The Necromancer Trilogy - Black Magic

Chapter Seventeen - The Legend of Arndale

Even in the frost-bitten cold, the ruins at Arndale summoned a few committed visitors. Pink-cheeked with noses running from the harsh winds, they struggled amongst the icy stones with maps flapping and guidebooks trying to tear themselves from numb fingers and commit suicide off the edge of the cliff.

 Arndale castle stood proud and crumbling on the edge of a sheer drop to the waves far, far below. Though walls had fallen in and ivy had taken a cheerful hold, remnants of the old glory could still be seen, like tattered banners waving in a relentless wind. It wasn’t for the castle itself that people came but for the stories that surrounded it.

 In guidebooks and in the village and from eager tour-guides, you could learn the story of Arndale. It was acted out every year by the children in the village school, with clumsy acting and barely-remembered lines. There were parades and memorials and souvenirs. Arndale summoned the world for this one legend.

 It told of a local lord who lived in the castle. On the surrounding hills, robbers and highwaymen were causing havoc. In great appeal, the villagers came to the lord and demanded that he solved the problem and allowed them to get on with their lives.

 The lord was a proud man and swore to kill the bandit chief in single combat. Though the duel raged many days, the lord was eventually slain. The bandit then leant upon his sword and regarded the silent crowd with lazy eyes.

“I have killed your protector,” it is told that he said. “He was a brave man but I am braver. He was a strong man but I am stronger. He had everything to lose, and I nothing but my life. Do you accept me in his place?”

The villagers remained in obstinate silence, not daring to openly refuse but dreading the idea of welcoming this low-down, honourless thief as their lord and master. They turned with silent eyes to the blacksmith, rumoured to be a fierce fighter, yet he would not give his life to the cause.

“I will fight,” called a voice from the back of the crowd. “You cannot be my master!”

The lord’s ten-year-old son stepped forward with his father’s sword in his hand. He was small but light on his feet and he held the sword with confidence, his tear-swollen eyes focused in hatred on the bandit chief.

The crowd cried out in horror, yet nobody dared to step into the boy’s place and die instead of him. The child had lost a father and, from the look on the bandit’s face, was about to lose himself.

“You will die,” the bandit remarked.

“I will fight,” the little lord said, furiously. “I will fight.”

“No.”

This last came from another voice, another face in the crowd. They all turned to see the boy’s mother stepping swiftly into the circle and removing the sword from her son’s hand.

“Mother,” the boy growled. “Mother, let me kill him!”

“No, dear,” his mother gave the bandit a look of such disgust that the criminal took a step back. “No, let me.”

She swung the sword. “Well? Will you fight?”

They fought and the bandit was slain, by a woman who had previously been a quiet and dutiful wife, a lady of the land. She had taken up the sword and avenged her husband.

 For this legend, Arndale had been forever famous and it always attracted a few eager enthusiasts every summer, who would camp in the fields and fix greedy eyes on the hills as if they contained some historical power that they could tap into. It was nothing unusual.

 However, this year they came in winter. There was nothing overwhelmingly strange about them, not when you considered the people who had been there before. But there was something very hostile, very other, about this particular contingent.