering his long-shafted halberd. "What do you want?"
"How did you get here?" demanded the other, driving more directly to the point. The second guard drew his narrow long-sword and held the weapon at the ready.
"The power shall rise! You know your folly!" The voice pierced the gloom like the strike of lightning. Harsh and clear, it wasn't hysterical, but-also like lightning-it commanded attention. The guardsmen instinctively tightened their grips on their weapons, gaping at the stranger as he slowly advanced into the circle of illumination.
"Flee!" cried the old man, his voice rising. "Flee before it is too late!"
The shambling figure waved his arms over his head. His eyes darted madly, first at the door, then at the lanterns, and finally along the high wall overhead. He moved closer, into the full lamplight.
The stranger's bald crown glistened, soaked by the pounding rain. White hair encircled his scalp, a stringy fringe that covered his ears and straggled in mats onto his shoulders. A long beard of the same color as his hair, also soaked, framed his wide mouth. He wore a shabby robe of wool, with a belt of ratty rope. Toes jutted from ragged things-they had long since ceased to be boots-that covered each of his wet and muddy feet.
Around the corner of the great manor house, the barking of the hounds rose to a frenzy. The wooden gate of the kennel crashed under the repeated assaults of huge canine bodies. But it was the intruder's eyes that commanded the attention of the two watchman. They stared into those gleaming spots of light and knew they confronted a madman.
"Call the lord!" cried the halberdier, lowering his weapon protectively to block the door.
His companion wasted no time in hammering against the portal with his mailed fist. "Open up! Summon Earl Blackstone! Quickly!"
His voice nearly cracked. The guard was a steadfast fighter. He could have faced the charge of berserk northmen or the attack of a raging firbolg giant with steadfast courage. Yet this deranged man, with his matted beard and wild, staring eyes, disturbed him in a way that no merely physical threat could.
"How did you get past the wall?" demanded the other guard, the halberdier. Frantically the man wondered, Did we leave the gate unlatched? Had the guard fallen asleep? The palisade had no breaches, and the noble lord would tolerate no lapse in the vigilance of his guards.
The bearded man came closer, dragging his feet along the ground, practically stumbling with each step.
Abruptly the door swung open. The black-bearded figure standing there, strapping and unafraid, was not the lord of the manor-instead, it was Currag, Earl Blackstone's firstborn son.
"What's the commotion?" he demanded, his eyes immediately fixing upon the intruder.
"This fellow-he must have climbed the wall! He's talking crazy, ranting about doom and despair!" The halberdier's mind still raced. If a gate had been left unlocked, his own neck would be all but forfeit.
"Set the hounds on him," growled young Currag Blackstone, spitting toward the white-bearded man.