The Valley of the Grey Watchers

  The Valley of the Grey Watchers was a bowl filled with mist. Its edges were the jagged and cracked peaks of the Beorgens. The cart squeaked, creaked as it rolled over the crest, began its careful descent. Its driver, Louis the groom, bit his lip, his cheeks rosy from the cold, eyes fast and anxious. Sister Joan sat on the bench beside him, clutching the wood with both hands.

  Baron Matheller watched from the saddle of Gast as they slipped into the haze. Marshal Rudola and the men at arms were on their horses behind him, giving the cart the space to navigate down the slope. The breaths from their agape, quiet mouths were plumes of white smoke. They listened. The cart scraped, the draft horse kicked up, only to be calmed by the indiscernible words of the groom. Their own steads were terse, teeth chattering, heads pulling side to side at the reins, all but Gast, who huffed and pawed at the stone. Matheller eased the beast onward.

  It had been a day since they had found Eot’s footsteps. They had lost the things just as quickly, travelling down onto the lower parts of the ridge where the sun had burnt away all but the most stubborn patches of snow. It had been hard and slow travelling with the cart, and horses that were used to the forests and lowlands surrounding Bris. They’d spent most of the time leading the animals on foot, then climbed the ridge again and made a camp. This morning had been cold, and it remained that way as they drew closer to the ancient valley.

  The ground began to level out as they approached the valley’s bottom, and moss-covered boulders rose from the snow. Matheller couldn’t see more than a few yards ahead in the mist, and before they knew it, the Grey Watchers were upon them. They were flat-faced stones, some as tall as several men, standing out of the ground. There were carvings on their faces, too worn to make out. The cart passed between two of them, and Louis stopped the draft horse before he ventured further into the circle.

  Baron Matheller came alongside the cart. “Sister Joan.” His voice was low. “We’ve arrived, I presume?”

  The nun nodded.

  The cart was brought into the centre of the stone circle, and the men at arms hauled the large hessian sack that contained their offering for Eot out of the back. The thing came down rudely, almost crushing Danner’s foot as it fell to the ground. Then Sister Joan approached the offering sack and knelt, praying to the Old Father. The party bowed their heads in respect.

  “Is that part of the rite?” Matheller asked after she was done.

  “No, Sire,” Sister Joan said. “Just my own personal pleading.”

  They withdrew to just outside the circle of the Grey Watchers and waited. At this distance, the sack was only a vague silhouette in the haze. Marshal Rudola had the men arm themselves, and they did, even donning coats of mail that had travelled with them in the back of the cart. Wolves. That was what the Marshal had said he was concerned about. Wolves.

  The Baron didn’t bother with any mail of his own. He doubted the coat he had would still fit him, so instead, he put his sword belt on. It was tight on his waist, and the scabbard of his sword felt like an uncomfortable memory at his side. He put his cloak back on and pulled it closed against the still coolness of the valley air.

  By midday, the mist was diminished, but did not altogether leave. There were clouds overhead, preventing the sun from burning it off completely. No one thought to eat. Rudola had been pacing restlessly, side to side, and the other men only spoke occasionally, in low voices. Matheller stood beside Sister Joan, watching the circle.

  “What did you say in that prayer of yours?” Matheller said.

  “I asked for peace and protection,” she said.

  “Perhaps that’s why nothing has arrived.”

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  The nun looked at him sternly. “Eot is a healer. A devout blessed by the Old Father. I don’t doubt Diod’s words.”

  She was about to say more, when Danner whistled. The man crept forward and pointed.

  Something was moving on the other side of the Grey Watchers. It looked to be the size of a horse at first, a great hunched figure. But it rose as it passed between the standing stones. It must have been ten feet tall, and it padded through the snow towards the offering. The thing stopped at the sack. It stood tall as the Grey Watchers.

  “Is that…?” Matheller said.

  “It must be,” Sister Joan said. “It is his offering, and he has come for it.”

  “I would speak with him.”

  Baron Matheller marched forward with Sister Joan beside him. Rodula and the other men were behind them. Only Louis stayed where he was, tending to the nervous horses.

  Matheller’s breath caught in his throat as Eot came into view. He wore no clothes. His chest was bare and pocked with bulbous tumours. His loins were uncovered, and only on his back did he wear a cloak. It was silver and caught the light on its strands. Only when they were closer did Matheller see the creatures that crawled across it. It was made with no normal yarn, but made of spider webs and hair and scurrying life. Clovers and mountain flowers sprouted from the ground between the giant’s toes. Matheller could have sworn they were growing by the second.

  Eot watched them come, looking down at them with cow-like, pale eyes.

  Baron Matheller stopped a short distance off. He kept the offering between himself and Eot.

  “I am Baron Matheller.” His voice echoed off the mountain walls. “I am the Lord of Bris, servant of Philippe the True King of Baidon. This is my offering to you, blessed one. The same offering as King Atheren once offered.” He paused. Eot didn’t move. His eyes, it seemed, barely registered the Baron. The man continued anyway. “I want you to give us your aid, Eot. Bless us with your power.” Matheller bowed. “That is my humble request.”

  As the echo of Matheller’s words died, the Baron looked on with eager, nervous anticipation. Eot was real. The writings that the Baron had been pinning his hopes on for months were true. He would lead no fools to battle now. The people of Bris would be left in peace.

  Eot crouched down, squatting by the sack. He leaned in and sniffed it. The Baron could see the patches of dried blood from where Becker’s soldier had bled on the thing. Saints, he prayed, do not let the blood displease him.

  With a sharp fingernail, Eot cut into the sack. The hessian split, and grain began to spill out. It was as Diod wrote, wheat harvested by moonlight. Then came the gourds, the squashes and pumpkins all grown in a widow’s garden. Finally, amongst it all, the herbs cut from the bush with knives made from silver. It was the offering Atheren had given to Eot, and Matheller had painstakingly replicated it with the help of Sister Joan. Now, half of it was spilled across the snow.

  Eot frowned, flashing ivory dagger teeth. He picked the sack up and began to shake it with a fury. The rest of the offering was scattered across the circle as the sack was torn to shreds.

  Matheller felt Rudola’s strong grip on his shoulder. “Sire, this isn’t right.”

  They began to back away when Eot roared. The giant lashed forwards caught Sister Joan by her robes. She screamed and fell to the ground. It pulled her in. Matheller grabbed her arm, pulled back. Eot’s strength was incredible, and the Baron’s feet began to slide through the snow. He yelled, about to lose his grip when Rudola struck. With a flash of steel, the Marshal cut Eot’s wrist, and it let her go, howling in pain.

  “Kill the beast!” Rudola called.

  The men at arms charged. Danner, Grune, Talber and Horace ran into the fray as the Baron stumbled back with the nun. Danner was there first. He hacked at Eot’s leg, only to be swatted away. He was flung back and hit the ground hard. The bone in his leg made an awful crack. The others were more fortunate, and their swords, along with the Marshal’s, began bloody work.

  The Baron dragged Sister Joan away. He called for Louis, and the groom ran to carry Danner from where he had fallen. His mind was racing. Where had they gone wrong? Why had it not accepted the offering? But there was no time for questions.

  In the centre of the Grey Watchers, Rudola and his men had brought Eot down to its knees. They stabbed and slashed and cut, the giant’s bloody arms protected its face. They kept going, mercilessly chopping at the old giant, painting the white snow red. With the nun clear of the fight, Matheller drew his own sword. He turned around to see Rudola stab his blade through Eot’s mouth, and the giant fell to the ground on its face, killed by unwavering aggression.

  “Saints,” Matheller cursed. “Fuck it all.”

  Rudola hacked Eot one last time across the back of the head and looked to Matheller. The Marshal’s usually clean stubble was covered in the giant’s blood.

  “It’s dead,” Rudola said. “We’ve just killed a spirit, if such a thing can be said.”

  “Dead,” Matheller breathed. His heart was pounding, his body numb. They had just found Eot, only to hack the thing to pieces. He reached down with an trembling hand, prodded the wound. It was deep and went down to the skull.