It was the midnight hour. Wispy fog pooled inches above
cobble stone streets. A damp musky growth that crept along, lapping at brick
walls and wood lamp posts. Southwestern winds hushed by, caressing and exciting
those white particles making them swirl and flitter as the breeze gently
knocked a tavern signpost carved with the name "Milden's" against a
red slated roof, and rattling its chains that dangled from hooks. Above gray
clouds blanketed the heavens, rolling and tumbling from the might of forceful frigid
north winds, a hint of summer's coming demise.
Windows, dark and silent, stared out at the specks of
flickering lamp lights, their curtains pulled taut, closed to the darkness and
what lurked there. Only the lone tavern's single window peeked through, dim
light straining through the bottom and creases, but was equally silent. The jangle
and clinks, and throaty rumbles broken by bustling laughs and shouts one
expected floating just outside such a building, were missing, adding a knowing chill
to the night air.
It was a normal abnormal night for the tavern
as a few of the usual patrons gathered inside, the rest too fearful to brave
the darkness, something that had grown commonplace over the past eight months. Just
as well, no one would find solace tonight at the bottom of their mugs.
A stranger lounged in the corner of the tavern, sitting where
the lantern and candle lights dared not breach.
His silhouette blended in with the gloom, a phantom with vivid
crystalline eyes staring from the shadows. With a stillness that was not
natural he sat there with one leg stretched out and full mug resting on his
other knee, watching and listening, hardly ever blinking. He wore a wary scowl
that both intimidated and repelled those in the room. All the same, the room's
occupants had swiftly forgotten him, his laidback guise and impassive
expression quickly cooling any interest or concerns.
The silence was stifling as a remnant echo of what was
lacking hummed hollowly. It told of the four absent merchant brothers that
normally sat at the bar top every night after the markets closed, pouring over
their trade books, their debates always escalading into heated arguments that
descended into brawls after a few dozen pints of ale. It sighed the songs of
joint voices slurred together when the music was throbbing through beating
hearts and pumping veins and stomping feet. It whispered laughter and cheers as
men and women alike dared each other to arm wrestling matches. It moaned the
sounds of living.
There was another silence - that of twelve bodies inhabiting
the room and breathing, softly, in-and-out, in-and-out, in-and-out. And wooden
chairs groaning as the ten patrons' shifted their weight, their hushed murmurs
struggling to fill the void. Then there was the barkeep, his footfalls the only
noise to break the lull. Heavy harsh thumps coupled with the slow strokes of a
linen cloth, washing the red grains of the bar or marble mugs of black.
The phantom in the corner frowned.
This was not what he expected. He had not come to the upscale
tavern with elegant redwood tables, marble mugs, and expensive piss-water to
enjoy the pleasure of snobby, egotistical aristocrats. Instead he was hoping
the unshackled tongues laced with sweet ale would help these men divulge their
secrets. Regrettably the normal abnormal night provided him with tight lipped,
soft spoken men who solemnly drank to the bottom of their mugs, and flinched at
footsteps. Footsteps! They were little better than skittish herd animals. It
seemed the oppressive force he was observing lay siege to this city, slithered
within the tavern walls and coiled in their mugs and guts, tainting them along
with everyone else.
This is
pointless, he thought, scowl deepening.
Bringing his full mug to his lips, he looked down at the
golden-brown ale capped with cream froth and took a swig. If they would not
reveal their secrets then he would go else were. But it was best if he finished
the expensive piss-water first. No need to waste that.
The phantom was three gulps in when one of the guards -a
short bulbous man who barely fit within the confines of his chair, fat rolls
flopped over the arms- raised his voice, "Tis not natural, I say." Bringing
his mug slowly down and resting it back on his knee, his crystalline gaze focused
on the man as the five guards around the large man groaned or shook their
heads, hastily lifting their mugs to their lips. Realizing how loud his voice
had been, the large man chose to whisper next, "Not natural, not at
all." Shaking his head, his double chin quivered and he eased himself by
knocking back some of his own ale.
The six guards sat at the far back wall, shimmering a sea of
colors in their horrid kaleidoscope armor complete with frilly lace bunched at
their necks and wrists. They were the joke of Castrum, and if this were not a
normal abnormal night the surrounding patrons would have tossed taunting jeers
at them. No doubt angering one or two and staring yet another brawl.
An older member of the guard broke the new hush as he snorted
into his mug. He sat reclined much like the others, sitting across from the
large man. After drinking he brought his lower lip up and slurped off the ale
that accented his faintly graying mustache with froth. Sighing, he set the mug
back onto the worn table and leaned back once more.
"Death is death. Nothing about it is pretty, but it
comes for us all," his voice rasped rich and deep, subtle and yet
commanding, underlining the age his middle-aged looking body held, "Only
the lucky or sheltered reach the upper four hundreds these days and no one past
five hundred. Whatever spark our ancestors had that blessed them with such long
lives is slowly disappearing, and us killing each other makes little
difference." He paused, rubbing his mustache with the back of his fingers
as he sorted out his thoughts. "Though, I do supposed dying in one's sleep
all withered and forgetful is a far more peaceful means to pass on to the next
life..." Shrugging one shoulder, he crossed his arms. "That is not
for me."
A harsh barking laugh startled all but the phantom. The
barkeep and four other patrons turned to glance or frown at the group. To the
right of the older fellow, the offender reclined in his chair and slammed his
mug on the table, sloshing the golden-brown ale and cream froth over the sides.
Those under his command called him Scar.
The name was well allotted given the magnitude of scars that
carved out his face. Most were from training accidents with a blade in his
younger years, some because growing up he couldn't adjust to his ever growing
body and had been clumsy for it, and a few were from his duty taking down
bandits on the roadways. But the biggest and ugliest shimmered in the lights as
a knotted mess of white and pink, a giant blob of scar tissue that seared off
the skin on the top left side of his head, making hair unable to grow there,
and stretching down to the left eyebrow and cheekbone, barely missing his eye.
This one he still refused to tell people how he came to own.
The most popular rumor among the guards was that he tripped and fell into a
hearth fire at the Lord and Lady's estate when a servant stumbled upon him
having relations with their fair blooming daughter. How ever he gained the scar,
it was because of it that he shaved his head completely, all of this only
adding to his overall rough appearance that had most backing away from his tall
bulky mass.
"Come now, Senus. Don't tell me your bones are aching
already. You're what? Three hundred and twenty something?" With his free
hand, Scar absentmindedly jerked at the yellow lace at his neck. "If you
want a blade through your gut so bad, I got a sword and an arm that can help
your cause."
"I'm three hundred and eighty-four, kid."
"And my offer still stands, old man."
The group chuckled, partly to ease the already foreboding
mood around them and mostly because they didn't know what else to do. When
seconds slipped by and the older man still said nothing, the sound died off,
falling into an awkward hush that had them all staring at the golden-brown ale
as they guzzled more.
"I don't know, Saer," said a younger man sitting on
the other side of the older fellow, careful to address the older man with a
term of respect after Scar so heedlessly disregarded his age. He nodded to the
overwrought man across from them. "Timoth may be right. I... I have never
seen deaths quite like these."
With his name the large man shifted, head coming up as he
pulled his chubby cheeks away from his mug. His eyes were wide and he nodded.
"Bloodless," he whispered as he leaned forward, the light danced
sinisterly on his pudgy face, "All of them."
The younger man shivered. "With their throats ripped out
and many of them gutted, their hearts missing?" Refusing to meet any of
his peers' gazes, he played with the lace at his wrist. "There should have
been blood everywhere..."
"Castrum's got
its first mad killer, was bound to happen." Grumbling about the lace at
his neck, Scar continued to tug at it before muttering, "About time too,
I'm tired of these blighted bandits."
The younger man shook his head, finally looking up.
"That's the thing. I talked to the messengers and they all speak of things
like this happening only in small towns far from any main city. And one even said
a few villages near the wall have disappeared without a trace."
"So," Scar snapped, making the younger man flinch
and drop his eyes back down to the wood grains streaking across the table.
"So..." Senus said casually, "He is saying
this is not a normal mad killer, kid." He reached for his mug and took a
drink, and again slurped off the froth gathered at his mustache. "And I
have to agree."
"Gods, I hate this blighted lace." The rip of
fabric followed Scar's outburst and seconds later he sighed, relieved from the
monstrosity as he tossed the yellow lace to the middle of the table. With it
out of the way his dark gaze settled on Senus. "Don't tell me you believe
the messengers and those stories of blood-snatchers, old man. If that is the
case maybe you are becoming senile and someone should put you out of your
misery."
The older man stared at the torn lace, brow raised slightly
with a tense upward turn of his lips before glancing at him. "That's the
twentieth armor you have... altered. If this senile mind serves me correct the
quartermaster told you not to destroy anymore or he would dock it from your
pay."
"I'd like to see him try! Besides, this armor is
ridiculous." His arm swept out, gesturing to everyone but himself.
"You look like bumbling fools."
"Lady Alsea designed them for us, we should be
honored."
"Honored? Honored seriously, old man? I had bandits
laughing at the roads-unit the other day."
"Those wouldn't happen to be the same bandits that you let get away by not seeing to their
flank, now would it?" The older man covered his taunting smile with
another sip of ale as the other guards chuckled. The sound still echoing hollow
in the silent room.
Scar glowered but said nothing.
As the chuckles faded the older man sighed. He spoke of his younger years. The hard life
as a messenger and the fascinating things one can learn, as well as the
frightening things most knew to keep to themselves. Finally concluding that
just because something couldn't yet be explained did not mean such things, like
Blood-snatchers and wandering trees, did not exist and could not be a natural
force in the world.
Back and forth the guards rambled on about the murders that
were quaking Castrum and shattering the illusions of people's happy peaceful
lives. One would suggest a possible offender, or a group. Only for the others
to bring forth reasons why it couldn't be them. One such group was the Sevand.
Originally known as the Band of Seven, they had started out as thieves
struggling to get by and over the decades had become a gang not to be taken
lightly. They had won the hearts and minds of the common people, helping those
in need and seeing to the poor.
Normally they wouldn't be considered in the slightest. But it
was believed they had been involved in an incident concerning the prison tower
break in seven months ago and a follow guard's death. The younger man spoke
animatedly for them, waving his hands around wildly, face reddening. Scars
joked about him rooting for delinquents. That gave them all a laugh as he
sputtered for words.
Rubbing his thumb against the handle of his mug, Senus stared
intently at the motion as he said, "You know... It could be related to
that disease that destroyed the kingdom of Gävanna."
Whispers fell flat. Chairs ceased groaning. The barkeep
stopped cleaning the mugs, his linen rag limp in one hand with a partially dry
mug in the other. He gave the guards a worried look, his face pale and the
ashen hue spreading up to his scalp, hardly hidden by the feeble attempt to
comb the thinning hair over to one side. Even the phantom man watching from the
corner jerked, letting his mug go and spilling the ale as it clattered to the
floor. Crystalline eyes vanished in the shadows for a second before flaring,
catching the radiant stray rays of the lanterns as he straightened in his
chair. One of the patrons began to sob into his arms. The man with him turned
to glare at the older man and the guards as he patted his friend on the
shoulder.
There were reasons why no one mentioned the lost kingdom. The
pain caused by "the plague" was still too fresh three decades later.
Needing nothing more from the guards, the phantom man rose
from his perch. With a silence that should have been impossible in the already silent
room, he stepped over his spilt drink and across the room to the door without
anyone noticing. Only the barkeep heard the sound of a fluttering duster as the
phantom walked into the night with the wispy mist greeting him, waltzing around
his legs.
