Page 18 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
“Show yourself,” Beiste growled to the ever growing shadows.
The wind whistled, rustling the trees that surrounded them. The moon cast shadows everywhere, dark in some places and lighter in others. It was hard to make out where the enemy could be hiding, if at all.
A bird of prey made a piercing noise overhead and then there came a rustling from a bush to his right. Beiste did not wait for his enemy to present himself. Instead, he kicked his horse forward, thrusting his sword toward the shrubs, only to pull back at the very last minute when a young lad’s face poked free.
“Please…” the lad begged. “Dinna hurt me.”
Beiste recoiled, though he didn’t sheathe his sword in case this, too, was part of the trap. “What are ye doing hiding about? How long have ye been there?”
The lad shivered. His clothes were torn. And though Beiste couldn’t see in this light if they were dirty, the stench alone was enough to beg the affirmative.
“I…” The lad rubbed at his arms and stepped out from the bush. At his height and the still soft lines of his features, he couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve summers. “I am lost.”
“Where do ye come from?”
He shrugged. “I dinna know the way.”
“Name your clan,” Beiste demanded.
The lad’s eyes widened into dark circles, his mouth popping open in fear but no sound coming out.
Beiste gritted his teeth and worked to make himself more pleasant though his business was urgent. “Come now, lad, tell me. I willna hurt ye.”
The lad shook his head. “I’ve no clan.”
“Your parents are drifters?”
To this, he nodded, rising up on his tiptoes before settling back down, as one does when given an idea. “They are…they are merchants.”
Beiste narrowed his eyes, immediately suspicious. “What do they sell?”
The scamp glanced down at his arms and spoke softly, uncertainly. “Wool…?”
Beiste frowned, examining the lad’s torn clothes, his too short breeches and tunic. Not even made of plaid, but a thin brown wool that had seen not simply days of better wear, but years and possibly even decades.
“Failing merchants?” Beiste couldn’t help but say.
The lad nodded, once more. His shoulders slumped. His chin fell to his chest as he softly said, “’Haps that is why they left me.”
Beiste grunted. Perhaps the urchin could be believed. At the very least, that his family had left him behind. Bastards, leaving the poor lad to starve in the woods or be carried off by a predator. Or worse—taken as a slave by the Vikings. “Did ye happen to see what happened at the castle yonder?”
The lad chewed his lip, but nodded all the same, wringing his hands something fierce.
“Tell me,” Beiste encouraged.
“They…came and killed…” His teeth started to chatter. “My parents were there…”
Beiste narrowed his eyes on the poor creature. Perhaps his parents hadn’t left him, after all, and they’d been killed in the massacre. Anything was possible.
“Where are the Vikings now?”
The waif shook his head, knees knocking together. “I dinna know. They left early this morn or ’haps it was yestermorn.” He swiped at tears leaving pale tracks in the dirt on his face. “I dinna remember.”
“Did ye happen to catch which way they went?” Beiste knew his question was a long shot, but it couldn’t hurt to ask all the same.
“Aye. They headed toward the mountains.”
Toward Dunstaffnage. Or to simply seek refuge in a place he’d be less likely to find them. Beiste let out a growled curse, which had the child nearly jumping out of his skin. He offered a gruff apology. If the castle was abandoned, its inhabitants either killed, fled or taken hostage, this made Beiste’s mission all the more dangerous. He’d need reinforcements. But first, they’d have to carry on to Castle Gloom to see if any clues had been left behind.
