Chapter 3: Arrival at Wilder Wood & the Battle for WIlder Mound“How badly are you hurt, my Lord? See, you still bleed from the wounds, please allow me to tend to them”.
Evril felt faint. Slouched on a rock near the river, he could hear the children weeping as they sought comfort from their mothers, who in turn would have looked to their husbands for strength and reassurance. Yet many women had lost loved ones, their bodies still being carried away and hastily buried in an undignified and simplistic manner. Many good men, and boys, had been lost over these past few weeks. Many more were wounded, some unable to rise from their beds as sickness took hold of them, their groaning and crying forming a constant backdrop to the sombre mood that now held these travellers in an unyielding grip. As Evril had his wounds dressed by one of the women, he looked around and, through hazy eyes, took in the sorry sight that lay before him. The battle with the barbarians had very nearly cost them everything and he began to wonder once more if this was really such a good idea.
Evril called out to Rennish. “Do you see? Do you see what happens when simple folk such as us, ordinary men, women and children try to get involved with something that doesn’t concern us?"
Looking over his shoulder, Rennish glared at Evril. He dropped the water bowl he was drinking from and marched over to confront him. “Lest you forget, we still live. The heir to Sylvandell may have taken a few knocks, but he still breathes! I’d say that this was good news, wouldn’t you? And did I not warn you that this would be a perilous journey?”
“And what of those who have lost? Those children who will never see their fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters again? The Neroli clearly do not make the distinction between male and female when they raise their maces in hatred. How can you call what you see here a success?”
“I made a promise to you, Evril!” barked Rennish. “A promise that so far I have kept! A promise that meant installing you on the High Throne at Sylvandell! Were it not for me, you would have perished along with everyone else at that stinking hole you called home! How dare you show your gratitude to me in that way!” Rennish’s eyes were wide, piercing and menacing as he stood over Evril. He, in turn, stood up, squarely meeting Rennish’s gaze, hand lowered to the hilt of his sword. “Not only do you dare to threaten me, you cast off the lives of others here… my people… as expendable? I believed in you, Rennish. I believed with all my heart that you were to save us all. It’s clear to me that there is something more to this fantasy tale you carry than you admit. Give me one reason why I should not strike you down here and now for those comments! I have lost good people, too many good people, as a result of following your orders to stay here and fight. You tell me now, what it is that you are set to gain from getting me to Sylvandell in one piece?” Evril’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.
Rennish held back an anger that consumed him. Moving closer to Evril, he spoke slowly, through gritted teeth, “I made no promise to you, or anyone, for the safety of ‘your’ people. You placed your trust in me, and I suggest that you continue to do so. There are matters here that do not concern you. I suggest strongly that you do as you are told… Sire… for the benefit of the cause.”
“And what if I choose not to? What if I choose to ignore you?” Evril, though no soldier, felt ready to run him through here and now. Secretly, he was scared. Something was not right here, judging by the reaction of Rennish. Something was afoot and he didn’t like it. Rennish suddenly regained his composure, stepped away from Evril and bowed, slowly. “Please forgive me… my Lord… I speak out of terms. I have offended you. Though try to understand that this is a difficult time for me too. I have spent a great deal of my life reading and studying manuscripts and documents, travelling far and wide in an effort to gain sufficient knowledge to enable me to seek you at Gibbet’s Marshes. I do not wish for the hard work to be undone.” And with that, he walked away, seeking out those men and boys that survived the horrific attacks of the Neroli, assembling the forces once more and replacing broken or lost equipment. Evril sank back down and covered his face with his hands.
He awoke to the sound of wolves calling. A chilling sound that seemed to surround the remains of the camp at Marrimor. It was dark, as all the fires and torches were extinguished to leave no clue to the Neroli as to their whereabouts. However, it was a clear night and the moon, though not full, cast a weak milky-blue light across the dales and hills. Evril draped a cloak around him, attached his sword to his belt and wandered to the gatehouse, climbing the steps gingerly and quietly. Three men with bows by their side lay asleep, supposedly on watch to the north for any signs of another ambush. Rather than prod them to life, he let them sleep where they were. They had seen enough combat already, and it had been three days and nights since the last time they took arms to defend themselves and those within the camp. Best let them rest, thought Evril, for they will no doubt need all their strength in the journey to Sylvandell. He crouched atop the gatehouse, looking across the moonlit horizon for signs of life. He felt tired, but could not bring himself to slumber for more than a couple of hours each night. Marrimor was a contrasting landscape: pleasant, green and rolling during the day, yet sinister and secretive at night. Again, his attention was drawn to the howl of the wolves, occasionally sounding close to the walls of their camp, but more often a continuous, faint cacophony of noise. He felt sure the wolves knew they were there now, drawn by the smell of blood and flesh. They had circled the camp in search of a kill, and were rewarded for little effort every time the Neroli attacked. What Evril still found strange was their apparent reluctance to tear flesh from the fallen Neroli. They sniffed the decaying carcasses of the barbarians that still lay scattered around the immediate area of the camp, but they would not touch them, rather dragging away the bodies of his own people to a safe distance before ripping them apart and feasting. The wolves of Marrimor were bigger than those of Gib; indeed he felt the further North they progressed the larger and more vicious they were.
Then Evril noticed something. Looking across to the bridge over the river, he saw some thirty wolves gathered there. Some sat, some wheeled around in an excited dance, yapping as they did. He listened carefully and swore that they were making a different noise to the others. His attention was drawn to a dark figure in the middle of the pack. Was it human? He could not be sure in this light, though he strained his eyes to try and make out who or what the figure was. The figure moved among the wolves, in no fear, and the wolves seemed pleased to see whoever it was, circling around the figure and rubbing themselves against what appeared to be an outstretched hand. Then a chorus began, led by the wolves themselves. The figure joined in, mimicking their call. Evril was perplexed, but remembered something his father had spoken of when he was but a young child. At the time, as did so many of his father’s ‘serious’ talks beside the fire, it seemed more of a tale, spoken softly but in a way that always grabbed his attention. He recalled that the Neroli were in some way linked to the wolves. His father spoke of this as a bedtime tale, a warning to a young and impressionable Evril, and to this day all he really knew was they they were ‘as one’. This surely meant that the strange figure was indeed a barbarian of Neroli, but only one? He couldn’t imagine even the smallest scouting party consisting of one and one alone. He quickly scoured the panorama for signs of any more of them, yet it was still. Strange indeed, he thought. And then the figure turned away, crossed the bridge and walked slowly towards the camp. The wolves left to join the others in the woods. Evril grabbed his bow, latched an arrow to it and prepared to fire. Yet as the figure came closer, he could scarcely believe his eyes. It was Rennish.
He walked into the camp without a whisper, moved around those lying asleep and returned to his own bed. Evril hadn’t spoken to his since their confrontation, a mixture of anger and sadness preventing him from doing so. Besides, he had families to console; families that needed someone to lead them away from this uncertain future. He crouched on top of the gatehouse for an hour before quietly slipping back into bed, thoughts racing through his head. What was Rennish doing with the wolves? Who was Rennish? Was he really a member of the Council at Wilder Mound or was he linked in some way to the Neroli? There would be no doubt that questions would be asked in the morning. The more Evril thought about it, the more Rennish’s behaviour seemed to have changed from the first day they set out to Sylvandell. Subtle changes. More argumentative. A man who seemed driven by one goal. A man who was more than he first seemed.
Dawn broke over Marrimor and the sun shone bright and low in the sky. The cheery rays warmed the skin of those who still slept and those who trudged around the camp in search of some breakfast. Birds filled the air with a beautiful, harmonious sound that belied the events of the past few days. And Rennish was once more talking to those who had weapons, discussing tactics, continually training them with new moves and ensuring they were prepared for yet more bloodshed.
Evril grabbed some bread, which was starting to go stale, and washed it down with some mead. Then, he walked to up to Rennish and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him without a word to one side of the camp in a way that didn’t disturb or alarm those around him.
“I will ask you this only once, Rennish. I demand an answer,” he said as they marched. “I demand the truth. Last night I saw you outside of the camp conversing with wolves. What have you to say? And be warned, I am more than prepared to plunge this sword through your heart and lead my people to safety, without your ‘help’. What say you?”
Rennish avoided eye contact with Evril, but replied nonetheless. “I fear that you are misguided, Evril. I fear that you are tired and confused. Maybe I was too harsh on you yesterday. You are clearly no soldier, not that I mean anything bad by that. It wasn’t me you saw, I swear to you, Sire. Rather one of the barbarians…”
Without so much as a pause, Evril swung Rennish round, unleashed his sword and held it to his throat. Rennish gulped nervously, not fighting against Evril’s grip, and Evril saw fear in his eyes. “But I saw you return to the camp. I saw you lie in your bed. Do you accuse me? ANSWER ME! WHO ARE YOU?”
Sweat began to build on Rennish’s forehead. Evril was pushing the blade of his sword hard against his throat, the skin ready to break. He stood there in silence for a while, before he managed to compose himself enough to reply. “I am Rennish, I have not lied to you about who I am or where I come from. But I do have more to me than I initially told you. Please, Sire. Release me and I will tell you all. It is complicated, but you will understand once I tell you of my predicament”.
The sword remained in place for a few seconds, before Evril lowered it, allowing Rennish to take a deep gulp of air. He fell to the ground, coughing and rubbing his throat. Before long, he spoke. “I can understand your concern, Sire. Let me tell you why I was conversing with the wolves last night. But first, I would relish the chance of some mead. I… I… really do need a drink to quench my thirst, I’m sure you understand. After all, you were all but ready to slay me, were you not?”
Rennish sat with Evril in one secluded corner of the camp. Around him, the villagers were packing the carts once more in preparation of the next stage of their journey. With a full goblet of mead in his hand, Rennish began.
“Sylvandell has always held a fascination with me. The secrets within gripped my imagination more than others, almost to the point of obsession. I became sheltered from the rest of Wilder Mound as a result, with more and more of my time devoted to restoring the lost kings and queens to the throne. As time went by and I reached my early adulthood, my obsession with Sylvandell was proved to be worthwhile. Both there and Wilder Mound was almost in a state of disarray. Of course, only those with knowledge and in government knew of the plight we faced, for we did not involve the townsfolk in such matters, for that has always been the way. Once I knew where Gibbet’s Marshes was, for it is an easy place to miss, I realised that I would have to venture through land closely guarded by the Neroli. There was no chance of Wilder Mound providing safe escort for me, as every man or woman capable of brandishing a pike, sword, dagger or bow was needed to guard it. You see, Wilder Mound took a huge gamble and opted to upgrade her defences, new stone walls, new towers and a new gatehouse. In order to do that, we had to destroy some of the old defences, strengthen the foundations and leave ourselves open for attack. We were very vulnerable. Despite the seclusion we enjoyed, it would only take one small scouting party of the Neroli to discover us and return to wherever they hide away. We would be finished. So, I devised a plan and presented to my fellow Council members. I suggested that I form an allegiance with the Neroli, promise them access to Wilder Mound and Sylvandell in return for safe passage through their lands. There, I would find you and return back to Wilder Mound. Of course, the alliance with the Neroli would never exist, but I had to convince them. It nearly cost me my life, only speaking to them with a wolf tongue did I gain their attention long enough to allow me to present my fake offer. They seemed to buy it. However, with the skirmishes we have encountered so far, I suspect that they have tricked me. I suspect that they have followed me to Gibbet’s Marches and continue to follow me… and now you, I fear… as we head back to Wilder Mound.”
Evril sat in silence as Rennish continued to tell of his plans and his fears for our safety. He told him that Wilder Mound was preparing to abandon the site and return to Sylvandell, despite the new defences there. The force of the Neroli was too much for Wilder Mound to hold out against, and the last resort was to seek shelter behind the walls of Sylvandell and fight to the death if need be. Evril listened intently, not quite sure what to make of this daring plan, but not forming any opinions until he had finished. Rennish and he talked through the day in depth, breaking only to eat and to check on the progress of the caravan, now considerably smaller than when they set out from Gib. Rennish told of what lies within the walls of Sylvandell once more, expanding on that he had previously disclosed. Sylvandell had developed fearsome weapons that sat atop huge towers, protecting her walls from afar. He learned that they used fire to kill huge numbers of the Neroli before, had developed the finest weapons forged from steels and alloys, set traps at every turn and had mastered the art of training horses, allowing them to fight with speed and agility. Sylvandell was truly a marvellous place, it seemed; a place of defence, a place of learning, of living, a fine standard of life for all who resided there. And maybe it was the romantic style of Rennish in full flow describing the wonders of Sylvandell, and the risks he had taken to secure the throne once more, that finally convinced him to accept his tale. Evril offered a brief apology, swallowing his pride somewhat, but which was duly accepted; the two men parted to preside over the final stages of their next move.
It took the party a full day before they were ready to depart for Wilder Wood and the Mound within. Rennish would not accompany them all the way, as he had work to do elsewhere. However, they would be met before entering the gates of the forest town. Rennish assured Evril that a brief introduction, as well as a mention of Rennish’s name, would be sufficient to assure safe passage within the palisade walls. Yet still this seemed strange to Evril that Rennish was not keen to return. Secretly, Evril still doubted the motives of his guide, and something continued to lie uneasy in his mind, something that niggled away as they walked onwards across Marrimor. They carried with them bars of iron from earlier requests in their trek, yet Evril had been told since that the smiths of Wilder Mound did not know how to fashion them into armour, preferring to rely on bow and pike, as well as burning oil, to see off any potential threat. They carried wood, carts full to breaking point, and yet they were venturing into a forest, which must be abundant with the finest materials needed, and surely able to sustain the logging that the smiths and builders required. No, something wasn’t quite right, and Evril began to see small but significant errors in the story that Rennish had told him. There were details that he withheld too. Rennish avoided going into any real depth about the more probing questions thrown at him. The more he thought about it, the more Evril fell to a combination of tiredness from the trek and his own paranoia.
At the top of a hill, Rennish stopped and beckoned to Evril to join him at the head of the caravan. He quickened his pace only slightly, but once on the brow, a wonderful and yet daunting sight met his eyes. “Wilder Wood, my liege! Feast your eyes on the panorama that greets you! The mightiest, and oldest forest in these lands!” And true enough, what lay below was a vast wooded area that seemed to go on forever. Left and right he scanned the horizon, and was greeted with a sea of green as far as the eye could make out. Wilder Wood was huge, absolutely huge. The green rolled over hills, up the side of mountains and across vast flat ground and off into the distance. Evril gasped at the sight. He felt elated, yet thought it wise to spoil the moment, and asked, in a slightly sarcastic tone, “and where in this sea of green would one find Wilder Mound?”
Rennish smirked, and pointed to a less dense area of woodland not more than a few hours’ walk from the start of the forest. “Only to the spot there, my liege. It’s not far now. Take your people and the carts to the entrance there ahead of you. The track is narrow and winding, but it is safe. I must leave you here, but I will meet you very soon. Remember what I said, stay close together and you will be greeted before too long. You may suddenly find hundreds of archers armed and ready to fire at you, but they will let you speak. They will guide you to the Mound.”
“And what exactly do I tell them, Rennish? Moreover, what is my purpose here?”
“Tell them who you are, who has guided you and that you need food, rest and their safe passage. They will know what to do. Tell them that, as promised, I will return in a couple of days, and we will ready ourselves to leave the Mound for Sylvandell. Granted, I may have to persuade them a little, but once they see you… they’ll understand what needs to be done.”
And with that, Rennish bode Evril farewell, turned on his heel and headed off to another part of the wood, away from the path that lead them down from Marrimor. Evril spoke to his people, relating a more comforting version of Rennish’s instructions to them and asking for their faith in him. They obliged, though the spark had gone from many of their eyes, he noticed. For most, the thought of Sylvandell and a peaceful life had been put to the back of their minds, and there was little driving them on after the skirmishes with the Neroli. Little did they know that even as they walked towards Wilder Wood, they were being observed; being followed into the depths of the wood, into the dark stillness of the forest and into the unknown that lay ahead. And after an hour or so of walking, they began to hear the faint screams of anger and hatred from the Neroli as they hunted them down, tracking them deeper and deeper into Wilder Wood. The party increased their pace, desperately hoping to be found by the greeting party from the Mound, yet the by now unmistakeable sound of hundreds of Neroli on the hunt for their blood grew more intense, their squeals of rage seeming to come from all around them. Just as Evril was beginning to think that they were too late, the trees broke their grip around them and he found himself in a clearing. Directly in front of him lay a mass of palisade walling, smoke rising from fires, archers running around barking orders, pikemen readying themselves for battle and towering up directly ahead, a huge stone gatehouse flanked by tall towers. But no sign of a welcome party. Nobody to greet the weary travellers. Evril ordered his people to follow him closely behind, as he marched up to the main gatehouse. It wasn’t long before they were finally spotted. Armed with heavy longbows, a group of archers ran out to meet them, bows primed and ready to fire at the sorry party. One of the archers, more ornately adorned than the rest, broke ranks and walked right up to Evril, standing firmly in his path. “Speak now, and speak quickly. Who are you and what is your business here?” His voice was gruff and unpleasant, certainly a military man all his life. “Quick, answer me!” he barked again. “I am Evril of Gibbets Marsh, beyond the plains of Marrimor. I come in peace, with my people, to seek shelter at Wilder Mound, before we march to Sylvandell. Rennish, who told me to mention his name, has guided us. He assures you that you would have heard of him”. The Chief archer raised an eyebrow at this comment, and grabbed Evril by the arm. “Sire, it pleases me that you have found your way here, and we are relieved that your passage has allowed you here in one piece. We have been expecting you. Please, tell your people to make haste and take shelter within our walls. Quick, do not drag your feet; I suspect an attack from the Neroli at any moment. I take it you have heard their cries of war?”
And with that brief exchange, Evril ushered the villagers and carts through the imposing gatehouse and into the relative sanctity of Wilder Mound. Once through, the Mound unfolded before his eyes. A thriving village community spread out before him. Farms bustled with activity, as wheat was being harvested at a skilled pace, hops were stored onto the Mound’s own caravan of carts, along with ale, cheeses, fruit, huge slabs of salted venison and weapons. Hundreds of weapons; enormous longbows and pikes tipped with finely forged steel tips. Everywhere Evril looked, people were frantically going about their business. The Mound was a hive of activity. The people of his village gawped in awe too, for they had never seen such a huge place as Wilder Mound before.
Evril noticed seven elders dressed in similar costume to Rennish, walking towards him. “Sir Evril, welcome to Wilder Mound!” they shouted. Certainly a more friendly welcome that that of the chief archer, he thought. Indeed, each of the elders embraced him and shook his hand, and bowed to the group of villagers behind him in turn. “Please, follow us, my Liege. We have very little time, and much to discuss.” Evril and the villagers followed the elders through Wilder Mound to the opposite side that they entered, and into a grand wooden hall surrounded by a moat and guarded by gatehouses and a tower. Evril was ushered inside, and the villagers were waited on outside, given fresh clothing, food and drink to quench their thirst. Once inside, the door was firmly closed. The elders sat around a huge oak table, and Evril was invited to sit with them.
“Again, welcome my Liege. We are the High Council of Wilder Mound. We have indeed been expecting you, although we doubted whether we would ever meet. But more of that later; I see that Rennish has indeed fulfilled his promise to bring you here, safe and well I take it?”
“Not quite so well, as too many good people from my village have died at the hands of the Neroli already. But yes, those that remain are well, given the circumstances.”
The High Council spoke quietly between them briefly. “I am saddened to hear of your losses, my Liege. I was assured that Rennish would deliver you and your people without scratch and with no harm coming to you. Please, accept our condolences. We will see that a ceremony is given to honour the dead once this terrible war with the Neroli is over. But to business; we have been tracking the progress of the Neroli from the edges of Marrimor, and they are indeed hell-bent on ridding anyone who opposes them, it seems. More worrying is that they have somehow acquired metal armour and now march towards the Mound at a frightening speed. I take it Rennish made you aware of our plans to leave for Sylvandell?”
“He did indeed, although I still feel like a pawn in a bigger game. Something does not seem quite right here. Why do you wish to leave Wilder Mound, or the wood for that matter? Surely the defences you have built will keep them out?”
The Council looked grave. “We certainly thought that this would be the case, Liege. But against the full force of the Neroli, we are not so sure. Certainly against thousands of mad men who have full weaponry, we would not hold out against them for more than a week or so. Our weapons will not allow us hand-to-hand combat with them, and our archers, skilled and experienced as they are, make little difference.”
Evril took a huge swig of ale before commencing. “This Rennish, who exactly is he? Why is his involvement in this plan so critical?” He fixed a gaze on one member of the Council who seemed to be doing most of the talking. The elder duly replied. "Rennish is one of us, a member of the Council, and already welcomed by Sylvandell itself. It was his idea, his research and investigation that brought you here. Sylvandell is the seat of our power, though they are an entity in themselves. The scriptures do show that Wilder Mound and Sylvandell are linked, yet many hundreds, if not thousands of years have passed since Wilder Mound both traded with them as an outpost. Rennish has promised us a place in the government of Sylvandell and each of the villagers here a home and a new life. We know not how this has been accepted at Sylvandell though. The history scrolls show that many, many years ago, Wilder Mound was a separate part of the Kingdom of Sylvandell. Relationships broke down, though we do not know why to this day. Sylvandell and Wilder Mound weren’t enemies, but we were outcast from our true home. Corruption of the government, if you ask me! But with the breakdown in the royal line and the old government being deposed some twenty years ago, we are now talking again. Great strides have been made between our two ‘towns’ to undo the harm that was done before, and this is certainly progress, given that we are all now of a new generation. A kingdom divided, he once said.”
“Rennish has spent his life studying the history scrolls and trying to piece together the missing details,” the Council continued. “We owe him a great deal, and are indeed indebted to him, if this plan really does come to fruition. Wilder Mound is a pleasant place, but we aren’t able to defend ourselves against any large siege. Rennish has always been a bit of an enigma, always regarded himself as on the outside of this council, despite the good work he has done. Without Rennish, I don’t believe we can walk up to Sylvandell and be welcomed with open arms. He does seem to hold back on all the details of his work.”
Evril listened intently. “Yes, that I can believe. He has been selective with information to me too.”
“Our plan is to accompany you and your people to Sylvandell, once Rennish returns. We are very much playing his game. I only hope that he does indeed return soon, for I feel that any day now, Wilder Mound will see the heaviest threat to her walls that she has seen for many years. The Neroli are gathering, ready to attack. They are nervous though, but still prepared to risk all for their ‘cause’. Madmen, crazy, bloodthirsty madmen!”
“Answer me one question,” said Evril. “What is it that the Neroli want?”
The Council members at each other, somewhat bemused. “Why, Sire, they want their country back! The Neroli are the indigenous race to these lands. Sylvandell is built on top of their ancestral home and the secrets within are, or were, rightly theirs. When the First Knights settled here, they drove most of the Neroli, massacred hundreds of thousands of their kind and stole the wealth of knowledge within. The Neroli resent us, despise us, and will die fighting in their quest to destroy Sylvandell. It is a symbol of their fight against oppression. The Neroli that remained, hundreds of them it seems, were slaves; they were forced to build Sylvandell for the First Knights, and once they had done so, exhausted and malnourished from their efforts, they were slain. The first Secret of Sylvandell, Sire, is that what you may perceive as pure and good isn’t necessarily what you may first think, or want to believe. We are, you could argue, one side of yet another historic struggle against good and evil. We are, or were, the evil side of the fight.”
Evril felt sick. He couldn’t begin to comprehend what the High Council had just said. All that he knew about Sylvandell, all that we had been told as a child, was a fragmentation of the truth. Or a blatant lie, corrupted over the millennia. Rennish had fuelled his passions in such a way that left him desparate to see Sylvandell himself and come to despise the Neroli deep inside. He felt empty and cold. No wonder the Neroli were so angry, so hell-bent on killing anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path. He was about to ask more questions, when his line of thought was interrupted by the door of the Great Hall crashing open and twelve archers, dressed in the traditional green battledress, came pouring in.
“Sire, my noble Council! Forgive us, but the Neroli are attacking!” It’s happening! It’s finally happening!”
The High Council members leapt to their feet. “Order all defensive positions to be manned! Lock the gatehouse, and begin distributing the weapons from the armoury! Every able-bodied man must fight! Keep your eyes open for a signal from Rennish! Quick, now! Run!”
Evril leapt to his feet too. “And your plans for me?”
“Why Sire, you must remain here. The future High King of Sylvandell must be preserved.”
The Bretwalda Chronicles: Northumbria|Anglia|Mercia"There is material enough in a single flower for the ornament of a score of cathedrals" - John Ruskin