Read Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One Online
Authors: Travis I. Sivart
The crowd returned, peeking around the corner of a building before creeping forward. They filtered into the area in front of the barn and stared at the corpse. Many hung back. One figure was larger and would have stood out in any other situation, but went unnoticed in the back of the crowd this night. Cyril sat on a muddy hay bale surrounded by a crowd of concerned - and embarrassed - people, his pants torn open to his thigh and blisters appeared along it.
“Can’t you pray to your God to heal you?” a man asked.
“Yes, but I have asked Jonath for so much this day, I do not wish to ask him for more. Especially when it is for such a selfish reason.” Cyril answered.
“Selfish? You just saved a city, man! What kind of damned god would not give you a little bit of help after that?” the man spat. Cyril looked up, his face pained but his temperament even.
“The kind of god that just saved your ungrateful hide,” Gruedo interrupted, “Cyril, great priest of Jonath, knows when to ask, and what to ask for. Do not question his wisdom, lest he judge you on the next full moon when the priests of Jonath converge for Judgment Day.”
The man looked nervous and backed away from Gruedo’s indignant stare. Cyril raised a hand to stop further argument.
“Actually, questioning wisdom can bring more wisdom, if done in a wise manner. Also, the church does not just judge anyone.” Cyril began to explain. A sharp howl cut the night. The gathered crowd looked around, fear and anxiety showing on their faces. Another howl sounded closer, seeming to be only one street over. The people began to mutter and the word “Werewolf” was heard more than once. Two more howls answered the previous ones. The crowd broke and ran.
Cyril tried to call to the fleeing people, tried to make them understand they would be safer together. The townsfolk followed the philosophy of ‘save yourself’, and ran. The predators would not see it that way and would hunt the slow and weak. Their howls were meant to do exactly what they had done, separate the flock. Cyril stood, and almost fell from the pain in his burns. Gruedo went to help support him, but Cyril waved her away.
“You may need both hands if these people are correct. I will be all right,” Cyril said as he limped forward. Gruedo noticed the trident had disappeared.
“Where’s your trident?” Gruedo asked, sounding worried.
“It only stays with me as long as I will it to. When the burns happened I lost control and it faded,” Cyril explained, turning the first corner.
“Faded? You mean it wasn’t real, it was just part of your imagination?” Gruedo darted ahead, then knelt and peered around the next building into an alley.
“It was as real as my faith, so it wounded, burned, and laid the dead to a final rest.” Gruedo interrupted Cyril, as she Gruedo hushed him and motioned for him to stop.
A low guttural growl came from the dark of the alley. The clouds still hid the little bit of the moon and the pair had no torches. Cyril began his low chant of prayer again. “Jonath once again I ask for your help and protection, please help me guard this town by showing me what lies in the dark,” he said as Gruedo shushed him again. A hairy form burst from the dark alley, knocking Gruedo over as it flew past, towards Cyril. A flaming ball appeared and hovered over Cyril’s palm, and light burst forth. He threw it towards the form. The humanoid creature was larger than a man, and screamed as it flung its body sideways to avoid the flaming light. Bounding off a wall, it launched itself at the priest. The beast barreled into Cyril, and knocked them both to the ground.
Flames erupted on the creature as Cyril produced another flaming ball and rolled away. Gruedo was already atop the thing, stabbing and slicing with her twin daggers. It screamed again, this time a much more inhuman noise. It stood up, and Gruedo was flung backwards into the wall. As she hit, Cyril heard the breath rush from Gruedo’s body and her head crack against the wall. The beast raised itself to its full height and released a howl into the night. The monster had a wolfish cast to its features, and stood almost seven feet tall. It flexed its clawed hands as it circled Gruedo, who lay dazed against the wall. Cyril lay in the street - his burnt leg twisted beneath him - and called out once again to his God.
It was not for protection this time, or for justice, rather he called to the deep connection Jonath held with the earth. So many people who had been described as the salt of the earth, so many who worked the earth, so many farmers and others called upon Jonath, that the God had formed a bond with the element his worshipers shaped every day. That was what Cyril called upon.
The cobblestones melted under the werewolf’s weight, its paw-like feet sinking into the street, as it became a thick mud. The creature looked down as its foot became stuck. The mud and stone mix rose up its leg, and held it in place, but sought to do more than that.
Gruedo came around a little bit, her bleary eyes focusing on the threat that had stopped a few feet in front of her. As she watched, the creature fell to all fours, which was as natural to it as walking upright, and stretched its body towards her. Its snout was now a less than an arm’s reach from her. Gruedo dug desperately in her satchel.
The beast balanced on its two hind feet and one arm, and stretched one clawed hand towards the rogue. The mud and rock continued to creep up its leg and cocoon it, but it was clear it would be able to reach and kill Gruedo before the living mud could encase it. Gruedo raised her hand in front of her face, a small broken vial in her palm and powder scattered across her hand. She blew.
The monster roared as the dust hit its face and spread across it. It breathed in, as it gasped for more air for the next roar and choked. Its claw that was reaching for Gruedo was now scraping at its own face and the monster had fallen to the side. Gruedo wasted no time. She stood and circled the beast; the hunter was now the hunted. She moved into position and, as smooth as a dancer, slid forward and slipped her blade into the soft tissue under the beast’s arm. The other blade swung around to the tender flesh of the throat and the beast’s roars became gurgles. Blood poured from its wounds, but Gruedo did not stop. She glided moved to a new position, avoiding the creature’s flailing arms and claws. The mud had now encased it to its waist and held it tighter than before.
Another slice appeared just below the ribs on each side to the spine. Gruedo rammed one dagger upward into the base of the skull and jammed the other between the ribs on its left side and into vital organs inside. The creature slumped and laid still.
“Wait, it will revive.” Cyril pointed at the werewolf’s body.
“No, it won’t.” Gruedo knelt beside Cyril to check his leg and other injuries.
“I have researched lycanthropes, they heal wounds at incredible rates,” Cyril objected.
“Look, the powder I threw in its face? Silver nitrate. I use it for certain things I do. I happened to have a bit with me. I know a bit about some things too. I figured if it inhaled it, that may make it susceptible to weapons. Looks liked it worked.” Gruedo gestured towards the body with her chin. The body shrunk, the hair receded, the claws disappeared, and remains showed the form of a naked woman. As Gruedo helped Cyril stand the transformation stopped.
Another howl shattered the night. Cyril and Gruedo both spun towards the noise, though it was distant. They waited, tensed to move. Then another howl sounded in the distance. The pack was moving away and both let out a breath neither had realized they had been holding.
Torches and lanterns lit the avenues as Gruedo lent support to Cyril and the two made their way back to the Two Bit Rest. Mobs of people were scouring the town for any remaining undead. People reacted with varied emotions whenever they spotted Gruedo and Cyril. Sometimes, it was relief that they were not zombies, suspicion that they were out without a group, or awe at the wounds they showed. Other times, it was to brag to anyone about their own exploits that night.
Soon the two sat in the room they would share for the night. They had decided it was better to stay together to keep watch, in case any further excitement happened tonight. Cyril lay back on the wide bed, his leg wrapped and propped on a saddlebag. Gruedo reorganized her satchel and dried out her leather case in front of the fireplace.
“What’s next, Cyril?” Gruedo stacked and shuffled various powders and liquids, as she portioned them out into smaller vials and packets. “Do we press forward into the wilds that these things came from, live in, and know like the back of their hairy paws?”
“No, I don’t think so. I wonder if we could hire a ship to sail into Silver Bay and get us there quicker. I think we should return to Edgewater and check that first.” Cyril leaned back, a cool cloth across his forehead.
Gruedo looked at Cyril’s leg over the top of her collection of vials and bottles. “Are you going to be able to ride three days back to Edgewater with that leg?”
“Do I have a choice? I think I did what Jonath sent me here to do. I also think there was a greater reason for this. I don’t know if it is to help spread the word of Jonath or someone that was saved this night has a greater destiny, but there was a reason.”
Gruedo noticed Cyril’s voice grew more distant. Soon she could hear the priest’s steady breathing above the sound of the slow drizzle outside. Cyril was asleep. She would watch most of the night while the priest slept. Gruedo had never known any holy men and did not put much faith into Gods or magic, but tonight Cyril showed her there was something more in the world than just luck.
5854 – Thon – Talsā – Uthr
They rose early and ate a quick meal at the Bleeding Bitch. The place was packed with people who had been up most of the night. The camaraderie was high and everyone was congratulated someone, consoled someone, or shared in some way with another. Cyril and Gruedo listened to the talk, but became the focus when someone recognized Cyril. Soon a crowd had gathered around their table asking how he destroyed the creatures of the night and how he drove off the rest. The master of the house gave Cyril half off his meal as show of the town’s appreciation. Gruedo had to pay full price.
The two tried to stave off the questions and fawning crowd, each for their own reasons. Cyril did it for humility sake; Gruedo did it because in her line of work it was best to have a low profile. The crowd parted when their new heroes stood to go. As they left, they were clapped on the back until they stung as the sun had burned them, and their hands were shook so much that they ached. They heard well-wishing phrases of many types, but it was one phrase that stopped Cyril in his tracks.
“It is a shame you can’t stay and help find the missing children,” the anonymous voice said from the gathered crowd. Cyril turned towards it and craned his neck as best he could with his injured leg to see who said it.
“What?” asked Cyril, “What missing children?”
“You didn’t hear? Three children were taken from their beds last night,” the master of the house explained.
“No, I didn’t hear. I am sorry to hear that. Were they taken by the undead? Are they dead?” A woman interrupted Cyril and explained.
“No sir, they were not hurt that we could tell. Three children were taken, though, from behind locked doors. No blood found, no broken doors or windows. The parents were close in each case and said there was no way the children could have snuck past them,” she said.
Another took up the story, an old man, “T’was the Corrupt Fae. They have been coming into the cities and towns and stealing children since Kala took their eternal souls for his dark rituals.”
“Why would he need children? Why would the fae?” Cyril asked. The crowd had no further information that helped. A collection of guesses and wives’ tales were all they could offer.
Cyril and Gruedo collected their horses and rode from the city in the dew of the morning. A large shadow followed them, dodging from building to building, keeping out of sight. The rain had moved on and the sun felt warmer to them than it had for many days.
“Well, now we have other reasons to return to Edgewater,” Cyril said and Gruedo looked at him curiously. “To warn of the march of an army of undead, werewolves, and share all we have learned here. The most important reason though is, like a compass needle, the key I have has been pointing in that direction since we returned to our room last night.”
“The mind sees what it wishes, but we can convince it what to wish for.”
Hallow Man, Master Mind Mage
5854 – Thon – Talsā – Uthr
Cite leaned against the rail of the quarterdeck and watched the isle grow smaller. He was glad to see Stadia Isle disappearing over the horizon behind them. If the time spent on Paradise Island had been relaxing, then the visit to Stadia had balanced it out. Pirates ran the whole island, which was not bad, but they had a more relaxed attitude when it came to behavior. Crime did not seem to be a problem, but they also held a different standard of what was a crime.
The Lady Luck had been making good time from what the Captain and crew had told them. Another two or three days and they should see Edgewater, the final port of their journey. Cite watched the seabirds that accompanied ships, when near land, become fewer as the land became further. The weather was calm, and a gentle breeze brought the scent of fish caught in the nets of the boats around them.
Cite puffed on the pipe Rogen had purchased for him in port and sighed. The pipe was a long stemmed one and the tobacco, coated with rum and honey for a sweeter taste, was a specialty of Stadia Isle. Cite smoked it slowly, because it tended to heat up and blister the inside of his mouth if he didn’t. Rogen had told him of other tobaccos that did not do this. He promised he would look for some nice Midnight with a blend of Exotic and Spice in it. Apparently, there were men who spent their time doing nothing but designing tobacco blends, putting them in barrels and aging them. Rogen had quite a few of Lord Pease’s blends in the desert, but could not get to them now much to his dismay.
The urgent sound of the Captain calling Tildan came from the main deck and Vonka, the pilot, and Bezel, the mate, both looked up from the wheel. Cite joined them as they went to the rail overlooking the main deck. They arrived just as Tildan and Warton disappeared into the forecastle. The Captain stood below Cite, her hands on her hips. Her posture was tense and angry. In less than a minute Tildan, Warton, and Jumper dragged a man out of the forecastle. Warton was yelling ‘No!’ over and over again, while punching and kicking the form that was hidden by the three men. The rest of the crew stopped what they were doing to see what was going on.
“Warton! Stop it!” the Captain commanded. Warton stepped back, ashamed, and looked at her. Cite saw who had been dragged forward. It was Rogen. Warton’s face was red and he continued to clench his fists. Tildan and Jumper brought Rogen, each with a hand under one arm of the Rokairn, forward to the Captain. They stopped a dozen feet from her. Rogen looked around, saw Cite on the quarterdeck, and shook his head as if to warn him of something. Cite’s heart pounded and his head was swimming. He was not able to get his mind to reach out to his stout friend’s mind.
“Did you kill him?” the Captain asked. Rogen looked at her, his face impassive.
“Kill who?” he asked.
“You damn well know who!” Warton screamed and punched at Rogen again. Warton was almost as big as Tildan, but less than half as bright. No one wanted to get in his way and stop him, lest he turn upon him. Cite turned to run down the stairs to pull the large man off his friend, but was stopped by the Captain’s voice.
“Warton! If you touch him again without my express command, I will have you clapped in irons and thrown below deck until you can learn to control yourself,” she said in an even voice, as she looked straight at her cousin who would not meet her gaze. “Am I understood?” she asked.
“Yes, Sir,” he said, as he shuffled his feet and glared at the bearded captive, as if Rogen were responsible for Warton attracting the wrath of the Captain.
Cite could see the swelling on Rogen’s face. His nose was crushed and blood ran down his chin from a split lip. One eye was swelling closed and the other did not look much better. Rogen looked at Cite and Cite felt a push in his head, as if he wanted to remember something. He felt the man’s thoughts, but could not calm himself enough to bring across whatever it was. He looked at Rogen, gave a slight shake of his head and shrugged, hoping the man understood.
“Did you kill Maurence?” the Captain asked Rogen.
Rogen looked surprised and pulled himself upright, realizing his fate was at stake here. “No, I did not. When did this happen, Captain?”
“It is not your place to ask questions.” She turned from him, opened the door that led to her formal room and reached inside. She turned back around, holding Rogen’s hammer. It was covered with blood and gore. She tossed it on the deck between the two of them. Cite could see emotions cross her face and felt the strong push of them as he focused on her. Rage, grief, and confusion tore through the woman. Her face calmed as she regained control of herself.
“Is that your hammer?” she asked the Rokairn. Rogen knew what she had to do here. He had led small groups, and he had led armies. She was Captain of this ship and had to maintain that authority at whatever the cost.
“It appears to be, but I cannot be sure. Perhaps you could have Tildan check my things to see if my hammer is among them, and then inspect that hammer also. He has seen my hammer before and should be able to recognize it.” Rogen knew they would not let him do either task.
Tildan looked at his niece who nodded. “Cutter, Conald.” Tildan boomed out the ship’s surgeon and carpenter names like a command. “Come hold this man until I return, do not abuse him.”
“I will gladly allow myself to be shackled until this is all figured out,” Rogen offered. Tildan cuffed him across the back of the head so his head snapped forward. It was not enough to hurt, and Rogen recognized the show Tildan had to put on for the others.
“You do not speak, you do not offer, you do not suggest. If you speak when not spoken to, you may not even exist anymore, understand?” Tildan said. Rogen nodded as Cutter and Conald took the duty of holding the prisoner with Jumper.
“While Tildan retrieves the prisoner’s baggage and searches it,” the Captain said as Tildan went to the forecastle, “someone tell me if you saw something.”
A chorus of voices went up and the Captain held up her hands for silence. “All crew, gather here on the main deck. Jumper, you also. Conald, Cutter, bring the prisoner up to the Quarterdeck. Vonka tie off the wheel but stay up there.” Dawn pulled her shoulders back, and made her way to the quarterdeck in front of Rogen and his guards. She swept her hair back and tied it as she walked to stand in front of wheel. She was every inch Captain Redblood at that moment. There was no mistaking her commanding presence.
Tildan came back on deck with Rogen’s personal possessions and, crossing to the Captain’s quarters, entered, and closed the door behind him. The Captain commanded everyone’s attention again.
“Eyes forward, gentlemen. I want two word answers at most. Who saw something?” she asked. A half dozen crewmembers shouted two word or less statements showing that they had indeed seen something, including the Ship’s Master, Vonka.
“Mister Vonka, what did you see?” she asked.
“I saw him,” Vonka pointed at Rogen, who was now held between Cutter and Conald, “come out of the forecastle and cross the deck and go into the door under us, the one that goes into your formal room.”
“When did you see him do this?” the Captain asked.
“Just about five or ten minutes before you came out of that same room and called for the Quartermaster.” Vonka wiped his brow.
“Did he have that hammer with him?” she asked, as she point at the hammer that lay on the deck below.
“I don’t recall, Captain, he may have, but…” Vonka held his hands out to show he was not sure.
“Thank you, Mister Vonka. Who else saw him enter the door below at that time?” Captain Redblood asked, turning back to the assembled crew below. The Mate, Bezel, and one of the swabbies, Tart, voiced that they had.
“Tart, what did you see?” she asked the skinny lad who dressed in mostly red.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Cap’n, I saw that one up there,” he said as he pointed at Rogen, “and he did be havin’ his hammer. That one right there on the deck. No mistaken it, ‘cause he looked right at me and he gave me a wink. I saw him smilen’ as he headed in there to do that horrible thing. I saw him come out too. He didn’t have no hammer then though. He waved both hands at me, he did. And smiled again. He did it. I know he did.”
“All right Tart, you did fine, thank you. Shut your hatch now. Mister Bezel, what did you see?”
Bezel was somewhat shorter than most of the crew and a bit rounder in the middle. He wore it with pride though. He put his hands behind his back and began to pace.
“Mister Bezel, no theatrics now,” the Captain warned. “This is my court, not the ones you knew on land.” Bezel stopped pacing. He looked up, opened his hands and smiled.
“Of course, my Captain. I saw the same as Vonka. I was standing beside him at the time, and like him, I do not recall Rogen,” Bezel said the prisoner’s name with emphasis, “having a weapon upon his person. I do, however, recall him looking at Tart, but could not tell what expression he may have shared with him. Also, I do not see why our guest would ever commit any…”
“Thank you, Mister Bezel!” the Captain interrupted, cutting the Mate off with a glare. “Did anyone else see him enter?” No one answered. “Who saw him leaving then?”
Tart shouted he did and the lad next to him, Puffer, raised his hand shyly. The Captain heard the door below her open, and Tildan came into sight.
“Come up here, Mister Tildan, and tell us what you found,” she said. Tildan stopped and, bending over, inspected the hammer on the deck, then climbed the stairs and came to stand at her side opposite of where Vonka stood.
“I did not find another hammer. The one on the deck appears to be his. I also heard your last question, Captain, and I saw him leaving the cabin minutes before you came out and called to me.” Tildan’s one eye wandered as he looked directly at the Captain with his good one. Dawn nodded and sighed, as if she wished it were otherwise.
“Tart, you already told us you saw him leave. Puffer, what did you see?” she asked.
The dopey-eyed youth turned his face up to look at the quarterdeck, never quite making eye contact with the Captain or anyone else. “He waved, he did,” Puffer answered with hesitation. He came out and waved at Tart. I thought he was getting sweet on Tart, but I saw the blood. He had blood on his hands.”
Dawn looked back at Cutter, who understood the meaningful look and grabbed Rogen’s hands, one at a time, looking for blood. He looked back at Dawn, shook his head and said, “Not even under the nails, but he had time. He could have washed them.”
She looked at the short man that was being held by two of her crewmembers. There was no blood on him, except what had fallen from his own wounds, a line down the front of his shirt and a smear on his cuff from where he had wiped at his bloody face. No spatters appeared that should have been there if he had bashed a man’s head in less than half an hour ago. Of course, as Cutter said, he had time. He could have changed his shirt also.
“What about those that brought him out? Tildan, Warton, and Jumper, what was he doing when you found him?” she asked, and looked at Tildan, then the others.
“Sleeping. Peacefully too, from the look of it,” Tildan replied.
“He had the Morning Watch and I don’t think he slept before it. He stayed up all night, then took the four AM to eight AM watch?” Tildan nodded. Her annoyance was clear as she asked, “When did we begin assigning watches to passengers, Mister Tildan?”
“He offered. Said he was up at all hours anyway.” Tildan shrugged.
Dawn turned to her cousin. “Warton, what do you say he was doing when you went in?”
“Same thing Pop said, I guess,” the large cook replied, his brow crinkling. “I didn’t think about it much, but I had seen him go in to sleep a little more than an hour ago.”
“Jumper, anything different to add?” she asked the small man who was leaning on the rail.
“Nope, sounds about right,” he said, as he spat on the deck.
“Did any of you see anything he could have washed with? Any bloody clothes? Any blood on anything?” All three shook their heads, showing they had not seen any such thing.
“Clap him in irons and take him below. I will adjourn to my quarters to think this over. But let me make this clear, he will not be abused or harmed in any way.” The Captain looked at her crew with steel in her eye.
“I will lock him in my quarters.” Tildan announced.
Dawn looked at him surprised, and then nodded her consent, “Join me in my quarters afterwards. Bezel, you also. Warton, you and Cutter prepare Maurence for his final voyage.” She went down the stairs to the door that led to her cabin before she turned towards Cite. “You may want to join us, this concerns you.”
Once Maurence’s body had been taken out of the formal room to be prepared for his burial, and they had all gathered in the Captain’s quarters Dawn looked at Tildan.
“Well, what do you think?”
“The crew wants to kill him Captain,” Tildan said. “They don’t want to keep a murderer aboard. They have ropes ready to hang him from the yardarm or to keelhaul him. They don’t care which. Some have even volunteered to gut him or bash his head in, like he did to Maurence.”