The Curse of the Singing Wolf by Anna Lord

in his
chest. He cried out and crumpled in the dust. Velazquez, crouching
behind a rock, took credit for the timely kill.
    With three bandits down and a
stand-off stretching into a cold November night looking the
likeliest scenario, Sarazan, to everyone’s astonishment, suddenly
gave a whistle. His men fell back then began to retreat. Colonel
Moriarty, astounded by this turnaround, and thinking it might be
some sort of ruse, quickly clambered to the top of the ridge and
managed to wound another brigand as he and his cohort fled on
horseback. Fedir followed and brought down a fifth.
    Gradually, the party of
travellers crept out of hiding and re-grouped near to where the
horses stamped and pawed the dust. Velazquez was limping. He had
twisted his ankle when the first shot rang out and he jumped in
fright, landing awkwardly. One of the Bogomil boys suffered slight
concussion when he fell and hit his head on a rock. Milo had
pinpricks of blood all over his face from the thorns. Dr Watson
tended to the injuries as quickly as possible. Reichenbach ordered
Velazquez and Milo to collect all weapons and ammunition from the
dead brigands. Desi retrieved the dagger. The ambush had set them
back and they needed to get underway as soon as possible.
Travelling after dark in these parts was nothing short of a death
wish.
    They soon began the ascent,
following a narrow snaking road that had been gouged out of the
rock centuries ago. The wind grew stronger the higher they climbed.
The temperature dropped dramatically. Collars were raised, scarves
tightened and hats firmly secured. When they reached the place
where the cottages of the servants were tucked into the hillside
they dismounted, took stock of their surrounds, and paused for
breath. There did not appear to be any brigands pursuing them or
lying in wait to ambush them a second time.
    From this point on the road
zigzagged sharply up the slope, making it impossible to stay in the
saddle, so the rest of the journey was completed on foot. The pack
donkeys struggled with the steep incline and everyone breathed a
sigh of relief when a raised portcullis came into view.
    It led them into the outer
bailey, now a grassy courtyard where the stables were situated. The
horses and donkeys went no further. A set of stone steps took the
intrepid travellers higher. Through an open arch was a smaller
courtyard, the inner bailey. At the far end yet another archway led
them even higher. The fortress was stepped up, built on several
levels for defensive purposes, and because it was easier for the
original masons to follow the natural contour of the rocky
terrain.
    The Countess looked back down
the mountain through the open gate and then up at the thick stone
walls and vertical towers rising steeply at her back. Did men ever
climb that high? What drove them to place one rock after another
with such painstaking perfection that this bastion was still
standing strong today? Chanteloup was an extraordinary structure, a
monument to place and time and suffering. It sat halfway between
earth and sky, neither in heaven nor in hell, yet there must have
been many times in its long history when it was viewed as one or
the other. What was it now, she wondered, heaven or hell?
    Heaven, decided the Countess
when she ascended one last set of stone steps and found herself
inside great vaulted hall with a fireplace big enough for ten men
to stand upright. It devoured not logs but entire tree trunks and
threw out an enormous amount of heat which was just as well for the
dimensions of the hall were immense. This was the donjon, the keep,
the most secure part of any castle, with the thickest, sturdiest,
strongest walls. In the middle of the hall, stood a massive stone
column that resembled a giant palm tree. It fanned out across the
vaulted roof with each frond of the so-called palm tree branching
off to form a separate vaulting. The donjon was so vast it served
as entry, sitting room, dining room, library and chapel. A