The Sixpence Scribe

The Heartblood Horn: Chapter 7

2012-01-31T21:21:00.000-05:00

Chapter 7 : The Arrival

Wolf of Kildare clasped his numb hands to the reigns and forced his steed forward. A gust of snow-choked wind whipped past his face, biting at his frozen flesh. Wiping the snow away, the youngest commander in the history of the Gray Archers wondered for the hundredth time what kind of fool would choose to live in such a wretched land.

Cursing under his breath, Wolf looked hopelessly at the unrelenting slope of white rising before him. There was no sign of an end to the snow-laden pass. The scroll he intended to deliver was fastened tightly to his side, wrapped in oilcloth for protection. Tucked in beside it was the silver charm the thane-baron had given to him before departing, a token of good luck that Wolf treasured dearly. The inscription on the charm danced like a firefly in Wolf’s mind, as did the memory of the thane-baron’s orders to him.

“There are few that I can trust with this task other than you, Wolf,” the thane-baron said, his eyes gleaming through the dim candlelight as he spoke. He passed the scroll to Wolf. “Deliver this safely to the Thau’Maturge of Thildergard.”

“Wolf!” The rough voice turned the commander from his thoughts.

“I am here!”

A short silence ensued, and then: “You were right, commander. The entrance is where you said it would be. A demon’s own lair it appears...the rock festers from the snow like a wound!”

Wolf’s second-in-command materialized from the swirling snow. “It is along the ridge, Brasclan?”

“A Wayfarer’s quarter yonder,” Brasclan confirmed, his hand affixed to the snow-encrusted hood on his head, his gray eyes peering at Wolf expectantly.

“Return to it and take cover,” Wolf ordered. “I will get word to the others and meet you there.”

“I am afraid not, sir,” his second-in-command replied. “You must keep the scroll safe. I will go back for the others.” Brasclan’s tone left little room for argument. He was a grizzled veteran of the Gray who was famous for his skill in battle and doubly so for his stubbornness. Wolf did not envy the man that would have to go against either, and he deferred without pause.

“As you say, Brasclan. Inform the men of the discovery as quickly as you can –” he grasped his companion’s arm which crunched with crackling ice, “and take care. The men are spread all over the canyon. If you need to forge back to the entrance, do so right away.”

Brasclan’s gray eyes crinkled with dry humor. “I survived the battle of Heardren’s March, and it rained arrows there. It will take more than a spot of snow to finish me, boy.”

Boy. That stung more than the cold winds, but Wolf held his reaction in check. “You speak true. The fates favor you yet.”

Brasclan nodded curtly at the mention of the fates. Without another word, he spurred past Wolf, the snow swallowing him into its embrace. Apprehension bit at the young commander as he watched his second-in-command go, but he subdued it as best he could.

Moving in the direction Brasclan had indicated Wolf soon found himself in a pocket of blinding snow that fought his every step. Hunkering down against the onslaught, he plodded ahead to the entrance. A wrought-iron gate emerged from the snow-covered cliff like a set of mangled teeth waiting to devour its next victim. Smashing the snow aside, he rode into the dark maw.

It was bitterly cold within the tunnel, but the howl of the wind was now comfortably at Wolf’s back rather than his face. Looking over his shoulder, the commander felt dismay at the frosty whiteness that dominated the pass behind him. His men would need fate’s own guidance to find their way here.

He swung down and walked deeper into the cavernous recess, his face reflecting faintly off the surrounding ice. He was covered in snow: his cloak, bow and quiver of arrows hidden by the frosty white. Pulling his hood back, he glanced disinterestedly at the reflection of his gaunt face – a face that had been so since childhood – and turned back to the entrance.

The clatter of hooves reached his ears the same moment the shadows of his men appeared. One by one the Gray Archers rode in, filling the cave with weary eyes and frosted breaths. As the last of them ducked under the icicles, Wolf realized with a start that there was a stranger leading them.

An archer was brought in on this stranger’s horse and the snow-covered guide quickly slipped off his steed. He took the hurt man with him, laying him on the ground and covering him with his own heavy fur cloak. Wolf walked over with his fingers pressed against the scroll case and hunched down next to the peculiar guide.

“Who are you?”

The stranger turned, revealing a considerably bowed mustache drooping with ice. Emerald eyes glimmered in Wolf’s direction. They stared long and hard at Wolf, the lips pressing together at the sight of so unusual a man. The stranger turned back to the moaning archer. “This man needs help.”

“Of course.” Wolf called to several of his men who immediately tended to their companion. The stranger remained crouching and spoke to Wolf in a low voice. “Who is the leader of these men?”

“I am. Wolf is my name.” Wolf extended a gloved hand. The stranger took it with a grave look.

“You are the youngest man here.” He paused, as if considering his next words, and started again slowly. “Are you practiced enough to –”

“I assure you, I am the commander,” Wolf interrupted, his blood warming.

The stranger shrugged but the curiosity remained in his eyes. “As you say. I found these men lost along the pass, scattered from here to the northlands. It is fortunate for them that I came along when I did.”

“For that, I am grateful. The storm hit us hard.” Wolf hesitated, his thoughts scattered. He felt the need to explain himself. “It overwhelmed us, and quick at that. We pressed on as best we could, but were separated as the storm worsened. We forced ourselves onward, there was no opportunity to turn back.”

The stranger rose off his haunches. “The storm you were caught in was not natural. It was meant to drive you back.”

The stranger’s words settled uneasily over Wolf. “What do you mean?”

“There were warnings,” the man continued. He walked over to his horse and brushed the ice from the frosty mane. He turned around after a moment to regard Wolf. “Is it not so?”

Wolf nodded slowly. He remembered the gray sky hovering over the peaks before departing. “Aye…but the weather seemed far off.” He felt foolish after saying it, realizing he sounded inexperienced.

The stranger did not respond and walked deeper into the shadows where a second gate stood at the far end of the tunnel.

“Who calls upon the walls of the Thau’Maturge? Speak thy name and purpose, traveler.” A resounding boom coursed through the tunnel, startling in its clarity. The archers looked up in astonishment, a few reaching for their short blades. Wolf, somewhat more familiar with the mysterious doings of Magi, stood his ground. The stranger at the other end of the cave grasped the gate firmly.

“It is I, Dagger Fobbin. I have come as you requested, Rolek.”

A mangled clatter reverberated through the cave as the towering gates swung inward, dumping snow. The stranger turned to face Wolf, his emerald eyes glittering.

“Wait for the return of your scout before you enter, for he will come soon. And leave your steeds here as I have – they will be safe.” With that, the happenstance rescuer strode briskly into the courtyard and was soon lost from sight. The gates rattled closed again.

Wolf tore his leather helm from his head in frustration and ran his fingers through his mass of wet hair. Many of his survivors would not last long in these miserable conditions, shivering and coughing as they were. He instinctively clasped the wet scroll case by his side, pressing it against his leg. He brooded over the importance of the message he carried, its substance exceeding the value of a man’s life. At least it was his duty to believe so, but standing in the frigid air of this uncharted land, his men in shambles around him, the scroll seemed little more than a fragile piece of parchment that could be torn to shreds by the wind, not something worth risking the lives of the Gray Archers for.

The men were watching him now, glancing up from behind frozen hands and icy lashes. None spoke as they waited to hear their commander’s voice. Young as he was, Wolf had served in the Gray Archers for more than five years and knew these men well. In the eyes of some, his promotion to commander had been unmerited, and then of course there were the grumblings about how he was different from the rest, not one of them, possibly unnatural. But his skill on the field of battle had spoken for itself. They followed him for that if nothing else. And now they looked to him again.

Making his choice, he walked to the far gate. Peering beyond the icy bars, he observed the makings of a massive keep that seemed to be built out of the mountainside itself. Most of the fortress was shielded from sight by falling snow, but Wolf could see that he had found the right place. This was Thildergard. He reached for the gate but was stopped by one of his men.

“It is haunted in here, sir!”

Wolf turned to the pale archer. “I believe you may be seeing things, Hayl. You had a hard ride, and fatigue can.…” His voice trailed off as he followed the archer’s gaze to the courtyard. Shadows, unrecognizable in shape but dark enough to blot out the snow, bled from Thildergard into the courtyard and slowly glided towards the cave. Wolf stepped back as they grew closer. One melded through the iron bars, disappearing within the tunnel’s darkness.

“Flames alive!” Ripping his sword from the sheath, Wolf backed toward his men. The horses whinnied with fright.

At the opposite end of the tunnel two new riders emerged from the frosty storm, one of them slouched awkwardly over his horse. The other rode in the lead, guiding the injured man’s horse by the reigns. The lead rider called out, her voice grabbing the men’s attention. “Be gone, Netherin!”

The approaching shadows stilled as this new rider entered the cave warily. “This is your man, is it not?” she asked from the depths of her cloak, pointing at the man in tow.

“Yes,” Wolf stammered, recognizing the injured man as Brasclan.

The woman threw back her hood, revealing a proud face, the edges touched with red from the cold. Her lips were rouge, a deep crimson against the soft paleness of her skin, her black hair pulled back into a heavy braid. Her eyes did not linger on Wolf as the first stranger’s had, though the curiosity was evident. “I found him not a mile from here.”

Wolf could not help but stare at the woman before him – this was the last place he would have ever expected to see such beauty.

She ignored the stare and extended a gloved hand. “My name is Gwendolyn Ravenmane.”

Wolf took it, noting the foreign appeal of her dress beneath her furs. One silver clasp in particular caught his eye, but it was lost in the shifting of her cloak. “I believe you should attend to your man here,” the woman suggested as she swung from her horse. She grabbed hold of Wolf’s shoulder, sending a course of hot blood through him.

“I thought they had gone.” She scoured the cave with her eyes as a faded gold light spilled from her palm, causing a collective gasp among the archers. Holding aloft a glowing blade, she stepped towards the shadow as the light faded.

Gwendolyn slid the blade back into its scabbard. “They are gone for certain now. Did you sense them?”

“Yes, I… I saw them,” Wolf managed. “Shadows from the keep...alive like men.”

“As dark as night, without flesh or breath, the servants of the Nether, the Netherin without rest,” Gwendolyn whispered with a tinge of reverence. She touched her hand carefully to the cavern wall. “The Watchers may return soon. Forbius is near.”

“Forbius?” Wolf asked in confusion. His gaze fell from Gwendolyn to his archers before he realized Brasclan was still lying unaided across his steed. “Help him!” The closest archers scrambled to Brasclan’s aid.

“You are not a servant of Thildergard,” Gwendolyn said, suddenly closing in upon Wolf as if he were some kind of novelty. She did not seem embarrassed by her inquisitiveness, and continued to appraise him with interest. “Nor are you a Brethren, certainly not a Netherin. Yet my eyes perceive the flickering of shadows within you.”

“I know not of what you speak,” Wolf replied, soothing the burning anger with a deep and solemn patience learned over recent years.

“I am quite certain that I do.” Her eyes flashed past Wolf and glowed expectantly, her interest shifting away. “Who arrived upon this horse?” She strode over to the copper mare that the emerald-eyed stranger had appeared on. Recognition flickered in her voice.

“He said his name was Dagger.” Wolf came up beside her. “Are we in danger from the Watchers? Or from this Forbius you mentioned?”

Gwendolyn turned to the darkened walls. “The Watchers will not harm you. They are bound by the Thau’Maturge to observe, not to strike.”

Wolf was not comforted by her words. “We need to get into Thildergard.”

“You are a messenger....For whom?”

“Lord Witegram, thane-baron of Kildare.”

Gwendolyn’s voice grew cold. “Kildare is a long way from here.”

“That it is. We have come this far, and have only a few strides left. Will you aid us?” Wolf pointed out the lowly state of his company. “My men will surely perish if left in this cave.”

Gwendolyn shook her head. “You will not perish here. If the course of the Fates is to see to your deaths, it will be beyond the walls of this cave, not within.” Wolf’s gaze was drawn to the dark stronghold, aware in his heart of the danger that the woman referred to. He ignored the ominous feeling. “We must enter.”

“Then come, if that is your choice.” Gwendolyn led Wolf to the distant gate and gripped one of the bars with her hand.

A moment later, the familiar ghostly voice resounded through the cave. “Who calls upon the walls of the Thau’Maturge? Speak thy name and purpose, traveler.”

“It is I, Gwendolyn Ravenmane, returning from the Hunt. And I have brought guests.”

There was a short silence until: “You have returned, Huntress. Was your Hunt successful?” A tall figure appeared from the shadows of the gate, his red eyes glowing through the snow as they regarded Gwendolyn.

“The Hunt is none of your concern.”

“Death lingers in your eyes…. As does despair. Yes, prey has fallen before your sword, but not the prey you sought.”

“Enough, Forbius!”

Forbius’s gaze fell upon Wolf. “Only those of the Order are welcome within. None other.”

Gwendolyn frowned. “Let him pass. He has a message for Thildergard.”

“What manner of beast are you?” Wolf whispered, staring at the shadow-creature before him.

Forbius stared from the depths of glowing eyes. “Turn back, stranger.”
“We have come too far to turn back now!” Wolf stepped to the gate and grasped it angrily. His rage dissolved as pain seared through him, tearing at his flesh. Gasping for breath, Wolf looked to the woman. She was already in motion, grabbing his wrist and tearing it free from the bars. Slowly the pain dwindled, replaced by the sting of the cold air. The shadowed figure named Forbius seemed to smile.

“That is but a taste of the agony Thildergard has to offer,” Gwendolyn warned.

Wolf grimaced. Cursing under his breath, he turned to his men. Their blades were slowly lowered as they saw that Wolf was not severely injured. The same trust in their commander that had brought them victory on the field of battle was reflected in their gazes now. They would follow him yet.
“We will enter,” he said.

“Only you, message bearer,” said Gwendolyn. She turned to Forbius. “I will deal with any reprecussions.”

Forbius seemed to shrug and suddenly the gate screeched. The men grabbed the reigns of their tired steeds but Gwendolyn shook her head. “Not you.”

The archers cast doubtful looks to one another, and then again to Wolf. “You men have fulfilled your duty. Though this cave is as barren and cold, at least it provides shelter. What remains within may be far worse.”

            Brasclan emerged from the crowd, his face drawn. “When have we ever deserted you, Wolf? Now is no different.” The archer’s statement was met by nods of agreement from the others.
            “No.” Forbius voice resonated darkly through the cavern.
            “Set up camp,” said Wolf. “The cave is large enough. Can my men be given wood?”
            “They will be given everything they need,” Gwendolyn said.
            Wolf felt doubt creep into his heart.
            “Trust me,” the Huntress said. Something in her eyes convinced the him, and Wolf assented. He turned back to his men. “I will not be long.”
            Gwendolyn stepped under the archway and into the courtyard, the snow falling lightly upon her shoulders. Almost instantly she was lost within the calm white. Wolf found himself striding hastily to keep up. It was not until he was fully within the courtyard, his eyes straining against the mysterious white haze that he realized there were unnatural forces afoot. Gripping the bone scroll case from beneath his cloak, he followed the Huntress into a cavern lodged tightly at the base of the rock-strewn keep. As the frozen haze dissipated, he could see a tunnel leading into the mountain. Smooth walls glowing with a soft blue aura wound their way toward an isolated black door.

Wolf peered at the dark door and was reminded of the guardian of the gate they had just passed through. “That Watcher… it will not harm my men?”

“Forbius is no mere Watcher, Wolf. He is the bearer of Coronach, the Sword of Lost Souls. No one passes through that gate that he does not allow. To mistake him for a Watcher is a deadly misjudgment. If your men follow orders, they will be left alone.” She stepped from Wolf toward the door, but before reaching it she turned to face him, her gaze steady in the soft blue light. “You are still concerned.”

“Of course! There are twelve lives out there that I am responsible for.”

“That you are responsible for?” A smile tugged at her lips. “You seem quite young to be leading that band of hardened souls.”

Wolf frowned at her words but said nothing. He knew he was young – barely scraping seventeen cycles this winter – but he also knew his worth.

Gwendolyn continued as if the thread of the conversation had not been broken. “Worry not about them.”

“Give me your word that the gatekeeper will not harm them.”

“I said they were safe. I suggest you concentrate on your task and deliver that message of yours—do that, and you can be on your way.”

Wolf looked into her eyes. Her gaze was unreadable, and the longer he stared the heavier the scroll case felt against his side. “I do not know you. Why should I trust your words?”

“You are wasting time, boy.”

Wolf gritted his teeth at the insult. “I am no boy.”

Gwendolyn’s eyes glowed and for the first time anger coated her voice. “There is far more youth in your eyes than wisdom. You ask about your men’s safety, yet you seemed to care little about them out in the storm. If it had not been for Dagger, half of them would be frozen corpses on the mountainside by now.”

Wolf burned with indignation but could not bring himself to speak. She was right,

of course. He had led his men into the mountains even though there had been clear warnings of the approaching storm. But he would not let this woman have the advantage. “The message could not wait. We had no choice but to press on.”

“Then what holds you up now?”

Wolf balled his hand into a fist. Slowly he released it and ran his fingers along the the scroll case. “Nothing. Lead the way.”

“As you request.” She turned from him and headed towards the black door. Wolf was by himself at the mouth of the tunnel, the biting wind at his back a reminder of what lay behind, the darkness ahead a promise of the unknown. Realizing he had no choice, he stepped forward into the darkness.

The Illumination of Evil: Chapter 7

2012-01-17T21:57:00.000-05:00

Chapter 7: Shadow and Light

Griffon’s watch read 11:46AM as he deposited himself in front of 24 Cedar Street, Somerville. The narrow road forked at a solitary three-story brick house that stood like a reef amidst the sea. Griffon took a moment to stretch his lame leg, regarding the edifice with interest. The top two floors were soldiered by shuttered windows, evidently tenant apartments, all closed to the sun. A sign hung from the second floor in bold lettering: FOR LET. At the ground floor level a sun-soaked window announced Withington Drug Store in white lettering. Along the wings adjacent signs read DRUGS AND COMSEMETICS HERE, ensuring there was no mistaking the fare within to any potential customer passing by.

Stepping to the door, Griffon glanced at the assortment of apothecary bottles, leech jars, medical implements, and other general paraphernalia on display. A bell chimed as he entered the shop, attracting a curious glance from the noonday crowd clustered at the soda bar. The bespectacled druggist kept his eyes on Griffon as the other patrons turned back to their business. The druggist took his eyes off Griffon only to polish one of the many faucets of the soda fountain—a glorious silver-plated device garishly decorated in the opulence of a Victorian mansion, the soda fountain was the obvious mainstay of the shop, its only competition an intricate apothecary cabinet pre-dating revolutionary times.

“May I be of assistance, sir?” the druggist asked as Griffon’s cane thudded against the floor. The man smelled of rum cologne.

“No, thank you. I am waiting for someone.”

“Would you like a soda water?”

Griffon’s eyes narrowed. “I would greatly prefer something with more substance. Perhaps you carry rokok cengkeh?”

“Of course, sir. A very effective medicinal product, but it ships directly from Indonesia. You have a necessity?”

“I do.”

“A single? No, a box of six?” At a second negation from Griffon, the druggist continued cautiously. “A box of twenty, sir? They are pre-rolled and packaged in the finest mahogany, of course.”

“Four boxes of twenty will do,” Griffon replied. “And four more for delivery—bring me a pen and I will give you the address.”

The druggist arched an eyebrow. “Eight boxes? That will cost you thirty-two dollars in cash.” There were meaningful pauses between thirty, two, and dollars.

Griffon waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. If you would be so kind?”

Seemingly convinced he had given enough warning regarding the steep investment, the druggist bowed his head deferentially. “Of course, sir.” He collected Griffon’s address and disappeared into the storeroom.

Movement at the entrance of the store caught Griffon’s eye—subtle and somewhat halting, as if it was not meant to be seen. And as such, it stood apart from the other banal activities surrounding Griffon. The movement stemmed from a woman peering through the lettered glass of the drugstore. She was at the edge of the window, her hand over her eyes to stave off the glare. Fashionable straw hat, long lavender coat, white gloves, sunset-red dress. Griffon attended his gaze elsewhere as her eyes fell to him. The click of her heels announced her approach to the soda-fountain.

“Miss Donnelly?” Griffon gestured to the stool next to him. “Please, sit. I am Inspector Griffon.”

Miss Donnelly sat as softly as new fallen snow. Clutching her handbag tightly, her pale blue eyes stared, unblinking. Her wardrobe, while attractively stylish, was faded and showed signs of mending by an amateur hand. The scent of lavender rose rather heavily from her person, not altogether unpleasant but far from discreet. Her face was young but stern, more from the eyes than anything. A bandage ran along the cusp of her forehead but was cleverly hidden by the straw hat, and it took a moment for Griffon to spot it beneath the pretty blonde curls.

Griffon spoke gently. “Thank you for meeting me, Miss Donnelly."

“Call me Sara.” She slipped a cigarette from her purse with shaking fingers and smiled self-consciously as she looked at her trembling hands. “Still got the jitters.”

Griffon struck a match and lit her cigarette. He allowed her a long drag and watched with interest as she closed her eyes, her face relaxing.

“God, that helps,” she said, softly exhaling a plume of smoke. “My nerves are shot to hell.”

“Miss Sara—”

“Just Sara.”

“Sara. Mental disturbances after a violent attack are quite natural, and are also detrimental long-term if not cared for properly. Anxiety, depression, phobias—I assume you’ve been delivered the a thorough briefing.”

“More like a sermon,” she said, her lips souring. “Hypnosis three days a week? What’s that about?” She grinned despairingly. “As if I can afford it.” She shuttered her hands to her eyes and fought back a sob. Pulling her hands from her face, she took a long drag of her cigarette. “The medical bills don’t pay for themselves,” she touched her bandage tenderly.

“Ma’am—”

“No, no. I’m fine.” Her face hardened. “I want this guy caught, see? I want him strung up from the rafters. So we’re going through with this interview.” She tapped her finger on the counter to reinforce her point.

“I realize it is a difficult thing I am asking you to do,” said Griffon.

“It’s not like I haven’t been through these parts a hundred times before,” she replied, more bravado than assurance in her voice. “I live upstairs, for crying out loud.”

Griffon silently assessed his subject for several moments before speaking. “I will make this as brief as possible. A few preliminary questions and then a jaunt outside along the route of the attack, if you are willing.”

“Jaunt? Charming.” she smiled behind a thread of smoke. “I told the officer on the telephone that I would help in any way I could. And I’m here, right?”

Griffon’s tone was soft but clear as he ran through his list of questions. Sara answered as she smoked furiously, her eyes upon a fixed point, her fingers drumming the countertop: Originally from upstate New York, grew up on a farm. Currently a domestic serving a well-to-do family in Cambridge. Employer is a professor at the Boston University Medical School. Got her employment through the Boston Industrial Home Intelligence Office. Does not know the other Slugger victims except what she has read about them. Lives upstairs from the drugstore. No family in Boston. A spinster aunt in Chelmsford, who she visits once a month. No serious suitors currently. Had a previous suitor in New York, who is now married. No significant debts. Interests are horticulture, cycling, and (after a moment’s hesitation), pool. Quite good at the latter, in fact.

Griffon removed Miss Donnelly from the drugstore after the questioning, and more than one watchful eye followed them out the door.

“Seems we are drawing a lot of attention,” Griffon remarked, pulling on his gloves.

“Ah, them’s just the boys of the neighborhood. Look’n out for me—could’a used ‘em last night, though.” She shrugged. “I live upstairs, remember? They’re like brothers to me.”

“Brothers. Really?”

Miss Donnelly laughed the comment away. “So a few may have an eye for me. So what? The more men that want to give me a hand up, the better. A dame could use it in a city like this.”

“As you say. Here we are.” They were standing across the street from the drug store under a large elm tree. From their vantage point they could view the stretch of Cedar Street east-west where it abutted the store and continued its foray along the north side of the structure; Elm Street picked up along the south side of the store. The area was highly domesticated with numerous wood-and-brick offices running neatly along the streetsides. But it was the phalanx of trees, a long, steadfast row of cedar, elm, and oak, that created the wall-like banks fencing in the road. Griffon stared down the street as he spoke. “You are the first of the victims to escape the full wrath of the Slugger.”

“Escape?” Miss Donnelly blinked at Griffon. “I guess you could say that, yeah. I didn’t get my head broken to pieces, if that’s what you mean. But I didn’t exactly get off scot-free.” She pointed at the bandage on her head.

“Of course,” Griffon assented. “Now—could you explain the details from last night exactly how you remember them?”

Miss Donnelly walked Griffon through the encounter. “Start there, okay? Jumping from a Somerville trolley at the far end of Cedar Street, I walked along darkside—that’s what the locals refer to the Somerville part of the road due to the shadows. There’s no lights, see what I mean? So, as I went along here, I was startled by a figure stepping out from behind a large tree across the street. That tree there. When he got close, he dashed towards me, sudden-like, with his arm raised. The first thing that flashed into my mind was the attacks I’ve been read’n in papers. I screamed and ran—God, it gives me the chills just thinking about it now.” She lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. “That’s better. This guy, he was quick on me and as I ran he caught up and struck me here—” she touched the right side of her forehead gingerly, “but it wasn’t enough to knock me down.”

“What did he strike you with?”

“There was something in his hand. A pipe, I think. Couldn’t say exactly, but I know it wasn’t just his fist unless his hand is made of metal.”

“Did you see his face when you turned?”

“I did, though just barely in the thin light.” Miss Donnelly’s voice cracked and she finished her cigarette in an agitated whirl of smoke. “He was taller than me by about a hand, five foot seven or so, gaunt with sharp features and a thin moustache. Everything else about him was a blur. I wasn’t exactly paying attention to details, you know.”

“Another reason the doctor prescribed you hypnotic therapy,” Griffon remarked.

“Yeah, the doctor mentioned that. If I remember the criminal’s face, will the cops foot the bill?”

“I highly doubt it.”

“Yeah, I figured as much. Anyhow, I somehow broke free from his grasp and ran. I don’t remember much beyond that, really. I could hear him breathing behind me, but as soon as I reached the light, he stopped and, well, backed away.”

Griffon’s eyebrows arched. “Backed away, you say?”

“Yeah. Like one of those vampires running from sunlight, you know? In them funnies. Ain’t that what they do?”

“I understand the analogy. Was it abrupt? His reaction to the light, that is.”

Miss Donnelly grew silent for a moment as she thought back. Her third cigarette bounded nervously between her fingers. “It seemed that way, Mr. Griffon. I don’t know what else to say. As soon as I ran into the light of the street lamp, he backed off. I tell you, if I hadn’t made it out of darkside, I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you now. But the light stopped him cold.”

“Where exactly did that occur?”

Pushing a stray curl from her eyes, Miss Donnelly pointed to the fork in the road in front of the drugstore. A breeze swirled to life as if on cue, creating an eddy of leaves that danced at the whim of wind. “You can see the row of electric lights on that side of the drug store. That is actually the Cambridge line. The first light throws a pool onto the street here, and that’s where he stopped.”

“There was nothing else that may have prevented his advances?”

Miss Donnelly shook her head. “No, unless he saw something that I didn’t. But I think it was the light. He skidded to a stop.”

“And you fled into the drugstore, correct?”

“Yeah, right across the road. There was a clerk and a customer there. The customer reported the attack to the police while the clerk took care of me. A few officers arrived about ten minutes later and made a search, but by then the bastard was gone.”

Griffon stared at the road for a moment. “Was it raining last night?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact.”

“What did you have for footwear last night, Miss Donnelly?” She paused for a moment and Griffon continued, “I can get the information myself, of course. Were you in heels?”

Miss Donnelly narrowed her gaze at Griffon. “Yeah, so what?”

He pointed to the dirt street, which was an undulating mass of hardened mud. “I would be interested to see someone run through that mud in the dark of night with high heels on. That, Miss Donnelly, is what.”

            Griffon slid thirty-two dollars to the druggist and collected the small crate on the counter.
            “The remaining four boxes will be sent to your Concord address. You can expect them this evening by private post.” The druggist smiled benignly. “I assume the four boxes you have with you will be deposited at your office?”

“Something of the sort,” said Griffon. He turned to leave but the druggist delicately raised his hand to stop him. Panning the store for customers, he spoke softly. “I have a curiosity that I must attempt to satisfy.” His cheeks blushed slightly.

“What is it?”

“Forgive me for prying, inspector, but I watched your interview with Miss Donnelly with some interest. Jack the Slugger, here! It gives me the shivers. I must know, how is the investigation going? I see it in the paper nearly every day. Quite the sensation!”

“Sensation. Interesting descriptor,” Griffon replied. “At this point, we are gathering information.”

The druggist expressed a sympathetic smile. “Gathering information. Toeing the line, then? No offence intended, of course. It’s just that I’ve always imagined police work to be daring, but I’m a romantic at heart. I wager it’s a lot more paperwork and interviews than anything else.”

“It has its moments, though I would not go so far as to call it romantic,” Griffon said, sweeping up the boxes of clove cigarettes under his arm and heading for the door.

“Did you learn anything from your interview with Miss Donnelly?” the druggist called after him. “Anything important?”

“Quite so,” Griffon replied, his cane tapping lightly against the floor as he reached the exit. “I learned that Miss Donnelly is an attention seeker and most likely an embellisher of facts.”

The druggist paused in surprise. “But undoubtedly the attack was real. She didn’t make it up out of thin air.”

“I did not say that she did.”

“Then certainly you must have learned something about it, about the attacker—”
But Griffon was already gone, the chime of the door-bell signaling his exit.

The Heartblood Horn: Chapter 6

2012-01-16T21:32:00.000-05:00

Chapter 6 : The Challenge of the Magi

Gwendolyn swore in frustration. What a fool errand this had become. Her responsibilities as a Huntress were bound to the Vow, had always been bound to the Vow, to maintaining the delicate balance of the Fabric of Ethryn. But something tugged at her. Was it remorse? No. How could she feel remorse for an act she had not yet committed?

But she knew that she must kill the lander and the Mederi. In the eyes of those who did not understand, they would become two more innocent victims of the Order of the Magi, of the feared and reviled Hunters. But they were not innocent. They were corruptible like all the rest, and anyone corruptible that bore the power of the Ether at his or her fingertips had to be extinguished. Anyone. Such was the very essence of the Vow. It was why Ethryn still existed, why it had not disappeared into the oblivion of the surrounding Nether—Ethryn had been protected at any cost for as long as time could remember. Dispassionately, without concession.

There could be no exceptions.

Her hand slipped off Noniar. Leaving the stables, she departed from Northam by foot for the cleansing winds of the seacoast. She barely noticed the sunset, her thoughts crowded with anger and confusion. She had but one choice.

Her fingers reached beneath the nape of her neck and tugged on the thin chain resting there. With a careful hand, she pulled the flawed obscuryth free and set it in her palm. She knew how it worked and the limitations, especially a device as flawed as this. Within was the path of Fate, mapped by the Nether and bound for use by the Ether. A gramarye as ancient as Ethryn and as unstable. The path of Fate had many branches, one for each soul.

Her palm enclosed upon the obscuryth and a silver glow shined through the thin gaps of her fingers. She looked upon these strands and felt herself fading into the Colors there. Her vision clouded and for an instant all was gray.

A broken tower emerged from the gray as if from a mist. It stared at her with vacant eyes, beckoning her. As it faded, a small rune-covered horn took its place. The horn was cracked, its power faded. The gray clouded over and intensified again into a silvery light. Slowly the light extracted itself from her eyes and she was looking again upon the palm of her hand that was lost to shadow as the light of the obscuryth died.

Gwendolyn shivered and slipped the necklace back under her shirt.

            Our troubles are just beginning.
            The moon was unopposed in the black sky when Gwendolyn arrived back at the cottage. The door was open and she entered without announcing her presence. It was smoky and dark within, only the light from the flames and a single tallow candle to push against the shadows. Galen and Morain were huddled on stools near the hearth, crocks of steaming broth in their hands. A third stool sat empty beside them. They had not seen her enter and she watched from the shadows as they stared silently into the flames. Despite the fear hovering over them there was a strange calmness in their faces. It was present in the furrows of hardship that had been grooved into their skin in recent days.
            “Good evening.” Gwendolyn’s voice was low amid the crackling flames. The two looked up at her in surprise.
            “Please, sit down,” Morain said, recovering quickly and indicating the empty stool. Gwendolyn sat and declined the broth offered to her.
            “We will not take much of your time,” Galen said. “But while here, any who stay in Northam is entitled to the best we can offer.”
            “You are a generous host.” The words faded from Gwendolyn’s lips and were replaced by a long silence, disturbed only by the low crackling of the flames and a few sudden gusts of wind rattling the walls. Gwendolyn felt ill at ease, knowing well what the Vow would force her to do in the morning.
            “Were your items in place?” Galen asked, his attempt at conversation furthered by a hard smile.
            “All but a quiver of arrows. But it is no matter.”
            Galen’s face reddened. “We were concerned that my brother may have taken a few things to remember you by when he left.”
            Boren. The memory of the older brother called itself to Gwendolyn’s mind. He too would have to be dealt with. But he was among the Manannan now. A harder task to complete. Her fingers brushed against the obscuryth, recalling the memory of the tower.
            Silence threatened once again, but Morain spoke, her words gushing out as if they had built up behind a wall of caution. “Can you tell us how you became a Huntress?”
            Gwendolyn stared into the flames. She was surprised by the question and unsure if she wanted to speak of a time that had long since faded from her heart and mind. She turned to Morain to respond with a polite refusal, but the earnestness in the young woman’s eyes froze the denial in Gwendolyn’s throat. She would keep it short.
            “It is not something I speak of, but I will tell you this. I grew up in a small village no different than here. And much like you both, I was different from the others around me. The Ether beckoning to me is one of the oldest memories I have as a child.
            “I was Challenged by a Hunter when I was fourteen years of age. I defeated him soundly. Up until then I did not realize how strong of a bond I had with the Ether, but on that day it became painfully clear. A fortnight later, another Hunter arrived at our cottage. Again, I was victorius. When the third arrived many weeks later, he offered me a choice: to fight him as I had the first two Hunters, or to take their place in the Order—or at least to attempt to, for entrance into the Order is grought with peril. It was a rare honor to be given such a choice, for only the Thau’Maturge—the head of the Order—could make such a decision. If I chose to fight, it was made known to me that every fortnight thereafter another Hunter would arrive with the same proposal. To become a Hunter seemed better than to eventually die at the hands of one.” She paused and lowered her voice. “I was young then, and what seems like good judgment when you are young loses its wisdom when viewed through the eyes of experience.”
            Morain started. “But you had no choice. It was either join them or die.”
            Gwendolyn met Morain’s gaze. “I had a choice. Fate is not as tightly wound as you may think.”
           “You followed your heart,” Morain contested. “Nothing more should be expected from someone than that.” The room filled with a deadening quiet.
           “It was a long, long time ago.” For a moment Gwendolyn’s eyes reflected a timeworn weariness, far more than her apparent age betrayed. She closed her mind to the past and stood.

“I will go now.” She half-expected them to protest, and when they did not she knew they were biting their tongues. But it would not last. The reason they had brought her here had been obvious from the start—to ask for a reprieve. Ask, she said through her gaze. Ask and perhaps I will disappear tonight without laying a hand upon either of you. She continued to speak through her eyes, the Ether tingling with her message. I cannot bring myself to release you without a plea, but I will do so if you ask. She knew she was breaking the Vow of the Lifeblood simply by admitting such thoughts in her head, but she did not feel ashamed. She did not know why she did it, why she had exposed this weakness—for the first time as a Huntress, for the first time in a very long time, doubt had overcome duty. She waited for their request, the tremble in her hand hidden from sight.

Galen and Morain exchanged glances and then looked at her, and Galen opened his mouth to speak. “My lady, thank you for coming tonight…” He seemed as if he would say more but his voice trailed off into a discomforting silence.

“Is there anything more you wish of me?” Gwendolyn’s heart rose to her throat. A terrible thought struck her: everything I have done up to now has been for nothing—I have killed in the name of saving the world and now our existence is doomed anyhow.The Manannan have formed despite our efforts. The Ether becomes apparent in more and more people…will we kill them all? And I will even fail to save these two. How many of her victims could have been spared—should have been spared? But through the despair she saw a glimmer of hope as Morain stood to speak.

“My sister had a dream about you before we met—I am sure it was you. You were in a dark place and a shattered light was spread across your face. But it was a comforting light and brought with it safety.” Her eyes grew distant as if she were hearing her sister speak. “From the darkness comes light were her words to me. I do not know what it means.”

Gwendolyn’s hand stiffened around her obscuryth. “Who can tell what the future holds.”

“There is… there is one more thing.” Morain struggled with her voice as she formed her question, “If Galen and I fall tomorrow, will you bury us properly?”

Gwendolyn wanted to refute Morain’s request. There should be no Challenge tomorrow! But the words did not come. Silence surrounded her, suffocating her speech. “Of course,” she murmured.

“Thank you.”

In a flash of anger Gwendolyn turned on her heel and departed.

She reached the stables and settled herself beside Noniar, her mind racing. Why didn’t I say anything? Sliding her blade free, she watched as a dim light filled the small space around her. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she huddled against the stable wall and stared at the glowing blade.

I am a Hunter, a voice in her head said. The Lifeblood is my responsibility. Mine. I have taken the Vow and must obey it. I am a Hunter. The guardian of our world.

Gwendolyn finished patting down the sod on the third grave midway through the morning. She had buried Lun first, and then dug his son’s grave, marking both as clearly as possible. Morain’s had been the last and the most difficult. Gwendolyn settled the final rock on the fresh dirt and wiped the cold sweat from her brow. The grass was still smoldering and the air smelled of smoke.

Bending a knee, she whispered goodbye. She let the remorse of her past settle upon her soul. She could not erase what she had done. This time or any of the others. Never.

“Go with the graces of Fate,” Gwendolyn whispered. She stood and looked out upon the distant sea. “Someday, I hope the same can be said to me.”

She mounted Noniar with her gaze facing south. The way the Manannan had gone. The memory of a leering tower filled her mind. She hoped the obscuryth would not lead her astray.

Spurring Noniar into a gallop, she rode south for the dark forest with a restless heart.

The Illumination of Evil: Chapter 6

2012-01-04T07:00:00.001-05:00

CH6 – Credentials

Chief Rufus R. Wade stared across the grand mahogany desk at the newly arrived visitor. Morning sunlight splashed through a pair of latticed windows and washed over the chief’s expansive desk in a stratified pattern. Even the stacks of law books along the walls, normally firm and scholarly in appearance, took on a soft, fabled appeal in the golden glow of the office.

Aged seventy-four years, the Chief of the State Police appeared remarkably fit, his lean face framed by silver mutton chops running the length of his jaw; his posture erect, his eyes keen. His fingers worked the grapefruit before him nimbly, and as he removed the cloth napkin from his lips he spoke with a slight grizzle.

“Nicholas Griffon.”

“I appreciate you seeing me on short notice, Chief Wade,” Griffon said, removing his top hat. His face looked haggard and worn.

“You can drop the formalities, Griffon,” said Wade with a wry smile. “It’s been what—ten years?”

The ghost of a smile crossed Griffon’s lips. “You have done pretty well without me.”

“Certainly. But imagine what I could have done if you had taken the post you were offered,” replied Wade, dropping the napkin with a scowl. “I went out on a limb to get the governor to appoint you to that position.”

“I never asked you to do that.”

“No, you did not,” Wade glowered. “But I did it anyway.” He exhaled forcibly. “Well, let’s leave the past in the past, shall we?”

“By all means,” agreed Griffon. “It appears things are going well for you.”

“Well? Thirteen state detectives. That’s the limit of my force. Good men, to the last. But thirteen. Spread across the state—hell, one of my men is helping the Prime Minister of Canada with a case.”

“Your call?”

“What do you think?” growled Wade.

“That’s the trouble with having a force of detectives that reports to the district attorney.”

“It’s a political catastrophe,” said Wade, pouring himself a glass of water. “Would you care for a drink?”

“Brandy.”

“Hell Griffon, isn’t it a little early for that? The sun is still waking up.” Wade took a key from his pocket and unlocked a drawer in the desk. He pulled out a bottle labeled Bitter Lake and poured Griffon a glass. “The West really left its mark on you.”

Griffon took a sip and settled comfortably into his chair. “I was like this well before I followed the sunset west.”

“I heard about your work on the Fitzgerald case,” Wade said, eyeing Griffon sharply. “You did a hell of a job considering the circumstances.”

“I had some help,” said Griffon.

“You should have told me you were returning to town.”

Griffon shook his head. “The nature of the case did not allow for such pleasant reintroductions,” he said.

“Or is it the fact that you like to keep everything you do a goddam secret?”

“What good investigator doesn’t?” said Griffon, raising his glass. Wade raised his in response and the two men finished their drinks.

“You made quite the name for yourself out West,” said Wade. “I knew you had promise, even when you were in law chool studying criminal justice—but taking on Bill Mix’s gang in court? I read about that one in the papers.” Wade shook his head. “You must have been a marked man.”

“It came with the territory, as they say.”

“And what about that business a few years back concerning the Arizona Kid and Texas Bill?”

Griffon set his glass on the desk. “It was the Texas Kid and Arizona Bill,” corrected Griffon. “Iwill tell you all about it when we have more time.”

“Sure thing,” said Wade, a twinkle in his eye. “And then there was the local arrest of the elusive diamond thief last week. Detective Weathers of the Boston force took the credit. Smart man, that Weathers.”

“Brilliant.”

“Hmm.” Wade regarded Griffon knowingly. “So tell me—why are you here?”

“I need your help.”

“I suspected nothing less. In what regard?”

“I am working on the Slugger case.”

Wade’s face remained unchanged. “I should have guessed it: Mr. Griffon, grand sovereign of the big cases.” He flipped open a large tome at his desk and turned to one of the pages. “But what of us peasants, hmm? What scraps are left for us mere mortals?” His gaze flickered at Griffon. “Let’s see what the annual report of the police board has to say…ah yes: 613 reported deaths last year in the city of Boston; 219 accidents, of which 72 were railway and 23 were trolley car. Add to that 16 murders, 16 homicides, 57 drownings, 69 suicides… and a string of poison overdoses, suffocation by gas, alcoholism… all lending to many, many inquests. Well, you get the picture.” He slammed the book closed. “You are a man of numbers, Mr. Griffon. A man of logic. Perhaps your time would be better spent identifying ways to prevent pedestrians from running in front of trolleys then chasing sensational criminals. You would save more lives, for certain.”

“That may be true. However, I am not in the business of saving lives.”

“No, you are not,” said Wade. “For where is the celebrity in that endeavor?” Wade raised a finger. “But …you are an investigator. So what of the 16 murders last year, or the 16 homicides, or 69 suicides? Were none of them interesting enough for you?” Wade smiled thinly. “No, even the great-minded Nicholas Griffon, the man of logic, is a mere moth like the rest of us, drawn inevitably towards the wonderful glow of distinction and fame.”

Griffon scowled. “Fame is not an end goal of mine. I do not need my face plastered in the rags.”

“No, not that kind of fame. It is not your style, appealing to the masses. If it were, you would have joined the State Police force. No… you enjoy the more obscure but distinct pleasure of continually reminding those of in the business that you are the goddam best that is out there.”

“We all achieve fulfillment in our own ways,” said Griffon, his voice low. “Pray tell, is there an unresolved issue between us?”

“No, I have said my peace,” answered Wade, sighing. “Besides, you came here for help—I should at least hear you out. So what is it, then? You have gotten into the thick of it with the Boston police force, hmm? And you need a State shield to protect you.”

Griffon leaned forward. “If I am going to solve this mystery, I must do so unmolested.”

“You’re a hell of a player, Griffon.” Wade leaned back. “So now you want to become a State Detective, is that it?”

“It would certainly keep the Boston police from forcing my hand.”

“I appreciate that you are not serious, for you clearly realize that the State Detectives are appointed by the governor, not me.”

“To a term of three years. Yes, I am aware of that.”

“So what do you want me to do, then?” Wade tapped his pen on the desk. “I wield less influence than you evidently realize. For years I have been trying to expand the Detective force, but to no avail. Thirteen strong, and thirteen strong it will certainly remain—at least until this governor’s term is finished.” Wade shrugged. “But they say an electric street light is as good as five officers, so perhaps the old sap is waiting for the electric companies to protect the city.”

“Boston Electric would certainly appreciate that strategy.”

“It beats rioting.”

Griffon frowned. “Sorry?”

“I forgot, you don’t read the rags.”

“Not as a habit, no. Only when it pertains to a case, and even then mainly for a much needed dose of humor.”

Wade nodded. “Right on that count. Well, two weeks ago there was a riot at a generating station on L Street in South Boston. Linemen that had been brought up from New York and Philadelphia to run electric in Somerville for Boston Electric were creating a disturbance. A few knocked heads, but that was about the extent of it.”

“What was it about?”

“The Somerville electric company, Somerville Beacon, had originally agreed to have their gas lamps replaced by Boston Electric in a company merger. But they balked at the last minute. Many say it’s because the prices are being driven up, and Beacon can make more money from the deal if they wait it out. They also reneged on a deal they had made to sell Boston Electric their electric lines for arc lighting, which run to the generating station at L Street. That’s why the linemen took their stand there—they came all this way and the work that was promised didn’t materialize.”

“Linemen are a tough bunch,” Griffon remarked. “The governor of Baltimore had to call the Pinkertons on them after their union collapsed there a few years ago. An ugly affair all around.”

“The linemen travel where the work is, and drink along the way,” concurred Wade. “And we get to deal with them when they’re in Boston. Interestingly, they arrived just around the time these so-called Slugger attacks started.”

“Indeed. I thought you had a reason for sharing your the little sidenote about the linemen.”

“So I did. But it’s not a hard lead, and the truth of the matter is that a bunch of toughs got sauced and made trouble, period. Rough times produce rough men, and we get to deal with them. That’s the reality of being bound to the badge. Still interested?”

Griffon crossed his fingers into a steeple. “You have not talked me out of it just yet. Now, let’s speak of an official place for me in the state police. With the clear understanding that your hands are tied in the matter, you would, if you possibly could, take me on?”

It was Wade’s turn to lean forward. “I would be a tomfool to turn my back on a man with your skills, especially regarding a case with such notoriety as the present one.”

“Then you are willing to work with me on this?”

“It would be a stretch…. But I have a temporary position open as an Inspector of Tenements.”

“The position reports to you?”

“Directly.”

“And I can practice with leniency within the city?”

“Within reason, yes. You may need to get creative in certain circumstances, but the state police are given a margin of latitude.” Wade shuffled through a pile of notes on his desk. “I have something for you immediately, in fact.”

“Relevant to the Slugger case?”

“It is,” said Wade. “The district attorney would like a statement from the latest victim. She is out of the hospital, as you may be aware. I have her address here.”

“This will do nicely,” said Griffon, rubbing his chin in thought. “You have not assigned anyone else to this yet?”

“I had a man in mind, but he’s out of town.” The Chief paused, his eyes boring into Griffon. “There is something brewing in that confounded head of yours, Nick. A plan of sorts. I can sense it like the approach of a storm. If you are going to represent the Commonwealth, you best leave your Wild West notions at the doorstep. This here is the civilized world, and requires civilized procedure.”

“My tactics are respectable. Any work I do will be discreet. And you will be the first to be notified of any information recovered. Of course your department will be welcome to take full responsibility of any and all successes.”

“And for any failures.”

“I will not fail, Rufus. Not when the stakes are this high.”

Wade shook his head. “Every man fails, even a man like you. And given the wrong circumstances… especially a man like you.”

Griffon stared back unflinchingly. “With or without your help, I will be responsible for revealing Jack the Slugger. That, I promise.”

“You really mean it.”

“I do.” Griffon exhaled impatiently. “I am one man, Rufus. If I could work every case, I would—my obsession would allow no other course. But as logic must prevail, I am inclined to choose. And I choose this case.”

“And it is passion that drives your choice,” said Wade. “You can try to deny it, but I can see it in your eyes, I can hear it in your voice. You may be a man of facts, Griffon, but even you cannot deny the pure gratification of solving a crime. And so you choose the crimes that present you with the greatest mental challenges, and thus the greatest mental rewards. Quite the advantage, acting as a consulting inspector and not duty-bound to a desk and another man’s directive.”

“That is where you have me wrong, I am afraid,” replied Griffon. “It is reason that I put my faith in, not passion. And so it is not based on any sensation I feel, but what logic commits me to. Clearly, I must spend my time on the crimes that present the greatest threat to law and justice themselves.”

“Do you expect me to truly believe that it is not about the fame?”

Griffon’s eyes hardened to a dull gray. “That is your perogrative, but it is quite simple, in fact. Without the protection of the law, people live in fear. You speak of the West—yes, I saw lawlessness, and I saw its consequences. It is far from appealing, I assure you. But this great city in the East is civilization, is it? This grand seaport of yours with its inspectors and detectives and police precincts. Well, I will tell you what I see. Men roaming the streets with clubs and knives under their coats, calling themselves vigilantes. Women walking in groups, afraid to go out alone. Lone strangers and immigrants beat unconscious because they fit a concocted description of this apparition known as Jack the Slugger.” Griffon met Wade’s gaze. “With all due respect, Rufus, fear is what the people of Boston are living in now—and your civilized society is at stake. And so I choose this case to spend my time, because it poses the greatest threat to law and order.” His cane struck the floor with finality.

Wade leaned back and pulled a cigar from his breast pocket. “You’re a son-of-a-bitch, Nicholas Griffon, you know that? A convincing son-of-a-bitch.” Striking a match, he lit it and handed it over to Griffon. “Welcome to State Police—ten years late but not a moment too soon.”

The Heartblood Horn: Chapter 5

2011-12-29T20:29:00.000-05:00

Chapter 5: Preparation

Gwendolyn opened her eyes and wiped away the sweat drenching her face. She had awoken to clanging; the reverberations from the forge sounding as if the hammer and anvil were next to her head. She closed her eyes and formed a picture in her mind from the sounds. She could see Galen’s face against the hot flames as he brought the hammer down, dark smoke choking the rafters as it twisted into a coil to escape through the a smokehole in the ceiling.

Gwendolyn blinked the image away and peered at her surroundings. A small stream of gray light filtered in from the window to mix with the dull glow of the hearth, but it did little to deter the darkness within. It was a gloomy place, the air of loneliness heavy. Movement near the hearth caught her eye and she saw a man wrapped in blankets tossing and muttering under his breath. She shivered at the sight of him. The man’s skin was blotched and drawn tight about the bones, a pale sheet of its former self.

“The fever has not been kind to him.” The voice startled Gwendolyn. A figure entered through the doorway, her face engrained with sorrow.

“Where am I?” Gwendolyn asked, grasping at her waist for her blade but coming up empty-handed.

The curly-haired woman had a steaming bowl in one hand and a small bundle in the other. Her face was haggard and drawn. She was dressed in peasant fare, though the clothing did not seem suited for her. “You are in Northam, under the roof of Lun Ferrier, who lies there with the yellow fever.”

Gwendolyn sat up but was stilled by a wave of dizziness. “How did I get here?”

The young woman knelt beside Lun and held his head up with one of her hands while she administered the broth. The small bundle was still tucked under her arm. She did not look at Gwendolyn as she spoke. “You do not remember any of our conversations?”

“No. The last thing I recall is the Firstborn. It struck me down from my horse—”

“Noniar is safe.”

Gwendolyn’s suspicion was aroused. “How do you know his name?”

“As I said, we have spoken before.”

“What did we talk about?” Gwendolyn was uncomfortable at the thought of what she might have revealed to this woman.

“Truths,” the young woman answered, glancing quickly at Gwendolyn and then back to Lun.

“Truths?”

“We spoke among the Ether, my lady. There was much I needed to know.”

Gwendolyn’s reflexes tensed. “You are a Magus?”

“My name is Morain. I am a Mederi. As I said, we have spoken before.”

A ripple from Gwendolyn’s memory lapped on the dim shore of recognition. The Manannan. Morain was one of them—one of those she Hunted. “Where is my sword?” she demanded.

“Still in its scabbard, tied to Noniar’s saddle. Lun would not allow within his home.”

Gwendolyn made to stand, but Morain stopped her with a firm hand. “Wait—take this.” She handed Gwendolyn the small bundle from under her arm. “Your garments were shredded by the Firstborn.” Gwendolyn took the bundle, consisting of a threadbare dress, hose, and traveling cloak. As she unraveled them a small silver charm fell from the folds of the cloth to the floor. Gwendolyn gasped and snatched it up.

“It is yours, correct?” Morain asked, her voice innocent of any knowledge.

“It is,” Gwendolyn breathed, hanging the obscuryth around her neck. How had she forgotten about it? She cursed herself a fool as she clothed herself. Her injuries must have been worse than she knew. Her memory was still somewhat askew, but the sight of the obscuryth had lodged much back into place.

Her fingers passed over a ridge of hardened skin at her midsection and she followed the scar up her stomach to just below her breast. Looking at the scar, a breath of surprise escaped her lungs. “I should have died from this wound.”

Morain did not respond.

Gwendolyn felt at her neck. Looking down, she saw a small burn running from her breast up to her neck in a thread, and with her fingers she traced the bumpy groove all the way around her neck. It was from her obscuryth—as if the metal of the necklace had gotten white hot and left a permanent mark. Morain said nothing, but her eyes did not miss Gwendolyn’s realization.

The Huntress finished dressing and removed herself from the cot. The dress was loose and felt awkward on her, accustomed to breeches and a shirt.

She glanced again at the dying smith. “He does not have long.” She discovered her riding boots and tugged them on, the leather cold against her calves.

Morain’s voice was troubled. “Indeed, he fades fast. I fear he will last no more than a few days.”

“What about your healing powers?” Gwendolyn noticed Morain’s hesitation. “You are a Mederi—you have admitted that much already. Why then has he succumbed to the sickness?”

Morain bowed her head. “He turned his back on the treatment when he realized it involved calling upon the Ether. He saw what a creature released by the Ether could do to someone—” Morain looked at Gwendolyn with pity. “And since then has refused it.”

Gwendolyn felt a jolt at the memory of the Firstborn and its terrifying attack upon her. Claws slashed past her face in her memory and cut into her stomach, leaving behind a pain that burned. She turned her thoughts from the Firstborn and looked upon the smith. His sacrifice was evident in his gaunt face and yellowed skin. Red fever-blisters covered him, and where once a robust and strong man had existed, a frail replicate remained. She spoke to Morain as she looked upon the deteriorated body. “You treated me with medicine that only the Ether could produce. I feel remnants of its power binding my flesh and bone.”

“I did.”

“Despite that it is against the Laws of Constraint to practice the Ether, and the fact that I am here to enforce that law on pain of death?”

Morain remained silent.

“And you would treat me, though the smith refuses the same medicine.”

Morain was staring at Lun when she spoke, her voice soft. “He has his beliefs, as do we all. I know you believe in what you do as well, Huntress. Lun was forcing us out, Galen and I, hoping to get us to leave before you recovered. He knew it was not safe for you here. But then you began to stir.” She looked up at Gwendolyn, a glimmer of strength shining in her eyes. “Galen was supposed to kill you if you woke, but he could not do it. Nor could I.”

Morain’s words weighed heavily on Gwendolyn. “You should have. Your mercy does not change my allegiance to the Vow. On the pain of death do you wield the Ether, and I must face each of you.”

Morain nodded, her shoulders sagging slightly. Whatever hope she had possibly held for a reprieve had been dashed by Gwendolyn’s words. “It is as we expected, of course. We understand the nature of your duty.”

“I do not know if you do,” Gwendolyn replied softly.

A shadow appeared in the doorway and Gwendolyn realized for the first time that the sounds from the forge had ceased. Galen stepped in, his face glistening with sweat and his arms black with soot. By the look on his face he had been listening for some time. “We do not wish to face you, but if we must, we will be ready for you.”

“Good,” Gwendolyn said. “I will allow you both this day to prepare yourselves.”

“You are not completely well yet,” Morain protested.

“I am well enough,” Gwendolyn said, unable to hide her surprise at Morain’s concern. “Perhaps you should think about your own health now.”

“We meet tomorrow then.” Morain’s voice was hollow.

“I will leave you and return with the morning light.”

“Wait.” Galen and Morain exchanged glances as if sharing some unspoken decision. Morain lent words to their thought. “Stay the evening. We would like to learn all we can about the Ether. The history of how it came to be. The ancient… academies.”

“Let us speak as friends over a single cup of mead,” Galen added.

Gwendolyn looked away. The ancient academies? Was that what the Manannan was about, then? A regrouping of the Etherborn under a new order? Her eyes hardened. She had no desire to spend time with them—her prey. To give them dreams, desires… it would make her duty all the more difficult to complete. Normally she would refuse to even consider it, yet she owed them a great deal for saving her life. But to turn away such a simple request would be dishonorable. She relented with a nod. “As you wish.”

Galen forced a smile. “I will even show you the blade I have been crafting for the Challenge. My father started it many moons ago for a yeoman in Argot, but I have recently taken it under my wing. The yeoman will understand, considering the circumstances.”

“Tonight, then. Now I would like to see Noniar. My blade is with my steed?”

Morain nodded. “Yes. Please, do as you wish.”

Nodding curtly, the Huntress walked outside, her legs quivering from disuse. The cold air was sharp with salt, the sun a brilliant burst that threatened to blind her fragile eyes. Shielding them with her hand, she allowed her vision to adjust as the chilling wind whipped through her thin dress. The clash of metal sprang up again from the forge and a cloud of thick black smoke coiled towards the sky.

Gwendolyn found Noniar in the stables, healthy and strong. Her sword was strapped to the saddle as Morain had promised, along with two quivers of her arrows and her bow. A deep sense of gratitude filled her as she ran her hand down Noniar’s mane. The Mederi and the lander had done more for her than she deserved, in spite of the fact their own lives were greatly endangered by doing so. They had helped their potential killer heal. Why? She could not help but question their fate. Must there be a duel to the death? Could the Vow be overlooked somehow? Just this once? No, no. The hair bristled on the nape of her neck as the Vow of the Lifeblood—the vow that bound her to find and eliminate all unregulated practicers of gramarye regardless of who they were—pounded in her heart. It was a part of her, a duty she had committed her life to. To betray it would be to turn her back on everything she had done as a Huntress up to now. To grant mercy to these two would be to betray all those she had not granted mercy to. Unswerving, unyielding. The fate of Ethryn hung in the balance, and it only took one Ether-Wielder to tear the Fabric and release—. Gwendolyn shivered. Yet here she was with two lives in her hands. With a cold tug, she freed the thought of clemency from her heart. But as the sounds of Galen’s preparation rang from the forge, the thought fought to enter again.

“I cannot entertain it,” she whispered to Noniar as if in counsel. Removing her girdle from the saddle, she tightened it around her waist, wincing as it pressed against her scar. She must have been quite a sight, the thin lander’s dress pinched tight by a warrior’s girdle, a sheathed sword running down to her boots. It did not feel appropriate. As she turned to face the cottage, she realized with regret that none of this did.

Something was coming. Galen could sense it, could hear the whispers beckoning to him in the forbidden language of the Ether. His skin tingled at the sudden rush of sensations, and setting the cooled blade upon a white cloth, he emerged from the forge unsure of what sudden change was in the wind.

There was none. The sea glittered like a silver thread on the horizon, the sun hovered two full lengths above the land. The wind leaned on the high grasses of the vacant hills, shifting their embodiment of solitude from stillness to a slight ripple. Ever since he was young Galen had looked upon those rolling hills, which had shrunk considerably in their perceived size as he grew, but which always had been the markers for the borders of his world, the sentinels that guarded against the greater unknown beyond. They were the beginning of the wild. It was upon those hills that he had met Gwendolyn, upon those hills that he had first seen the Wayfarers when they had arrived in their creaking carts. But now the hills were silent and empty. Whatever alteration he had felt moments ago had not appeared on the hills as he would normally have expected. This was different. This change, whatever it was, was not coming by a normal route.

It was to come through the Ether.

Morain stepped from the cottage. She did not see Galen outside the forge and he watched her from a distance. Her form was silhouetted against the dropping sun, the shape of her body pronounced by the stark contrast of shadow and light. Galen’s blood warmed and his palms moistened as he stared at the curvature of her figure. He had an urge to take hold of that perfect shape, to embrace her in his arms and press himself against her as he had in his thoughts many times before. Galen felt his face blush at the suddenness of the thought and drove it from his mind.

Morain seemed to sense his eyes upon her and turned towards him, catching Galen in his stare. Blushing, he slipped back into the forge and nearly fell over his feet. “Fool,” he muttered, backing further into the smoky shed hoping the darkness would hide his humiliation.

Footsteps approached from outside. Soft, made by bare feet. How Galen could even hear them, he did not know—his senses were sharpened, the Ether was tingling within him. A shadow blocked the light from without, and Morain stood there, her hair and dress blowing in the wind. She pulled a few strands from her eyes and looked at Galen without speaking.

Words were not exchanged as she stepped into the forge. Galen’s breath caught in his throat; he felt heavy, unable to move as she slowly approached. Her eyes were questioning, unsure, as if waiting for confirmation from him. When she had finally reached him, Galen’s back was pressed against the wall, his breathing shallow.

“Did you feel it?”

Her words had a mystifying effect on Galen, as if laced with desire. The feelings he had suppressed for Morain were rising in him now with an unstoppable force. He managed to nod.

“Something is coming,” she continued, “something powerful.” But her words and her eyes did not match. She was not only interested in whatever it was that had occurred in the Ether—she had come for another reason that seemed to glisten off her skin.

“I have changed my mind,” Galen said suddenly, his eyes drinking in her beauty as the embers of the forge glowed off her face. “You will not face the Huntress tomorrow. You will flee, and I will hold her here.”

“No,” Morain said, her voice firm. “We will meet our fates together. It was what we decided.”

“You are a healer, a Mederi, for the Creator’s sake! Yes, you broke the Vow of the Magi in the course of your work—but it has been in the interest of saving others! How were you to know the consequences?”

“The Vow of the Magi was created for a reason,” Morain replied. “And I must face the consequences of my actions.”

“No. The Laws of Constraint are for fools. You follow the Manannan, and they know of another way—a way that can control the Ether. Go to them! You know where Ariel travels to. One of your skill will be needed.”

“And what of you?” Morain countered. “You are a lander, a smith. Wonderful trades, trades of creation, not destruction. Does not the Ether shine in you for good purpose? Why should you remain, and I go?”

“But my loss will not be felt as profoundly as yours. You can add a stone to this crumbling world of ours and help rebuild it.”

Morain smiled softly. “You are mistaken if you think your loss will not be felt.” She placed her hand on his chest. Her fingers were trembling, but it was nothing compared to the shock it sent through Galen. He pressed his own against hers and looked into her eyes.

“Please, flee tonight. I cannot bear the thought of what could happen tomorrow.”

Morain smiled, and with it Galen’s heart was finally torn asunder. A single tear broke from the impenetrable wall shining in her eyes. “I am staying here, with you.” She pulled herself close and their lips met, soft and salty. Desire filled Galen as she pressed him against the wall, their arms wrapping about each other tightly. The scent of her hair filled his senses and dizzied him with longing as they slid to the floor.

The Illumination of Evil: Chapter 5

2011-12-28T13:15:00.000-05:00

CH5 – An Unwelcome Visit

Griffon disembarked from the horse-pulled trolley at the corner of Mass Avenue and Dover Street. Pulling his collar up against the slanting rain, he headed northeast onto the Victorian-style street. Passing a lamplighter as the gloom set in, he crinkled his nose against the pungent fumes. A row of Victorian homes stretched along the cobbled road, blazing with light: candle, electric and otherwise. The singular globes of light gave the street the appearance of a dark hall with doorways of holiday cheer – but these lights were not lit out of festivity. A group of surly looking vigilanties in cloaks and bearing clubs materialized from the shadows and bounded past Griffon, eyeing him with hard eyes.

“Maybe the lame leg is an act,” he heard one of the men growl as they passed him by. The scent of liquor passed with them, and Griffon continued his stride attentively.

The stark radiance of electric light settled like a fountain’s plume onto Davis Square as Griffon emerged from the mist. The crackle and glow of numerous electric lights was abundant, and the Square huddled warmly within the friendly blaze. The potency of light further darkened the streets stretching from the nestled square, leaving them to cling to their sanctuaries of lampposts and house lights. Turning to his right, Griffon looked upon a row of solid brick buildings that extended down Cedar Street. From the depths of the rainy mist a horse and buggy approached, pulling up at the center of an immense brick building with a circular face. The round building stretched away from Davis Square in a v-like shape, bordered by Highland and Cedar respectively.

Griffon crossed the broad square, the ring of a distant trolley reaching his ears as he strode across the tracks. An echoed shout caused him to pause and he watched as a group of gruff-looking men appeared from the distant shadows and rushed in the direction of the noise, shoulders hunched and faces grim.

“Medieval times in Boston,” he murmured to himself, reaching the sidewalk and heading down Highland Street. The streets were quiet, and those fellow travelers that he did pass were either in groups or clinging to them, ensuring their steps were close to a neighbor’s.

Griffon reached Bowers Street where a sagging Gable-house awaited on the corner. The dilapidated edifice stared with vacant eyes upon him, the light within dulled by the veil of mist surrounding it. Griffon walked to the front door where a sign read: Anderson Boarding House, Rooms for Rent.

Entering, he was met by a musty smell and the steady drip of water into a tin pail. A staircase immediately ahead led to the upper floors, and a narrow passage beside it trailed into shadow. An open doorway at Griffon’s left housed a small office with a desk and chair. A narrow-faced man with a beakish nose and balding crown looked up from his ledger and stared at Griffon warily.

“You have business here?” the clerk demanded, his voice shrouded by an unremitting gasp.

“I do,” said Griffon, stepping into the office. It was incessantly warm, though the source of the heat was not directly apparent.

“And what might that be?”

“I am here to examine the room of Miss Rosaleen Bell.”

The man’s eyes flicked to Griffon’s cane and quickly back. “Under what authorization?”

“I am a private investigator.”

“I been warned ‘bout you, ol’ chap. A lanky gimp with a tall hat and cane. Calls ‘imself an inspector or the like. Was told to keep you clear of the premises, I’m ‘fraid.”

The front door burst open and a stout plainclothes officer barged in, the badge on his coat glistening from the rain. “There’s our man!” he shouted, grabbing Griffon by the arm. A heavy moustache dripped with water, and his face reddened with excitement.

Griffon turned with a curse. “I have done nothing wrong, officer.”

“Detective,” the man replied, sliding his bowler cap back. His glare turned accusingly to the clerk. “Were you going to let this man into the victim’s room?”

“No sir,” the clerk stammered, jumping up. “I told ‘im only officers of the law and family were permitted! I wouldn’t do noth’n ‘gainst what I was tol’.”

“Is that so?” The detective ran his fingers along his moustache as he turned his attention to Griffon. “We’re taking you to the plates for fraudulent representation as a police officer.” He pointed out the window at a covered buggy. An officer sat in the driver’s seat, his long coat pulled up against the swirling mist. “That there’s yer ride. Hope it ain’t too bumpy.” The detective pulled Griffon from the office with a tug, nearly causing him to fall.

“Damn it man, my leg,” Griffon growled, righting himself with a grimace.

“My apologies,” said the detective with a smirk. He turned to the clerk. “Has anyone else come in tonight to see the room?”

The clerk shook his head. “Not that I seen.”

“Not that you have seen, eh? Are you certain there aren’t any that you haven’t seen?”

The clerk wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I only knows of ones I seen, which there ain’t been any but this one har. Don’t know noth’n of those I haven’t seen. Lot to ask of a man, guessing on folk he hasn’t seen.”

The detective shook his head. “I better check. Not worth taking chances with this lot. Probably have a partner climbing up the wall as we speak.”

“I work alone,” said Griffon.

“Sure. For all I know this clerk here is in on it.”

“Not me!” the clerk cried, his eyes widening.

“Let’s go, you.” The detective began to drag Griffon away when the clerk bent forward. “Is there anything you be need’n from me, officer? A statement?”

“You just cool your heels, mac,” the detective replied. “I’ll deal with you after I check the premises.”

Griffon gripped his cane as the detective pulled him outside, the mist wet against their face.

“That had to be the most wretched acting I have ever witnessed,” Griffon said to the detective.

“Keep it down,” Fellows replied, gazing about nervously. He scratched at his upper lip with a scowl. “This damned fake moustache is going to be the death of me.”

They reached the cab and Fellows hoisted Griffon into the back. Reluctance nodded from the depths of her longcoat as she guided Griffon up with gloved hands. “How’d it go, Teddy?”

“I was horrific. I couldn’t pick an accent. One moment I was an Irishman from the 9^th precint, the next a London Wig with a nasal problem.”

Reluctance turned to Griffon with concern. “Does the clerk suspect anything?”

“No.” Griffon’s voice held a subdued note of humor. “But you better get moving, Theodore.”

Fellows stared into the cab. “If Detective Weathers catches me with his badge, it will be my hide – ”

“If any officer catches you with Weathers’ badge, it will be your hide,” Reluctance replied.

Fellows shivered from more than just the rain. Muttering under his breath, he turned away and plodded back to the house.

Reluctance hunched over the reigns and turned her head slightly so that Griffon could hear her. “He’s a good friend to be do’n this, you know. Impersonating an officer in this town is no laughing matter.”

“No, it is not,” agreed Griffon. “But neither is murder.”

Fellows stood before the bedroom door and pulled his hat from his head. The cramped hallway was uncomfortably quiet, the silence hanging in the air like a scythe. His breathing came in fits as he stared in earnest at the door, which of its own account appeared no less ordinary than its hallway neighbors. Yet there was a presence stationed there, an otherworldly attendance bound to it and the room beyond that put him ill at ease. It kept him at bay for several fitful minutes until a creak on the nearby stairs drove him to action.

Pushing the door open, Fellows entered the dark chamber. The smell of stale fumes filled his nostrils, abrupt but fading in effect. Gray light slid through a sliver in the curtained window, revealing a darkly shaded room of organized chaos. In the far corner, a small archway led to a bedroom.

Fellows gripped his bowler cap as he surveyed his surroundings, his forehead beading with nervous sweat. The scene had the sense of fatal permanency.

“Gads… what am I doing in here?” he turned to leave, but stopped at the door, his hand outstretched. “One step at a time, old boy.” He attempted to draw his floundering senses into a more controllable state, and succeeded in slowing his breathing to a rabbit’s pace. “The plan is simple. Take quick account of the room, look for anything of interest, and out you go. Trouble-free. Now on with you, old boy.”

He stood rooted the spot, the uninviting gloom waiting threateningly for him to break its stance. His eyes did the work that his legs would not, and he took in the sight with enough interest to draw him forward a couple of steps. A planked wall to his right held a two-drawer dresser with unpolished silver handles. On either side of the dresser rested a beige armchair directed towards the window. One of the chairs had a blue smock and white dress thrown over the back, and a white cap of unusual shape resting on the cushion. A collared white shirt that had seen use hung from the second chair.

Of greater interest was the box stove and protruding pipe that concluded in a brick wall at the end of the room. Several metal rods leaned against the stove, and numerous saucers with blackened bases were scattered atop it. Drawn close to the cookery was a stool and a varnished Victorian oak easel, the latter angled to catch the sunlight from the window. An incomplete watercolor rested upon the easel, and Fellows’ eyes were drawn to the display despite the poor lighting. Near his feet an array of painting implements were scattered neatly about, including a closed watercolor sketchbox, brushes of various bristles, pencils of varying thicknesses, pottery palettes, cans filled multiple hues of water, and stacks of clean paper with the initials AWS scrawled in the corner.

Fellows’ eyes were drawn from the easel to the adjacent wall of the room, where numerous watercolors displayed their painter’s vision with unusual skill and originality.

“I do not belong here,” he said suddenly, his throat misty with remorse. “No… no indeed. I have no right to intrude upon this place.”

Bowing his head, he turned and exited the room and moments later the entire premises, ignoring the clerk’s call as he scampered past the office and out the front door. Pulling his bowler tightly to his ears, he jumped beside Reluctance, his face wet from the growing mist.

Reluctance studied Fellows’ face. “What’s wrong?”

“It was not right to go in there.” Fellows stared at his feet. “A twenty-one year old woman. No more than a girl. I had no right.”

Griffon’s voice emerged from the depths of the buggy. “She is dead, Theodore.”

Fellows turned on Griffon, whose face glowed harshly in the blaze of his cigarette. The fresh scent of rain mixed with the tang of the burning cloves. “And how does that make any of this right?”

“Right or wrong, it is necessary.”

Fellows turned about. “Well, necessary or not, it was ineffective.”

“Did you enter the room?”

“Of course.”

“And you viewed the contents?”

“I have eyes, Nicholas. However, that was the extent of my prying…I touched nothing, found nothing. Once I had entered, I could not fathom disturbing the room in any way. I was terribly distracted by my own presence. The thought that it had not been lived in since…since her murder was unnerving.”

Griffon thrust himself into the depths of his seat and smoked with a desperate vehemence. The scent of cloves hovered like an overgrown garden. “Not as unnerving as the fact that her murderer is still at large. Let us not forget what this is about, Theodore.”

Reluctance clucked her tongue and the horse nickered in response, pulling the buggy into motion. “Far be it from me to judge boys, but it sure sounds like we went through a lot of trouble for nothing. Look at my outfit, for crying out loud. A police officer? If someone I know catches wind, I’ll never live it down— ”

“I take full responsibility,” said Fellows. “It was a mistake sending me in. I should have known better. I froze up as soon as I saw the half-finished painting. It became too real to me at that moment.”

Griffon thrust himself forward, his face nearly touching Fellows’ shoulder. “Painting?”

“Yes. She was a watercolor artist. She had paintings all about the place.”

“Did you get a good look at them?”

Fellows nodded. “Yes, in fact. They were quite good. Brought to mind Winslow Homer. His earlier pieces, that is.”

“Rowing Home?” Reluctance inquired.

Fellows pondered. “They were not as singular or stark as Rowing Home, and contained a different theme that seemed unique to watercolour. It was artificial versus natural, man versus environment—”

Griffon cleared his throat with surprising force. “Did you confirm her signature upon the paintings?”

“Well… in a manner of speaking.”

“They were identical for each piece?”

Fellows rubbed his chin. “Yes. AWS.”

“Those aren’t her initials,” Reluctance said, frowning.

“True,” replied Fellows, “but it is not unusual for artists to use artificial names.”

“Were they positioned in the same location on each painting?”

Fellows took a moment before answering. “Come to think of it, they were on the back of the sheets. It was upon the clean paper that I noticed the initials. Strange how the mind can jumble such details until one asks the right question.”

Griffon leaned back and buried himself in the depths of the backseat once again. The pace of his smoking took on even more fury as his mind raced, and even the electric lights of Davis Square could not break through the clove-dampened shadows.

“Anything else?” Griffon asked in a subdued roar.

“A man’s shirt. And a leather case for spectacles.”

Griffon nearly leapt from the shadows. “What? Describe the shirt, if you please.”

“White, worn and wrinkled. Appeared to belong to a uniform, like that of a house servant. Black buttons. Inexpensive. Large, overflowing.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes, quite so. It was draped over a chair. Perhaps she was using it as a frock while she was painting.”

“Did it have paint on it?”

“Not that I remember.”

Griffon muttered under his breath. “How in the blazes did the police report miss that? I do say, there is a definite need to train these men properly.” He took a moment before continuing. “Anything else?”

“No. Well, the typical, of course.”

“The typical? Such as?”

“Painting implements. A bureau. Two chairs. A cherrywood cross on the wall.”

“Two chairs?”

“Yes. It would be quite inconvenient for company if she had only one chair.”

Griffon flicked the remnants of his cigarette into the rain, the scent of cloves lingering in the air. “What else?”

“Nothing. Ah… a blue smock resting upon one of the chairs.”

Griffon leaned forward again. “A blue smock. Are you certain it was blue?”

“Well. I believe so— ”

“Did it have paint on it?”

“No.”

Griffon puffed thoughtfully. “Did it have sleeves?”

Fellows turned to Griffon in confusion. “Sleeves?”

“Did it have sleeves? Do you recall?”

Fellows closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “It was a pull-over smock… like one worn while painting—”

“But it had no paint on it. Theodore?”

Fellows grew silent. After a moment, he opened his eyes. “No, it did not have sleeves.”

“There was a white gown beside it?”

Fellows stared at Griffon in surprise. “Well—yes! I had forgotten about it. Not next to it, exactly, but on the other chair. How did you know?”

Griffon sank back into his seat, the shadows taking him once more. His voice lifted from the darkness. “Your venture was not entirely a lost cause.”

Reluctance chuckled and raised a brow. “What’d you figure out, Nick?”

“We learned three things about our victim that were not captured in either the police report or the newspapers. As such, they interest me more than they would have otherwise.”

“Yeah?”

“For one, she had a second job.”

“I could’a told you that, Nicholas,” Reluctance shrugged. “What young woman struggling to make ends meet doesn’t? And paint’n ain’t much of a second job, by the way.”

“That is not what I am referring to. I would consider that a hobby until more evidence proves otherwise.”

“What then?”

“A nurse—and since she had a fulltime day job in her domestic service, she must have been moonlighting in a dispensary.”

Fellows scratched his head. “And from where did that revelation come?”

“The so-called smock—which, in fact, is not a smock at all, but a blue pinafore apron. Add the white gown and you have yourself a standard nurse’s uniform.”

“Yes, I suppose,” said Fellows, nodding his head. “A nurse’s uniform. But what made you think of it?”

“The police reports stated that Miss Bell was Jewish,” said Griffon. “So the cross on the wall interest me. The cheerywood cross was shaded red—as in the Red Cross—a loose thought that got teeth when you mentioned the blue pinafore apron.”

“Ah.”

“The second observation,” Griffon continued, “she is that she was a member of the American Watercolor Society.”

“Ah—AWS.”

“Indeed. She must have purchased her raw materials from the society,” replied Griffon. “The paper was stamped with their brand. That is why the signature was on the back of the paper, as you stated.”

“And third,” he continued, “it appears she may have recently had a male visitor. One that was comfortable enough to leave his shirt behind during the course of the visit.”

“I hate to break up this delightful conversation, boys,” Reluctance said, handing the reigns to Fellows as she dropped her voice to a whisper, “But there’s a mounted copper breaking from the steam ahead. Time for me to change into something more appropriate.” She eased past Fellows and melded into the shadows in the back carriage.

Fellows kept the pace deliberate and his gaze straight ahead, despite the rustling of Reluctance behind him. The horse and buggy passed the mounted patrolman as Mass Avenue opened into Porter Square, causing a pale light to fall across their vehicle just as they broke from his watchful gaze. Silence fell, and after several moments Fellows decidedly spoke up.

“Ahem. So, where do these clues leave us, Nicholas? That is, if we can consider them clues.”

As Fellows spoke, Griffon brushed past him to take a seat in the front. His eyes were bloodshot from smoke, and his flask ready at hand. He took a swig before speaking, smacking his lips together. “It leaves us where it always leaves us, old friend.”

“Yeah, and where would that be?” said Reluctance as she stretched out in the back, the tips of her boots emerging from the back-shadows.

Griffon took a second swig and stared out at the misty road. “It leaves us with more questions.”

“Terrific.” A flash of light emitted from Reluctance’s fingertips, startling the darkness into flight for an instant. She inhaled from a long-stemmed cigarette, flicking the ash upon the floor. “More questions to answer. That should really help clear things up.”

“Despite the tendency to the contrary, it will.” Griffon’s gaze was caught by the emergence of a lone figure beside a stack of newspapers as the horse-and-buggy approached, and he remained fixated upon the spot as they cantered past.

“Hold on a moment!” he cried, leaping up. Fellows swore and reined the horse to a stop as Griffon slid onto the street, his grip on the side panel of the carriage preventing his fall. He released and strode towards the newsboy, the steel-tip of his cane clicking loudly as he went.

“You there! Boy! If I may.”

Reluctance jumped up and leaned over Fellows to see, her elbow pressing against his face. “Now what?”

“Hmph—if I may just extract myself, perhaps I could tell—”

“Ah, sorry Teddy. Look! It’s something in the news .” She pressed even closer and squinted at the stack of newspapers. “I’ll tell ya, Nicholas’s got the eyes of a hawk, and I ain’t kidd’n.”

Griffon returned to the carriage, his face grim. Fellows removed himself from Reluctance’s elbow and straightened his bowler cap. His motion slowed to a halt at the sight of Griffon’s face. “What is it?”

Griffon raised the evening newspaper, across which Jack the Slugger was discernable in bold lettering. “We’re not moving fast enough,” he growled, slapping the paper down in disgust. “There’s been another attack.”

The Illumination of Evil: Chapter 4

2011-12-20T19:59:00.000-05:00

CH4 – The String of Events

“Be considerate, it’s hot,” said Reluctance, handing Fellows a steaming cup of tea on a saucer.

Fellows accepted the offer with proper caution, setting the ornate Capodimonte to his lips before placing it back on the saucer. “Good, very good.”

His gaze wandered appreciatively through the generous apartment. Two stories high, the lightly adorned walls stretched some twenty feet up to a ceiling of exposed beams, crisscrossing like a chessboard. The airy room was filled with natural sunlight from the eastern window, tapering off at the rounded staircase. The west section housed a coal-black grand piano, patiently gleaming in the residue sunlight. A scattering of Chinese Jiaoyi chairs angled towards the fireplace, the delicate figure of Reluctance perched upon one. She seemed quite at ease in the wooden chair and the slim-fitting crimson Qi Pao she wore, but Fellows had taken the more conventional route of a traditionally cushioned American armchair and rumpled tweed suit.

“You live here alone?” Fellows asked.

“How long we known each other, Teddy?”

“Well, years—”

“And in all that time, I never recruited you to take in the sights?” Her eyes twinkled with humor.

“Ah… no.”

“Surely I invited you to an engagement after a show?”

Fellows cleared his throat. “Well….my job kept me quite hampered, as you can imagine. You certainly sent invitations.”

“I've been just awful,” said Reluctance, touching Fellows’ arm. “I never once invited you, did I? Sorry, Teddy, I didn’t realize the company I was missing.”

“It is quite all right, of course,” said Fellows, his face coloring. “Nicholas was our mutual connection, after all. With him out of the city for so long—”

“Didn’t you tell me you made it to every one of my shows?” Reluctance said, smiling.

“Ah, nearly, yes. All but one.”

“Why didn’t you ever come to see me behind stage?”

“Well, a man only has so many hours in the day.” He took a hasty sip of tea. “So, you do, ah, live here alone then?”

Reluctance paused briefly. “You really want an answer to that, don’t ya?” She smiled easily. “A single woman, housed independently? Teddy, you know that’s beyond the pale.”

“Yes, well. If I may ask who—”

“It’s called a Boston Marriage.”

“A Boston Marriage. Two women living together. Most intriguing.” He rubbed his chin. “I did not realize that situation was socially acceptable.”

Reluctance shrugged. “People will gripe about anything. Stuff ‘em, I say.”

“If you say so.” Fellows set his cup back down. “So who is this mysterious woman?”

“Her name is Miao. She is Chinese.”

“That explains the painful-looking furniture. No offense.”

“It’s more comfortable than you think.”

“Not for my frame, I am afraid.” Fellows settled more comfortably into his armchair. “So then, what is Miss Miao’s occupation?”

“She is performer in the Kunqu Theater. Something of a pie-in-the-sky in certain circles.” Reluctance took a sip of tea. “She is also versed in the Mojiaquan and Caijiaquan martial arts.”

Fellows arched a brow. “Indeed. Quite the well-kept secret, this lady friend of yours.”

Reluctance set her cup down and sat patiently. Fellows peered about curiously. His voice was tentative. “Ah… so is she here?”

“You’re not exactly a first-rate detective, are ya, Ted?”

“Sorry?” He gazed discreetly about the room as if the mysterious housemate would suddenly materialize from the shadows. “Am I missing something?”

“You’re missing everything.” Reluctance ran her hand along her dress and raised her brows.

Fellows took a moment before responding. “By thunder! You’re Miao?”

Reluctance laughed. “Now you’re gett’n the gist.”

“But… how? Well, of course I can imagine how, knowing of your enterprise and expertise… the appropriate connections, the art of make-up, disguise…perhaps you can pull it off in the theatre…yes, it is possible. And if she stays distant from the neighbors…they won’t be the wiser.”

“That’s the ticket.”

“But, why?”

“Boston Marriage, remember? Like you said, neighbors won’t be the wiser. Keep ‘em off my back.”

“You go through all of that trouble just for appearances?”

Reluctance shrugged. “I like it. We all have our things. This is my thing.”

“Indeed, I cannot imagine that such a pairing as two female actresses, one famous, one fabricated, would not attract notice—”

“You didn’t know.”

“Hmm. No, I did not. But I live on the other side of the city—”

“Another time for explanations, okay? Nick’s ready for us.”

“You never cease to amaze me, Miss Reluctance.”

Reluctance indicated a door in the south end of the parlor. It had just been opened, releasing a plume of green-tinted smoke from the interior study. Reluctance and Fellows made their way inside, the scent of wet cloves and peppermint heavy in the air. Reluctance pushed open a set of windows, breathing deeply as the cool autumn air brushed past her face. Griffon watched from the corner of the room, a freshly lit cigarette in his hand and a small mountain of ashes in the bowl at his side. Papers were strewn about the table and floor, many with markings in ink.

“So what’s the news?” Reluctance asked, crossing her arms.

Griffon took a swig from his flask before rising from the chair. He leaned heavily on his cane as he scanned the scattered documents. “Well done on the reproductions, Fellows,” he said, tapping his cane on the floor.

“My pleasure.”

“The Boston police have done a thorough job in their record of events regarding the Slugger,” said Griffon, waving at the documents with his hand. “And not one bit of hard evidence points to Andersson.”

“Sounds like they’ve got something in train,” said Reluctance.

“I am not certain that the police are in the business of corruption,” replied Griffon.

“You read the rags lately?” retorted Reluctance.

“I am aware of the goings-on in Precinct 1, yes,” said Griffon, “but this does not sniff of outright fraudulence as much as it does indifference to the truth.”

Fellows clasped his hands behind his back. “The two episodes sound rather similar to me.”

“The former is deliberate aforethought. The latter is rushed judgment under pressure.”

Reluctance nodded. “Those brass-button boys are straight as an arrow, everyone of ‘em.”

Griffon eyed Reluctance. “Let us not rush to judgment.”

“But one thing is clear,” said Fellows, “in their haste to calm the masses, the jollies collared the wrong man.”

“Did they ever,” commented Reluctance.

“Let us not get distracted from our focus,” said Griffon, grinding his cigarette into the ashtray, displacing the mountainous ash. “There is a killer out there. The police want him as badly as we do, but have bungled the job so far. Our focus is on the former. The latter is a simple reality.”

“Yes, of course. What do we have so far?” asked Fellows.

“Enough to start,” said Griffon. He bent down and picked up a handful of crumpled sheets, occasionally referring to them as he went. “To date, there have been five attacks attributed to the so-called Jack the Slugger. The most recent of those attacks was lethal.”

“But the other girls got banged up pretty good,” commented Reluctance.

“They did,” Griffon assented. “Let’s see here,” he dropped his gaze to the papers in his hand, “the first attack was on Ailsa Lawrie, Scottish descent, unmarried, aged 20 years, occupation domestic, employed by a Mrs. Gardner of Walker Street, Cambridge. The attack took place at 9PM on June 17 on Walker Street as Miss Lawrie was departing from the Gardner residence. She was assaulted in the darkness from behind, receiving three contusions to the right side of her head with a blunt instrument, as well as bruises to the face. A pony axe was left at the scene. There were no witnesses to the attack, and she was discovered by a carpenter.”

“Is there information on Mr. Smith?”

“Yes, though I have extracted only the information that I believe is relevant, and we will discuss those points shortly.”

“What do you think Nick’s been do’n in here for the last eight hours?” said Reluctance.

Fellows turned to Griffon with a look of surprise. “You have been in here for eight hours?”

“Straight through the night,” added Reluctance.

“We could have helped you,” said Fellows, referring to the mass of papers at their feet. “You look worse for the wear.”

“And help you will,” replied Griffon. “First, I’ll need you to pay attention.”

“Whatever you say, professor,” said Reluctance, dropping herself into a nearby seat, scattering papers in all directions in the process. “I’m all ears.”

Griffon eyes Reluctance before continuing. “The second attack was made on Linn Olander, Swedish descent, unmarried, aged 21 years, occupation domestic, employed by a Mrs. Lawrence of Mass Avenue, Cambridge. The attack took place at 10PM on July 17^th on Mass Avenue as Miss Olander was departing from the Lawrence residence, occurring near the College. She was approached and assaulted in the darkness from behind, receiving three contusions to the right side of her head with a blunt instrument. An iron bolt was left at the scene.”

“What precinct covers these areas?”

“Regarding the attacks, precincts 1 and 2 have jurisdiction, respectively.”

“Interesting. Not the cleanest precincts on the books.”

Griffon nodded in agreement. “The third victim was Rebecca Healy, Irish descent, unmarried, aged 30 years, occupation domestic, employed by a Mrs. Holland of Alvin Street, Cambridge. Like the others, Miss Healy was returning home from the residence of her employer. Attacked in the darkness from behind, a single contusion by a blunt instrument to the right side of her head, splitting her right ear. On this occurrence, a furnace wrench was left behind. There were no witnesses to the attack, and she was discovered lying in a pool of her own blood.”

“There seem to be a number of similarities in these attacks,” said Fellows.

“Obviously so. However, Miss Healy was the first to state that she spotted a man following her before the attack.”

“Directly before the attack?”

“Not quite. In fact, she did not tell the police about this detail until several days later for fear that she would be implicating an innocent man.”

“So she knows how the blue collars operate,” said Reluctance.

“It is more likely she knows how the newspapers operate,” said Fellows. “Anything to drum up sensation.”

“Regardless of her reason, it is a fact to consider,” said Griffon.

“If there was doubt in her mind that this man was her attacker, it is likely she spotted him some time before the attack.”

“She spotted him some ten minutes before,” said Griffon, “per her recollection of the event.”

Reluctance smiled knowingly. “Sure. Spotted him ten minutes before the attack, because all attackers follow dames in the shadows for five blocks… And then she reports it days after the attack. Don’t know ‘bout you boys, but it sounds to me like some mac was pressing her for information. Clutching at straws.”

“It is clear the police were getting desperate,” Griffon remarked.

“It seems the electric companies need to expand their capabilities,” commented Fellows. “That would foil these shadowy capers.”

“They say an electric light is worth ten beat cops,” added Reluctance.

“I will concede that the pale glow from an electric fixture would certainly create a greater challenge for our adversary,” said Griffon, “despite their dulling glare.” He turned back to the sheet. “That concludes the first three attacks, from which Jack the Slugger was coined.”

“The crimes are perfectly horrid,” said Fellows, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Are we nearly through?”

“Nearly. The fourth target, Miss Sharrow, the alleged victim of Mr. Andersson,” continued Griffon. “Miss Sharrow is a young school teacher from White Hill, Canada. Eighteen years of age. Her account runs as follows: on August 31^st, she was visiting Boston, and spotted the Natural History Rooms on Boylston Street. It was 4PM when she entered, which was near to closing time, and the rooms were empty except for Mr. Andersson, the janitor. At 4:40PM, as she was preparing to depart, she reached the bottom of the staircase near the exit way and was accosted by Andersson. He took her by the hair, beat her head against the floor four or five times, covered her with her cape in an apparent attempt to suffocate her, and when he believed he had, left her there.”

“Alive?” asked Fellows.

“What part of ‘her account runs as follows’ don’t you understand?” Reluctance asked, jabbing Fellows with her elbow.

“Yes, alive,” continued Griffon. “She walked to her hotel alone, stating that she did not want to take a cab or attract attention of any kind, disfigured as she was.”

“And her injuries?”

“Were apparent on arrival to the police precinct, but greatly subdued in manner, as she did not report the attack for nearly a week. Several bruises to the face, primarily the right temple.”

Reluctance leaned forward. “She waited a week to report it?”

“Yes. A fact that both Mrs. Andersson and the newspapers remarked upon.”

Reluctance wrinkled her nose. “So how did the blue boys connect the big Swede to the other crimes?”

“He was convicted of the attack upon Miss Sharrow only, but was linked by the newspapers and half of the populace of Boston to the other Slugger attacks.”

“And that brings us to the final victim, the unfortunate Miss Bell recently in the papers,” said Fellows. “Allowing us to conclude this dark history of the Slugger’s exploits.”

“Yes,” said Griffon. “Miss Bell was the fifth and final victim.”

“She was also the only one murdered.”

“Rosaleen Bell, Irish decent, aged 21 years, occupation domestic, employed by a Mrs. Hathaway of Chester Street, Somerville. The attack took place on Chester Street at 10PM on September 3^rd, at which time Mr. Andersson was in jail awaiting trial for Miss Sharrow. Miss Bell was returning to her house from a visit with friends. She received four contusions to the right side of her head with a blunt instrument, and one above the right eye, likely the first if she turned around. A furnace wrench was left at the scene. It is believed a necklace of some value was taken from Miss Bell after questioning those who saw her person last.”

“Who was she discovered by?”

“A carriage manufacturer by the name of Theodore Henderson.”

“Anything of interest?”

“Nothing yet.” Griffon set the papers aside and sat down at the table. He produced his flask, tapped it to confirm its unoccupied state, and frowned. He set to rubbing his leg with a scowl.

“You need rest, Nicholas,” remarked Fellows.

“What I need is a strong drink,” said Griffon. “But business first.” He pointed to a hand-written sheet on the table. “As is quite apparent, the attacks—if we remove Miss Sharrow for the moment—contain several significant similarities. The victims are all unmarried women that work as domestics in or about Cambridge. Their ages vary, but their time spent in America is strikingly similar—not one has been in the country longer than three years. Direct family in the city is scarce: a few have second cousins and the like that are local, but that is the extent of it.”

“Where do they live? I do not believe you mentioned that.”

“Separate lodging houses. The addresses are on this list. All of them are in the Cambridge area.”

Fellows nodded. “I take it interviews with the surviving victims will be our first priorities? I would be interested in any existing family as well.”

“No. There are other threads that we will follow first, those that the police detectives did not explore,” said Griffon. He winced in pain, and grasped his leg.

Reluctance rose from her chair, concern on her face. “Should I fix you something?”

“No. Not yet.” Griffon forced his face to relax, though his body remained in a stiff position on the chair. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Our points of interest… our points of interest are the following: According to the police records, the four domestics – Lawrie, Olander, Healy, and Bell all received their current positions from the same intelligence office. Not a small coincidence, considering the number of agencies in the city.”

“Did the police look into it?”

“Yes, but found no leads.” Griffon grimaced. “But we will do our own checking. Now, Fellows here stated his interest in the families of the victims,” Griffon continued, “but I have an interest that supersedes that, and it is the families of their employers. These women were all domestics that spent most of their days as servants in the homes of well-to-do neighborhoods—neighborhoods that have people who run in the same circles.”

“You want to see if there are any connections between the employers,” said Reluctance.

“Precisely,” said Griffon, smiling at Reluctance. “And who better than a substitute housekeeper to nose around?”

“Fits the bill,” said Reluctance, returning the smile. “I recently played a small part as Patty in Quality Street, so I won’t even need to brush up.” She arched her back, ran her hands through her hair so that it fell about straight and rough, and spoke in an Irish accent that reverberated through the room: That may be, but my face is my own, and the more I see it in the glass the more it pleases me. I never look at it but I say to myself, 'Who is to be the lucky man?'

“Bravo!” clapped Fellows emphatically. Reluctance lounged back and gave him a long wink.

“Returning to a previous point,” said Griffon with a shake of his head, “our Canadian friend, Miss Sharrow, has returned to her home country, so questioning her regarding Andersson will provide some difficulty.”

“Any ideas?”

“I am working on it. For now, there is one final item we must cover as promptly as possible.”

“What is that?”

“We must get ourselves some credentials.”

Reluctance looked puzzlingly at Griffon. “Credentials? Where’s the fun in that?”

“There will be plenty of fun, as you call it, to be had, I assure you.”

“You have some credentials from your prior experiences out West, do you not?” Fellows asked.

“Not the kind that will hold up in an investigation such as this.”

“Well, what do you propose? That we open our own consulting detective agency like I’ve heard about in London?”

“An interesting idea, but no. At least not this time around.” He tapped his fingers against the empty flask.

Reluctance crossed her arms. “So you gonna keep us in suspense forever then?”

“No, of course not. I was just considering the best way to go about our temporary solution.”

Reluctance sighed. “To go about what temporary solution?”

Griffon looked up from his chair and folded his hands on the table. “To go about becoming an inspector for the State Police.”

“State Police?” Fellows and Reluctance responded in unison.

Griffon smiled in spite of himself. “Worry not, it will be temporary. And we will maintain our independence during the investigation.” He turned his head to the window and looked upon the day, which had turned considerably gray. “We are not exactly in the good graces of the Boston police department at the moment. To do our work unmolested, we shall need some credentials. Real credentials. Otherwise we will be running up against our rivals at every turn.”

“But as a State Detective you’ll be bound by someone else’s orders—”

Griffon raised his hand and the room fell into silence. He turned to Reluctance. “I think I’ll have that drink about now. Brandy will suffice.”

Reluctance plopped herself down beside Griffon and propped her feet up on the table. She turned to Fellows. “Make it two drinks, Teddy. Straight-up.”

Fellows frowned. “I do say, Miss Reluctance, I am quite willing to play host, but at a minimum, you should have the decency to ask for three drinks to be made.”

“Well, I guess I could use two for myself and one for Nick,” Reluctance replied. Fellows blushed and Reluctance tapped him with her foot. “Just kidd’n, Teddy! A drink for you, too. You’re an easy target, you know.”

Fellows straightened his tie. “I am a literalist, Miss Reluctance. There is a difference.”

“You sure about that?”

Fellows ignored the remark and turned to Griffon. “So we are mapped, then? Nothing too dangerous—”

“Ah, speaking of danger, there is one more thing,” Griffon said, snapping his fingers. “Miss Bell’s funeral is tomorrow. Her family is arriving in town today, and is staying at the Omni Parker.”

Fellows grew hesitant. “And?”

“I imagine her apartment has not been overly tampered with yet, but it will certainly be cleared out tomorrow by the relatives.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Griffon replied, “that we have been given the perfect opportunity to look for clues—clues that the police may have missed. So we are breaking in tonight.”

Fellows paled, and stammered for a moment. Leaping up, Reluctance took him by the arm and led him to her vacant chair. “I’ll take care of the drinks, boys.” She smiled at Griffon. “Looks likes it’s gonna to be a long night.”

The Heartblood Horn: Chapter 4

2011-12-19T01:10:00.003-05:00

Chapter 4: Beginnings

A pale crescent moon hung in the night sky like a scythe, the surrounding clouds hewn by the deathly beacon into ghostly wisps. Beyond these a meager scattering of stars had been sewn into the heavens, far too few to garner a bright harvest. It was upon the resulting dark embrace that Ariel looked musingly. Under this moon she had been brought to Nekubar, the last of her family taken. And it was under this moon that she had escaped.

Once again the moon floated menacingly above her, ripe with premonition.

The fire burned low at her feet, remnants of the crackling hoarwood swathing the camp in a faint silvery light. Two fist-sized cauldrons boiled pleasantly above the flames, sharing the aroma of goldberry root and the gum of virens with the clean scent of the surrounding pine.

The Tall Wayfarer sat across the fire concentrating on his carving, slivers of wood flying from his gnarled hands. They were hands that, despite their rough exterior, moved nimbly in their pursuit. Ariel shifted her position to see him better and Tasarin glanced up from his work. Their gazes met and the same wordless message that had been shared between them before was passed once again: There is no turning back now. His eyes dropped to her palms where a flash of silver caught the firelight before she closed her fist.

“They are anxious,” Ariel said, casting her gaze at the adjacent camp from which soft voices could be heard.

“It is no small endeavor we have set them upon,” Tasarin replied without taking his eyes from his work. Shavings fell from his practiced hands like snow.

A rustle from the brush announced a visitor. “Ah, our newest arrival approaches,” Ariel said. “Perhaps he will show more courage of decision than the others have.”

A figure approached from the main camp. Ariel watched as a broad youth materialized from the darkness into the silver glow of the burning hoarwood. The young man’s shirt and trousers were caked with dried soil and bits of it rested in his tousled hair as well. He ran his hand though his dark curls uncertainly and his hard, tanned face appeared ill at ease. It was a handsome face, but ruggedly so.

“You called for me?” the young man asked. He could not have been more than eighteen years of age.

“Sit down, Boren.” Ariel gestured to an open space of ground by the fire. Boren sat with a hesitancy that he failed to hide.

“It was a long, hard ride today,” she said, her voice soft. “And I realize you must have many questions for us. But first, I have one for you—do you have any doubt about your decision to join us?”

Boren shook his head. “None. I have waited for this day to come for a long time.”

Tasarin leaned forward. “But do you know exactly what it is you have decided upon by joining us, boy?”

Boren was silent a moment. “Only that we, the Ether-born, no longer have to hide in fear of the Hunters—that we gather as one in defiance of the Laws of Constraint. And I have decided to become part of that.”

Ariel nodded. “What questions do you have for us?”

“I have many,” Boren replied “But I will start with this: I overheard a discussion today among some of the others about a—an academy?”

“Yes. A place of learning for the Ether-born.”

“But how can such a place exist? The Order of the Thau'Maturge would have seen to its destruction, unless it was hidden in some remote part of Ethryn.”

“It is hidden, that is true. But not in the sense that you think.” Ariel smiled softly. “Listen closely, Boren. The night draws on, and there is much that I must share with you about the path ahead.”

“The academy?”

“That is just part of it, but it is where we will begin.” Under the waning light of the crescent moon, she began to speak.

The Huntress awoke to hushed voices. She was lying on a hard cot with a ragged blanket thrown over her. Straining to sit up, Gwendolyn winced at the burning pain in her midsection and fell back. Her mouth was dry and her throat burned. A small room surrounded her, smoky and dark with an earthen floor.

“I could help you recover if you would only allow it,” a woman’s voice said from somewhere nearby. “Why do you refuse my remedies?”

“No good can come from the manipulation of that which you call the Ether,” a second voice replied. Gwendolyn recognized it as belonging to the blacksmith from Northam—the man named Lun. She wondered through the painful haze why she was hearing his voice. Where was she?

“But there is much you do not understand—”

“I understand more than you know,” Lun replied. “It is you that have much to learn. And the first is this: the Ether is nothing but an elaborate trick. A promise based on a lie. For anything good it promises, it demands ten times the payment in misery. To cast it away is to the benefit of us all. To refuse it as well, as I have done.”

“But both of your sons are Ether-born. You cannot simply cast them away.”

“You are too young to understand, Mederi.”

“Is that why you allowed Boren to leave so easily? Was he simply cast away once you discovered his secret?”

“He left of his own accord,” Lun growled. “There was little I could have done to stop him, even if I had wanted to. And I had my suspicions...” He trailed off into silence.

Suddenly Gwendolyn coughed, her lungs flaring with pain. The conversation stopped, replaced by the crackling of the fire. Gwendolyn turned onto her side. Her head pounded like a drum. The words she had overheard seemed relevant to her somehow, but her memory was gray. A moment passed—or what could have been many moments—and she lay still. A motion close to her caused her to blink, revealing a blurry sight.

“My lady, are you awake?” The young woman beside Gwendolyn was the same she had just heard speaking with Lun. Black curls ran down a pretty face, but the eyes bespoke of distress.

“Who are you?” Gwendolyn asked, her throat burning in her effort to speak.

“My name is Morain. Though you are a Huntres, I reveal to you that I am an Ether-Wielder. A Mederi.”

Images of a woman—but not this woman—filled Gwendolyn’s head and with it whisperings of remembrance. She had to find the Mederi and stop her. “You are not the Mederi that I am searching for,” Gwendolyn said, her voice brittle. “But you are familiar to me. I sense the Ether in you—I see it. There is a glow that I am no stranger to.”

“I was there,” Morain replied. “When the Firstborn attacked you. That is what you remember.”

Gwendolyn shivered. The memory of the terrible creature came back in a rush. “How is it I am still alive?”

“I was able to protect us both,” Morain said. Her voice was edged with caution as she spoke.

“No,” Gwendolyn said, her thoughts moving slowly as she regarded Morain, “I do not believe you have such power. It was the one that I seek that stopped the Firstborn. Her name is Ariel, though she goes by others. You know her, I can see it in your eyes.”

“She saved your life,” Morain whispered. “Even though you would Silence her given the chance.”

“I Hunt for her and for any other that touches the Ether-Source. You and the blacksmith’s boys—you are all Wielders in defiance of the Laws of Constraint. You too will be dealt with.” Gwendolyn grew dizzy and closed her eyes. She tried to move her arms but they were as heavy as lead. She could taste sweat on her lips as she opened her mouth to talk, but nothing was forthcoming.

“Do not speak any more for now. You are still fighting the sickness.”

Gwendolyn managed a question. “Is my wound bad?”

“It is healing.”

Gwendolyn laughed grimly. “You have been treating me. You heal me still.” She closed her eyes and the darkness slowly seeped in. Before the slumber took her, she spoke once more. “If I survive, I will not spare you, nor the others. I cannot spare any Ether-born. If you wish to live, kill me now. There will be no quarter from me if I regain my strength. Even if you flee, I will find you.” With that, she fell into a dreamless sleep, her words lingering in the air.

Morain brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes as she stared upon the Huntress. “You will be shown the path of true virtue, Gwendolyn, and it will force you to change your ways. On that belief, I am willing to risk my life.”

Illumination of Evil: Chapter 3

2011-12-14T07:00:00.008-05:00

CH3 – The Concord Plan

“It has fascinated the imagination over the years, I would say. Yes, a man can state that with certainty.” Fellows stood with his arms crossed against the autumn chill as he peered beyond the rounded wooden bridge stretching over the slow-moving Assabet River. The bridge at Concord was a bastion of interlaced logs supported by six sturdy trestles rising from the silent water. Beyond it stretched a field of golden honeysuckle, blazing in the morning sun. A grove of young oak grew thick at a bend of the river where the field dipped low, the autumn-hued trees a display of auburn and gold.

“What is that, old friend?” Griffon peered up from the grave of British soldiers, which he had been studying. He took a long drag on his clove cigarette as Fellows continued to ponder the sight before him.

“Concord of course. The home of Hawthorne, Thoreau, Peabody, Alcott, Emerson. The birthplace of America, at that.” He nodded in satisfaction. “There is something in the air here. I do say, there is the Old Manse before our very eyes. Thoreau planted a garden just over there. And Hawthorne lived within those very walls – ”

“Hawthorne was evicted for arrears on rent,” Griffon remarked. “Really, Fellows, I did not take you for a romantic.”

“Hmmph. That is not it at all, Nicholas. There is a distinction between appreciating history and romanticizing about it.”

“Yes indeed. And I believe you have just indulged in the latter.”

“What say you, Miss Reluctance?” Fellows turned to their companion, who had been silently observing the interaction.

“Isn’t there a tavern in this town?” she asked, her knee-high boots rapping against the boards as she crossed the bridge. Her elegant dress caught the breeze and the fancy umbrella nearly leapt from her hands, but she continued unabated.

“Well – of course there is,” Fellows called after her, placing his wind-swept tie to its proper position. “We passed it on the way here. It is where we are going to meet…”

Griffon trailed behind, allowing his companions to continue their conversation on their own. Stopping at the apex of the bridge, he looked down into the lazy water below, the blue smoke of his clove cigarette brushing past his cheek. He was there for several moments when Reluctance brushed against him.

Griffon looked up. “Where is Fellows?”

“Goggling over some statue,” she answered, resting her elbows on the handrail of the bridge.

Griffon smiled pensively. “I envy him his capacity of reverie.”

“Why?”

“You speak as if you are devoid it, Reluctance,” said Griffon. “But you are more like him than you realize. And that is not a bad thing,” he added, seeing the frown curl under her lips.

“And what about you?”

“Me? Take the bend of this river, for instance. Here at the scene of one of the most famous battles in America. For all the rich history of this place, my memory flees to one Martha Hunt, a local woman who drowned here.” Griffon exhaled. ‘She was the very image of death-agony,’ as Hawthorne put it when he saw the body.” Griffon shrugged. “How did she die? What midnight errand carried her here so many years ago? An accident, or a purposeful deed, unsolved for all time? It is the darker broodings that my mind wanders to.”

Reluctance put a hand to her hip. “I like a man who has dark broodings,” she said. “But I prefer that the broodings occur on his time, not mine. Get my meaning?”

“Yes, I believe I do.”

“So when do we get down to brass tacks?”

“Business will commence shortly,” Griffon replied, departing from the spot. They strode in comfortable silence down to Fellows, who was staring at a fifteen-foot bronze statue.

“Sculpted by Daniel Chester French,” stated Fellows as they closed in. “Now that is a man with talent.”

“Was he born in your beloved Concord?” asked Reluctance.

“He was not born here,” replied Fellows, “but he was drawn here later in life, and spent many years in town. I believe he may even still have a house somewhere around here.” Fellows turned back to the statue with a sage-like nod. “Look at this skill, and at such a young age when he sculpted it. He has great works yet to do, mark my words.”

“Sure, Teddy,” said Reluctance, stifling a yawn. “Keep your trousers on.”

“Really, Miss Reluctance,” Fellows huffed, “you entirely miss the point.” He gestured to the statue. “Look upon it again. Really look upon it.”

The trio craned their necks to view the cannon-bronzed farmer staring across the land like an ageless sentinel. With a musket in one hand and a sod-breaker grasped firmly in the other, the Minute Man displayed timeless determination.

“I’ll give your pal some credit,” said Reluctance with a smirk. “He knows how to sculpt a good-looking man.”

Fellows frowned. “Really, Miss Reluctance. Respect the work. That is all I ask.”

“That is how I show respect, Teddy.”

Griffon bent down to read a script on the statue base:

“By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.”

The sound of his resonating voice brought the conversation to silence, and the three stood amongst their thoughts, Griffon smoking the last of his clove-cigarette. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his pocket-watch. “Another twenty minutes. Shall we take a look at Buttrick Mansion?”

“Why not?” said Reluctance. “A girl can dream, can’t she?”

Reaching the entrance to a neatly kept, flag-laden Victorian aptly named the Colonial Inn, Griffon set his hand upon the brassbound door and hesitated. A man sat at the corner of the porch, a morning paper grasped firmly in his hands. A thin plume of smoke rose above the paper like the unwinding of a Christmas wreath, creating a greenish haze at the ceiling of the porch. Pulling his flask from his coat, Griffon pushed his way inside.

The warmth of a burning hearth chased away some of autumn’s lingering chill, mixing tobacco smoke with the scrape of wood and knock of mugs. The practice-tune of a fiddle faded to silence as the patrons turned to inspect the new arrival.

“Good afternoon,” said Griffon, striding up to the innkeeper, a portly, mustached man donning the interesting combination of short frock suit and apron.

“Would you like a room, sir?”

“It has been reserved in the Register.”

“Name?”

“Griffon.”

The man pulled a pair of spectacles down from his forehead and viewed the thick account book on the tabletop. “Room 24. Extended stay.”

“Yes. Please ensure that it is ready within the hour. And I will have a table in the tea room.”

“Of course, Mr. Griffon.”

Twenty minutes later Griffon was sitting in the corner of a shaded dining area, a small table for two set with lunch for one. A glass of whiskey rested at his right elbow, an uneaten danish and steaming coffee at his left. He took a sip of the coffee as a shadow fell over him.

“Afternoon, Griffon.”

“Detective Weathers.” Griffon acknowledged the detective with a polite nod. The scent of autumn air and wet leaves had ridden in with Mr. Weathers, and adhered to the papers that he dropped in front of Griffon. “Everything we agreed to is in there.”

“Copies?”

“What d’ya think we are, a bunch of clerks with noth’n better to do than make copies for you?” He bent forward, the brim of his hat nearly touching Griffon’s forehead. “All originals, alright? Now don’t go los’n none of it on us.”

“Would you like to have a seat? It’s a long ride back to the city.”

“You and I both know that ain’t gonna happen.”

“Whiskey?”

Weathers rubbed his nose in contemplation. “You got twenty-four hours before this has to be back.”

“As you say.”

“An’ no state cops!” The scowl on Weathers’ face, which had been permanently pasted to his face when he arrived, deepened another shade of red. “Seems they’ll be pull’n jurisdiction on this one. Gonna make things messy all ‘round.”

“I understand,” said Griffon.

“You better. You know – I still ain’t convinced that you didn’t have someth’n to do with that diamond thief... pretty slick how you figured it out, all of a sudden-like. I’m keep’n tabs on you.”

“I hope you do not get too bored doing so, detective.”

“An excit’n man like you? Not at all. Enjoy your reward.” Weathers removed himself from the tea room as inconspicuously as he had entered and the scattered diners went back to their meals in hushed whispers. Griffon departed once the room had returned to its comfortable state and made his way upstairs to Room 24. Looking about the corridor for a moment, he unlocked the door and entered.

“How’d it go?” Reluctance’s slim form was silhouetted against the afternoon sunlight at the window, her feet propped on the back of a chair. She blew a smoke ring and winked at Griffon.

“Fine.” Griffon raised the packet. “Low-grade locks, then?”

“Popped on the first passer I tried,” she answered, swinging a set of long, black skeleton keys on her finger. “How long until they raid?”

“Two hours. Enough time to settle in, make sure I’m in the room.”

“That’s not a lot of squeeze,” Reluctance said, standing.

A sudden knock at the door seemed to answer her statement, and Fellows stepped in with a doctor’s bag.

“How’s it look?” asked Griffon.

“Tight,” said Fellows. “Weathers checked himself in as Winters – ”

“That’s original,” laughed Reluctance. She looked down at her nails. “He’ll be my sunny boy tonight.”

Griffon frowned. “I spotted O’Hara on the porch.”

“I didn’t see him,” said Fellows.

“He’ll be on net duty,” said Reluctance, “round’n up the locals.”

“Probably two to three constables,” Griffon agreed. He turned to Fellows. “You ready?”

Fellows opened the bag and carefully lifted a wooden box from it. The box contained three drawers and a double-pane with a hinge that Fellows immediately unlatched. He then produced a small, brass cylinder from the medical bag with a finger-thin screwdriver and went to work fastening an aperture to the side.

“I sure like to watch you work, Teddy,” said Reluctance, smiling.

“How long do I have?” Fellows asked. His eyes widened slightly as Griffon produced a hefty stack of documents.

“That’s more than I expected,” said Fellows, a bead of sweat forming at his hairline.

“With less time than anticipated,” said Griffon. “With O’Hara present, we’ll be fortunate to postpone the raid by more than two hours.”

“That’s a pretty nice model,” said Reluctance, bending close.

“You’re familiar with the French Drawing camera?” asked Fellows as he removed drawing tools, packets of trace paper, and ink from the camera drawers.

“Of course. I live in front of the camera, remember?” she smiled. “Well, when I’m not tearing up the town with my two favorite boys, that is.” She slapped Griffon and Fellows lightly on the back and slipped to the door, opening it a crack. “I’m off. I’ll take care of Weathers, but O’Hara and the others are up to you, Nicholas.” She paused before closing the door behind her. “I guess I can handle ‘em all for a short spell, anyhow.”

“Good luck,” said Griffon, and the door closed with a click. He bent down and moved the rug, laying the papers out on the wooden floor. “Like this, Theodore?”

“That will do,” said Fellows, eyeing the room. “I’ll need some light. They have electric? Good. And gas lamps too? Ah, splendid.”

Within thirty minutes the shades were fully drawn and the room was ablaze with light as Fellows bent over his work. His hands were gloved and papers were strewn about, some marked with ink, others awaiting action from the camera.

“You know, life would be a lot easier if the police were not trying to set you up, Nick.”

“Easier, yes. But less enthralling.”

“In all seriousness. You are trying to help them solve a murder. Shouldn’t they be focusing their energy on the real criminals?”

Griffon chuckled lightly. “I am not helping them, Fellows. I am attempting to solve this murder on my own – with the help of my close associates, of course.”

“And they are… not happy about that?”

“Would you be?”

“If it meant clearing the city of a notorious murderer, yes, I believe I would.”

Griffon smiled. “Then you are a better man than most, Fellows.”

“And so they are going to frame you? Of stealing evidence? It’s practically a laughable crime, and any real law man will be able to see right through it.”

“Laughable to some, yes,” said Griffon. “But no doubt they have set up an elaborate plan to give it at least the framework of reality. And it will come with a fine, perhaps some jail time, and reason enough to hound us off the case.”

Fellows peered up. “Do the police have something to hide? I mean – are they covering something up?” This last statement was made in a forced whisper, as if the walls themselves would scold Fellows for expressing such a sentiment.

“I do not doubt that we will discover some inconsistencies in the evidence that Weathers has provided us,” said Griffon. “Perhaps with some misleading red herrings thrown in, but there will be gems to be had for sure. And therefore, it is of the greatest importance that we get these copies done.”

“Well, I’m willing to bet there’s something sinister to be found,” said Fellows.

Griffon buttoned his dinner jacket. “You treat our Boston brass too harshly,” he said. “One must realize that this is a fledgling society – a band of newly formed brothers fighting an experienced criminal underworld. Bribery and enticements lurk on every corner.”

“There is such a thing as honor, however,” muttered Fellows.

“And most of those men have it,” said Griffon. “But your point is taken.”

Fellows moved the draped aside with his hand. “Evening draws on.” He turned to Griffon. “Are you certain they will not be barging in here within the next hour or so? My goose will be cooked if that happens.”

“I will see to it that you have your full two hours,” said Griffon. “You see to it that everything in those files is copied, and that you are safely away before they pay their visit.” With that, Griffon stepped from the room and departed for dinner. Exhaling noisily through his nose, Fellows dove back into his work, his hand working the inkpen in a fury.

Griffon sat on the front porch of the Colonial Inn, a tumbler of whiskey at his lips. The autumn night was cold, and he was alone in his bravery of the elements. A gas lamp flickered from the doorway, its thin cast of light a final effort of its waning strength, and it was more gloom than otherwise that he found himself him. Which suited him just fine as he eyed the traffic coming down Monument and Concord Streets.

Griffon was on his fourth glass when the front door slammed open. Rough laughter emitted from within. “Ah, I shouldn’t, my lady.” The husky voice of detective Weathers had emerged moments before the man himself, a woman’s arm hooked in his. Reluctance, sporting a fashionable short cut of fiery red hair and an hourglass dress to match, caught sight of Griffon and steered Weathers directly onto the road.

“But I do so want to see the graveyard in the moonlight,” she said, a little too excitedly. “Look, it is nearly a full moon. How romantic!”

“So it is,” bellowed Weathers, raising his glass to the moon in tribute. He stopped suddenly and stared at Reluctance. “A graveyard’s no place to take a nice lady.”

“Who you call’n a nice lady?” Reluctance smiled coyly, the moonlight playing off her heavily blushed features.

“I ain’t said it.”

“I ain’t said it, either.” She took Weathers by the arm and led him down the street, the crunch of gravel fading into the night.

“Bly me.” A heavily-paunched Irishman stood at the doorway, peering after the departed pair. “Weathers, you ol’ bastard. A lick of the tickle and off ye go.” He took a long draw of a cigar and then pulled a timepiece from his vest. “Well, best be gett’n to it with or without you.” He turned suddenly at a sound to his right, but the porch was empty save the shadows.

“Who’s there?” he peered into the darkness, but spying nothing more, drew back into the inn. The light was dimly rogue in the foyer, and he eyed the staircase as he stood in wait for the Concord Wooly-backs to arrive. Suddenly, a familiar voice caused him to turn. Nicholas Griffon, dressed for dinner, was talking in an easy fashion to the front clerk.

“I would like my dinner brought up to my room in an hour, if you please,” he said. “I have a late night ahead of me, and will be taking a brisk walk to redouble my vigor.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“By the by, can you recommend a good stretch?”

“Straight into town is your best bet,” said the clerk, pointing to the front door. “Past the old center just so, and off to the right with you. There will be many shops open that may catch your fancy.”

“I am not one for shops, but I will take you up on the recommended route,” said Griffon, tipping his hat and a sliding a coin into the clerk’s hand. He strode past Officer O’Hara without seeming to notice him, his cane clicking away into the shadows.

“Another hour, then,” sighed O’Hara. “Might as well get me-self a nip or two, then. Maybe Weathers will be back in time for the scratch after all.”

Griffon did not return that night, and after waiting nearly two hours, O’Hara cursed himself for not sending a few coppers in shadow. By the time Weathers appeared, drunk and unable to recollect why he had woken up in the graveyard, the police had entered Griffon’s room, which was empty. Questioning the clerk, he said he witnessed no one unusual coming or going – well, there had been a doctor, not a local one, that he had spotted but had not gotten a chance to talk to – but otherwise, the clientele was not at all unusual that night. A quick search in Griffon’s room turned up nothing, and it was nearly midnight as Weathers stumbled into his room, turned on the gaslight, and saw the packet he had given to Griffon sitting on his bed. He cursed and rubbed his pounding head.

“Griffon…you sonofabitch. Guess you’re on the goddam case, then,” he murmured, and without another thought, rolled into bed and began to snore.

The Heartblood Horn: Chapter 3

2011-12-11T18:00:00.010-05:00

Chapter 3 : Watchers

A soft breeze drifted warily through the forest as fading ribbons of moonlight trailed in silvery webs. Galen followed the elusive deer path with difficulty, and was finally forced to stop as the forest thickened into a shadowed knot. Looming over him like large, evil giants, the arms of the trees interwined into a ceiling of twisted limbs above. The vague path disappeared from sight, lost somewhere in darkness.

Galen cursed under his breath. He was familiar with these woods, even in the dark, yet things seemed strangely different. It was as if everything he normally recognized had been distorted to throw him off his course. It is my imagination, he thought.

Movement in the shadows caught his attention. He cleared his throat in the anticipation of calling out and was startled at how strongly the simple operation obtruded the silence. Gritting his teeth, he began moving again.

The ground began to slope up, a good sign. He hoped the rise would take him to the long ridge stretching over Salt Point where he could collect his bearings. Climbing up hastily, he stumbled several times on the treacherous slope, sending bits of rock and dirt scuttling down the hill behind him. Coming across a wall of thick brush, he pushed through impatiently.

He emerged on top of the ridge. Wiping a speck of blood from his cheek where a stray thornbranch had greeted him, he stared at the hill-strewn landscape. In the distance, a break in the ridge seemed like the right place for the North Road to sit. Hurriedly he raced down the eastern slope in that direction, tearing through another wall of brush in the process. Clearing the swarming brambles from his face, he looked upon the small clearing before him and froze.

A horseman was silhouetted against the silver moon. The rider sat as still as the night itself, the bend of a longbow rising behind her. With a shiver Galen recognized the rider almost immediately – the Huntress.

Before he could react, a sharp breeze brushed past his head with a twang. The Huntress sprang from her horse and rushed Galen, but his leaden limbs would not react. She closed the gap in a breath, lunging past him with the snap of her cloak.

Sound exploded behind Galen and he whirled around as command of his body returned. A brilliant light seared through the darkness, immersing the forest in a golden hue. Two figures stood on the fringe of the light, partially revealed. Galen’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of them. Inhuman faces of dead-gray flesh stared at the Huntress through burning eyes. Tattered cloaks hung from slithering limbs while the rest of their bodies remained lost in shadow. They seemed surprised by the appearance of the Huntress and one was cut down by her before it could react, doubling over in a pool of black liquid. The second hissed and struck at Gwendolyn with a half-moon blade, but its blow was off the mark. The golden light of the Huntress’s blade dimmed as it was plunged into the creature’s chest and the hidden face was revealed in the deathly glow – a fleshless mask of hatred and insanity that burned itself into Galen’s mind.

Gwendolyn retracted her blade and the creature fell to the forest floor with a curdling groan. The Huntress turned to regard Galen as her boot fell upon the quivering creature, death lingering in her eyes. Cold dread filled Galen as she passed by, knocking him aside with her shoulder. He stared in bewilderment as she leapt onto her steed.

Galen could barely force a whisper from his throat. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I was not looking for you, boy. I was looking for them.”

Galen paused, his mind reeling. “What are they?”

“Nether-spirits. They are the reason the Ether should never wielded by the likes of you,” she hissed, turning her steed about.

“Wait, please!” Galen felt his hair stand on end at her pause and continued quickly. “Why are they here?”

She spoke without turning back. “Ask your brother that.”

Galen felt a stab of fear at the mention of his brother. “Have you harmed him?”

“He was spared this night,” Gwendolyn replied. “There are greater enemies to be dealt with first. But I will be back for him – and for you.”

Desperation gripped Galen. “We are not your enemies… we are simple landers.”

“You are Ether-wielders.” The Huntress turned to face Galen one last time. “Return home and prepare yourself for the Challenge.” She thundered off, leaving a spray of dirt and broken branches in her wake.

Galen shouted after her, his voice echoing through the wood, but to no avail. He ran, following the path of broken limbs and trodden growth until the trees thinned to a whispering handful.

His chest heaving, he looked down upon the path to Northam and paused in disbelief. The Huntress was riding towards a sight that Galen had to look upon twice to believe. It was as if the air itself had been raked apart with gigantic claws, leaving several gaping wounds bleeding black. These wounds, as tall as four men and half as wide, were guarded by a figure – another of the Nether-spirits – atop a crimson steed. As Galen watched in scared fascination, a second Nether-spirit seeped through the Tear into the sea-blown air of his homeland.

Suddenly his mother’s tales about the two balancing powers – the Ether and the Nether – returned to Galen. How they affected the centering Fabric of the world in which all things lived. He had never understood her insights on gramarye, though he had known she could touch the Ether. But seeing the Tear before his eyes brought his mother’s words to his ears as if she were there now, whispering to him as she had many years ago. Too much of a great power, be it the Ether or the Nether, is a terrible thing. It strains the Fabric that protects us, which can only exist in balance. If the strain is too great, the Fabric will be torn. It matters not which way it is rent, for a Tear is a Tear. And then the living- that is, you and I and anything that has been given the Great Gift, will be in terrible danger. For the Ether and the Nether both seek life, one to warp it for its own use, one to destroy it utterly. Either would be a dark fate for us if it ever came to pass.

Galen stared at the scene before him and felt his blood run cold.

Gwendolyn raced with her bow drawn towards the pair of Nether-spirits and loosed her quarrel. The blood-red mounts reared as the shining quarrel struck the Tear which vanished in a blinding light. Galen blinked the spots from his eyes as the creatures dispersed into the windswept field with the Huntress following after them, her cloak billowing like a sail in the wind. Before long they had been swallowed by the darkness, leaving a faint breeze to sweep away any trace that they had been there at all. The strange Tear that the creatures had entered through was gone, leaving the road dark and bare.

Galen was alone again.

Noniar moved rhythmically beneath Gwendolyn, his hooves barely scraping the hard soil. The four separate beats of his gait were nearly simultaneous in sound, marking his terrific speed. Gwendolyn knocked an arrow and scanned the horizon for her quarry. It did not take long for her to spot the two riders on their shadow-beasts. They would not outrun Noniar. The stallion’s black coat shined under the new moon, his well-sprung ribs expanding with steady breaths. Before long the two riders were in range.

She let the first quarrel fly. It sailed into the darkness like a falling star, a stream of incandescent light marking its trail as it soared. The bolt buried itself into one of the Netherin, hurling the creature and its beast to the ground.

The remaining Netherin continued to ride, its gray energy tearing through the essence of the earth and leaving a trail of lifelessness behind – no sound, no smell – all signs of life destroyed by its passing. Anger coursed through Gwendolyn as she rode and she could feel the Ether taking hold. This one is young, she reassured herself. It is still weak.

The Netherin rider did not realize how rapidly Noniar was closing the gap. Air screamed past Gwendolyn as Noniar’s legs pumped strength into movement. Like a shadow herself, the Huntress approached the rider’s left flank, her presence not known until she was nearly within striking distance.

The Netherin turned, its smooth face an emotionless mask. A blade appeared in its hands seemingly from the air itself and it chopped downward, traces of the destructive power of the Nether hissing off the weapon. The Netherin’s swing was far from the mark and left it mortally exposed. Gwendolyn drew her sword and severed the featureless head in one stroke. The body of the Netherin collapsed from the steed and a moment later the dark mount crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Breathing sharply, Gwendolyn did not have time to even sheath her blade before she sensed the presence of yet another entity nearby. The aura was strong, far more powerful then those she had faced thus far.

“They were riding to their master,” she murmured. The Ether rose in her like a warm embrace and the world crystallized into view beyond which her human eyes could perceive. The deep color of night faded into a lighter hue, tinged with silver. The air itself froze like a pond in winter, and specks like stardust filled the space between her and it.

She grimaced at the sight before her. A creature stood in her Ether-vision, its form masked. It was hidden in a Nether-tear, but the essence of Life danced in its veins, allowing at least part of it to be seen. Gwendolyn’s breath caught in her throat as her gaze met the incredible power of the Nether burning in its eyes. Only one true Netherin could harness that much primal Nether in its soul – a Firstborn. Bathed in silver it remained rooted in place as Gwendolyn approached, drawing her bow again.

The path of the quarrel was clear in the frozen world before her, and she drew the bow taught. The feathers brushed against her cheek and whispered in her ear, but before she could release she saw something that caused her to pause.

Unable to comprehend it at first, she held her arrow in check and looked upon the shift in the Ether. And then the realization struck her – the creature was upon her! There must have been another Nether-tear close at hand which had gone undetected, and the Firstborn used it to close upon her almost instantly. Releasing her quarrel errantly, she dropped her bow and reached frantically for her blade. A thunderous roar rose in her ears as the Ether pulsated wildly through her.

Slicing through the darkness with her blade, she let forth a golden light that rekindled her control of the Ether, but only for a moment. She fended off the Firstborn’s first blow, her sword quivering furiously at the impact. Desperately she strained her muscles against time, knowing each beat of her heart could be a beat from death. She averted a second attack with a downward thrust of her blade as razor-sharp claws bit into the garments at her stomach. The third blow was too fast, and she realized in cold shock that it was upon her. She managed to twist her body, her cloak shredding as the claws tore deep into flesh and bone.

She was flung from Noniar and seemed to float through the silver Ether. She struggled against the Ether as it attempted to take her, its tendrils wrapping tightly about her body. Fighting frantically, she tore it from her soul, but more came on like a raging river.

A terrible jolt wracked Gwendolyn into awareness, her senses flooding upon her in a torrent of pain. She rolled to a ragged stop against the trunk of a tree, Noniar’s hooves fading rapidly into the night. She felt the warm taste of blood fill her mouth but did nothing to prevent it. The Firstborn roared again, shaking the soil beneath her face. A light flashed in front of her eyes and the skin at her neck burned. The Firstborn howled in pain, stepping back from her. The sound of voices shouting overcame the Firstborn’s howls, but it faded as she slipped into unconsciousness, the darkness overcoming all.