Authors: Gareth K Pengelly
James’ brow furrowed, his bearded face wrought with confusion as much as fear.
“But why? These men out there wish you dead – and us with you!” He held his wife close to his side with a burly arm.
Gwenna breathed deeply, then sighed, feeling the helplessness of the situation the demon had put them in.
“Those men out there are scared of us, their fear whipped up into something more by the words of that Malleus man.” The dusty interior of the windmill was quiet, save the relentless grinding of the cogs and wheel at its centre and the muted cries of the mob without. “They believe themselves to be doing the right thing by their families. They are not evil, merely misled. And if we kill them to defend ourselves, then we become nothing better than the Malleus man himself.”
James spat his distaste upon the dry, wooden floor and reached for a pitchfork that leant against the curved wall, before eyeing the heavy, barred door, at the base of the mill.
“You may be honour-bond by such sentiments, but I’m not. Anyone busts in that door, I will kill them.”
Gwenna nodded solemnly.
“That’s your right. I won’t stop you.”
“Ah! So that’s how you get by the tricky subject of morality, is it?”
The new voice echoed throughout the interior of the structure, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, causing hairs to rise and spines to shiver.
From a shadow, on the far side of the mill, amidst all manner of wooden devices, a form strode forth, seamlessly appearing from the dark as though composed of the shadows themselves. Black from top to toe, save the glint of a silver hammer that dangled from its neck and the paleness of his lined and severe face.
“Your plan is to allow the Englishman to do your dirty work for you? You think that absolves you of blame?” The creature that masqueraded as man laughed, the sound cold and sinister in the half-light of the room.
Quick as a flash, James whirled, hurling the pitchfork with a strong arm, the twin-prongs sharp and lethal as they whistled through the air. But where there should have been a thud and a cry of pain, the shadowy form merely rippled, the projectile passing through him as though he were no more substantial than smoke, to clatter harmlessly against the far wall.
“What are you?” cried James, recoiling in fear, even as the demon laughed once more.
“Calm yourself,” snarled Pol. “He’s not really here, it’s merely an image projected by his mind. He’s outside, cowering behind the innocents he’s rallied to his cause.”
The Malleus man nodded, an eyebrow cocked in amusement.
“All true, all true. I, too, enjoy employing others to do my dirty work.” He fixed Gwenna with his cold eyes. “We’re not so different, you and I, no matter how much you may disagree.”
She wrinkled her nose in disgust, taking a step towards his image.
“You are a creature of darkness, of un-life. And I will not rise to your games. We will not kill those people outside, no matter how much you may taunt us.”
“A pity. Nonetheless, you shall die this night. One way or another. I cannot permit you to live.” He made a flourished bow, before disappearing, his last words echoing throughout the interior of the building. “Au revoir.”
The cheering from without increased, then with a start, the group looked up as a smash echoed down from above. A burning projectile arced in through the open window that led out onto the balcony, clattering from stair to stair as it fell. Another came in, then another, the hurled torches setting alight the dry wood, straw, flour, everything they came into contact with in the musty interior. The heat washed over the troupe as flames began to spread.
“They seek to burn us out!” cried Felice, mouth agape with horror as she clung to her husband in fear.
“The cheers only come from the front,” called Arris above the rising din of the flames. “Perhaps they don’t have us surrounded at the rear. If we run through the store,” he pointed down a corridor to the wooden structure that leant against the side of the mill, “then perhaps we can make good our escape!”
A chorus of nods and murmurs of approval, as people began to run, but both Gwenna and Felice remained rooted to the spot, staring up the spiral staircase that wound its way up the inside of the mill to the rooms above.
“Virginie!”
A hand on Gwenna’s shoulder; Pol, pushing her aside. He looked at her, urgent, nodding.
“Go,” he told her. “I shall get her, I’m stronger than you. Move!” He shoved her, forcing his way past and darting up the stairs, even as they began to smoulder with the heat.
Gwenna turned to Felice and James, fixing the Englishman with her worried gaze.
“Go with him,” she implored.
Caught between the stares of the shaman and his wife, he relented, nodding and taking off, gasping as he powered his bulk upwards through the blaze.
***
Arris charged forwards through the dusty gloom of the store room. The building was long and thin, a barn for the storage of the ground grain. Empty sacks and spoiled grain lay here and there; the building looked like it had not been used for some time. No fire had been set here, yet, but the air was growing smoky, making each breath a chore.
They needed to hurry.
Minding his head, Arris charged on, hearing the laboured breathing of his comrades at his back. There, ahead of them, a door. It was barred, still, where they had locked it earlier, but a quick heave and the bar lifted. He hurled it to one side, to clatter to the floor, wrenching the door open and enjoying the waft of cool, refreshing air that blasted in and caressed his face.
He poked his head out, looking left, then looking right. Nothing but piles of lumber and sacks filled with long-spoiled grain on either side. The coast was clear, the calls and cheers still coming from the other side of the mill. The way before them was easy; a straight run down the hill and into the woods where they might lose their pursuers. He nodded. Good. Turning to look over his shoulder, he beckoned for his friends to follow him into the night.
“Quietly,” he whispered. “If they hear us, then it’s all for naught…”
Silently, the troupe of shamans streamed past him until only Gwenna and Felice remained.
The shaman leader shook her head.
“I cannot leave, not till I see them behind us.”
Felice, though pale, shaking, nodded her agreement.
“Moi aussi.”
“They will be seconds,” insisted Arris. “The longer we tarry, the more chance of being discovered…”
A voice from behind him, quiet and nervous, as one of the other shamans tapped him on the shoulder.
“Methinks that’s a moot point, now…”
He turned, to find the troupe standing not far from him, their way down the hill to the forest barred by a flickering, shadowy figure. The image of the Malleus man smiled, shaking his head slowly and wagging an admonishing finger, before vanishing.
“They’re round the back of the Mill!” came the distant cry from the far side of the buildings.
A cheer and roar of bloodlust, as the mob began to charge around the outskirts of the building.
Gwenna screwed her eyes shut, torn. No time to flee to the woods. And even if they could, there was no sign yet of Pol, James and Virginie; they could not abandon them. The teachings of Wrynn burned strong within her; innocents were not to be killed, not unless they wished to invite darkness into their hearts. Yet what choice did they have but to defend themselves? If they barred themselves back within, then they would surely die.
She opened her eyes.
“Shamans, defend yourselves,” she commanded, the troupe reaching about for pieces of wood, for heavy sacks of grain that could be swung, or else settling into rusty fighting stances, long-since unpracticed. Gwenna continued, even as the mob flew around the corner, pitchforks, scythes, hammers, torches, all brandished and waved, ready to kill. “And try not to kill. Disarm, cripple,
whatever you must to defend yourselves. But each life is sacred.” She stared into the venomous eyes of the foe as they drew, slowly, cautiously nearer. “Even theirs.”
***
Pol coughed again, using the sleeve of his leather jacket to cover his mouth as best he could. As he climbed the staircase, a great crack from above, then a burning timber whistled past him to crash into the ground below. As he watched its descent through stinging eyes, he made out a figure below, coughing and spluttering its way up behind him.
“What are you doing, man?” shouted Pol. “Get down with the others. Get out of here.”
As James drew near, he bent over double, coughing, even as he shook his head.
“No,” he spluttered as the fit subsided. “She’s family.” He ducked as burning embers fell from the ceiling above. “And it’s too dangerous to go alone.”
What may have been a snarl from the young shaman, but he relented with a nod of his head.
“Very well, let’s keep moving before this entire building collapses all about us.”
Once more, the two men began to move, climbing their way through the smoke and flames to the level above. Finally, after what seemed an age, they reached the storey whereon lay the room in which Virginie lay resting. They could hear coughing from within. Pushing the wooden door open, Pol saw the girl, sat upright on the bed, feet on the floor yet pale-looking, weak, unable to stand and move under her own power.
“What’s happening?” she enquired of the pair, as they made their way into the small room.
“We are found,” James answered her, even as he made his way over towards her and helped her stand. “And they’re trying to burn us out…”
“Enough chit-chat,” spat Pol. “Let’s move!”
He turned to leave, but as he did, a great resounding crash from outside the door and a shower of sparks and a billowing cloud of smoke engulfed him. Wafting the smoke away, he gingerly made his way to the door once more, what he saw there not improving his mood a jot. Letting the girl rest against the wall, James, too, ran over, shielding his face from the heat as he gazed at the destruction before him. A heavy beam had fallen from the roof above, smashing through the landing and shattering all the stairs below.
There was no way down that way. Not anymore.
“C’est mal?”
“Oui,” replied James, his face grave. “Very mal.” He looked to Pol. “Ideas?”
The shaman turned, gazing about, before his eyes caught sight of the window at the end of the small room. He dashed over to it, looking down. Below him was the roof of the grain store, some ten feet below. A long drop, but doable.
“The window, we drop down to the roof below and make our way along.”
James looked out.
“Oh shit, that’s a long drop.”
A groaning noise, the floor beneath them shifting slightly as supports below no doubt burned away in the heat.
“It’s that or burn to death.”
“Fair point. How do we do this?”
Pol’s brow furrowed as he thought quickly, his forehead beading with droplets of sweat as the air rippled with heat.
“You go first – you’re bigger. I can lower Virginie down to you and you can catch her.”
“Very well.” The Englishman turned to his French cousin, embracing her in his great arms. “See you in a moment,” he told her. “We’ll get out of this.”
She nodded, wide-eyed, as he made his way to the window. With a gulp, he turned, clambering over the stone ledge, barely squeezing his large frame through the gap. With a groan of effort, he slid down till he was dangling from the ledge, feet still several feet above the roof below. Then, with a gasp, he let go. He landed on the slates with a thud and a curse, falling onto his backside and scrabbling with his hands and feet as he sought to keep himself from rolling off the roof entirely. Finally, confident that he was no longer going to roll to his doom, he rose cautiously to his feet and called up.