The Baron

Midnight in the old castle brought with it the sound of thunder, and a simultaneous flash of lightening that startled the baron awake from his slumber.

As he rubbed his eyes, adjusting to a waking state, he heard the booming tones of the heavy knocker on the castle door.

It echoed.

Alone, as always, at this time of night, he thought he had imagined it as no one ever calls at Black Castle after dark.

Then he heard it again, ‘Boom boom boom!’ which made him flinch.

He recovered his senses and eased himself out of bed, removing his night cap before wrapping a warm robe around himself.

In the glow of another flash of lightening, he picked up the bedside candelabra and lit the seven candles.

He made his way out of his bedroom then down the great curved staircase, his shuffling footsteps silent; the candlelight casting macabre dancing shadows of the statues he passed by.

‘Boom boom boom!’ insisted the caller.

‘I’m coming I’m coming,’ he muttered under his breath, increasing his stride.

As he opened the unlocked door the wind blew it fully open and another flash of lightening silhouetted a hooded figure.

The gale that blasted through the door blew the old baron’s long black locks of hair backwards but, amazed at the sight, he couldn’t take his eyes off the dark shape in front of him and the seven candles, strangely burning peacefully in the gale.

He shivered.

‘May a stranger find shelter this terrible night?’ said the figure in front of him.

Without thinking twice the baron stepped to one side. The stranger walked in. As he passed the threshold the door swung shut behind him with a resounding bang, shutting off the wind that had blasted it open. ‘Much obliged,’ said the stranger.

In the candlelight the baron recognised the robes of a monk. ‘Welcome to my home,’ he said, with a slight bow of his head, ‘you must be frozen. Come, let’s light a fire and get some warm food inside you, then you can tell me of your travels.’ He felt elated that he finally had company after years of lonely nights; the castle staff always leaving before the sundown.

‘Neither of these are necessary tonight, I come to speak to you on a matter of some importan-‘

At that, the door knocker boomed again and, again, the baron flinched.

‘Do not be afraid,’ said the monk, removing his hood, ‘it is my partner; we are two who travel.’

He studied the monk’s face. He could not put and age to it . . . and the eyes seemed to draw him in, almost mesmerizing him. He broke the contact, nervously. ‘Of course, Father,’ he said, and opened the door a second time.

Again the flash of lightening and again the blasting wind and stable candle flame; again a dark figure.

‘Come in, Father,’ he said, more confident this time.

The second monk entered.

The great oak door slammed shut behind him of its own accord.

A gentle draft wafted the candle flames.

‘It is a terrible night tonight, Baron Black,’ he said.

His words were accompanied by a flash and a clap of thunder, and as the baron stared at the dark shadow of the monk’s face, hidden beneath his hood, he shivered again, knowing, somehow, that the monk was not talking about the weather. He feigned ignorance: ‘It is indeed. It is the Storm Season.’

‘You cannot lie to us,’ said the second monk, pushing back his hood, ‘we see your thoughts.’

His eyes were sapphire blue and seemed to glow with inner light. For ten seconds he held the monk’s gaze, unable to look away, entranced. He then blinked. ‘Yes, it is a terrible night tonight,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s retire to the main hall; more comfortable there.’

He turned without waiting for a reply, relieved to be not looking into those eyes, then strode through the main entrance hall and under the great staircase. How do they do that? How do they see into my mind? Electricity tingled up his spine as he walked.

‘We see into all minds,’ said the voice of monk number one.

The baron stopped, shocked, then slowly peered over his shoulder at his guests. He felt afraid. ‘Really?’ he croaked, ‘how . . . how interesting.’

‘Yes,’ they replied in unison.

He looked from one to the other then back again to the first, unwilling to look at either for more than a second. ‘Follow me,’ he said, nervously, as he turned towards the ornate carved doors of Black Hall. The doors, thirty feet high and twenty feet wide, were brought to life by the flickering candles causing wolves to turn and look, their emerald gem stone eyes flashing in the passing light, while men on horses carrying lances chased them through a tangled forest.

He pushed with all his strength and the great doors opened, the candles casting long shadows throughout the four-hundred foot room. A large owl screeched as it made its escape through the doors flying on silent wings. It turned in the air then flew up the main staircase and out of sight.

‘Excuse me,’ said the baron, ‘that was Godrik. Someone must have forgotten to let him out.’

‘Yes, we know Godrik,’ said monk number one.

‘We know everything,’ said number two.

The baron felt goose bumps all over his flesh. A chill clawed at his joints, stiffening them. ‘Come, let’s sit,’ he bravely said. He walked over to the banquet table and, once there, placed the candelabra upon it. He pulled two chairs out then gestured with open arms.

The monks took their places and the baron, thinking it would be impolite to sit opposite them - ten feet away - pulled out a third chair and sat at the end of the long table, close to the corner.

He fidgeted nervously as he looked again from one to the other. ‘You said you had come on a matter of some . . . of some importance?’ his voice almost a whisper due to trepidation.

‘One way or another,’ said monk number two, ‘before the night is out you will make a decision that will change everything for you.’

Caught on the wind and carried far, all three heard the voice of a lone wolf howling.

‘We don’t have long,’ said the monks, their voices one, ‘look into our eyes and see your future.’

‘You’re making me nervous again, I have-‘

‘I told you,’ said number one, ‘do not be afraid. There are things you must know this terrible night; there are things you must understand before you make your decision. Now, don’t delay - look into my eyes.’

Baron Black swallowed hard, his heart pounding. He then raised his head and stared at the face in front of him.

The instant he locked eyes with number one, unafraid, a warm feeling spread throughout his body, taking away the goose bumps and night chills.

His arms relaxed, his shoulders eased, and his fingers stopped their crossing and uncrossing.

He breathed out, long and slow; then breathed in again.

Inside his mind a picture formed. It was a picture of the town of Darkshift, as seen from the top of Gloom Hill at night.

Down in the town, nestled on the valley floor on the northern bank of the Shapeshifter river, the tops of the houses were only just visible above a thin layer of grey mist that shone in the moonlight as it clung to the ground.

In the distance, and perched upon the summit of Dead Dog's Peak, Black Castle flashed on and off below its own, isolated, thunderstorm.

Down in the valley not a breath of wind stirred a leaf.

Every window visible flickered with candlelight and the baron, watching from the top of the hill, knew that he was looking at Darkshift in real time, for no one tonight would dare to extinguish the lights and sleep.

The picture started to alter, slowly at first, and then faster, as he moved through the air to fly down from Gloom Hill towards the town – towards the mist - and he knew, he felt, that he was indeed now Godrik.

He dove into the mist then flew along Taverners’ Row, seeing mice scurrying on both sides of the street as they scavenged garbage. He felt Godrik’s hunger pangs and felt something stronger, something more urgent, and then knew that he had a mission to accomplish before he could feast.

He flew on, beating on the midnight air, his silent passing causing little vortices of mist to spin behind him - the only giveaway to his presence.

He turned right up Tanners’ Drake and flew on, hunting his prey.

Muffled echoes of sound distorted by the mist to human ears were pinpointed and sights unseen by human eyes in the grey dampness of a Darkshift midnight were focused upon and homed-in on.

Godrik had found his prey . . .

He flared his wings, hovering for a second, before alighting upon the hitching post outside the Head-Hunters’ Arms.

On the opposite side of the street, and moving stealthily between the shadows, a man, dressed in threadbare rags, constantly looked left and right, scanning Tanners’ Drake for signs of pursuit, darting between doorways only when he considered it safe to do so.

Godrik hooted.

The man froze, caught between two doorways and in the light cast out from the windows of the silent Head-Hunters’.

His eyes sparkled, caught by the light, and as they did Godrik looked into them.

The man’s mind was in turmoil, and the pictures in his head told of his past; and his future if he was captured out and about tonight – the night of Lancer’s Revenge.

All his life he had hid from the full moon, laying up in deserted barns and old shacks until the moon had waned, but mostly hiding from the horsemen who had killed his father fifteen years ago tonight for being a werewolf – tonight; the only night of the year the horsemen were not afraid of wolfmen, as the full moon, once a year and once only, protected them from the curse of the wolf’s bite. On that night they went out on the hunt, armed with silver-tipped lances and sharp swords to remove the heads of werewolves, which were hung above the bar in the Head-Hunters’.

‘Get out of here quickly,’ hooted Godrik, and inside the man’s mind the distinctive voice of monk number one was heard clearly by him, while from the end of Tanners’ Drake the unmistakable sound of horseshoe on cobble could be heard . . .