Kiss the Shadow
Prologue
He stood against the dull moonlight like a man made out of stone. There was something almost hypnotizing about watching him--his back, perfectly straight like the stiff spine of a perched owl, his eyes sweeping and sharp. The absence of light in the curves of his face made his features appear deeply grooved, carved permanently in an expression of infinite patience. He should have been too young to bear so wise a countenance. He should have felt the eagerness of the men huddled about, the anxiety of their quarry, the restless interest of their starry audience. Standing apart from his comrades, however, he appeared perfectly at ease, though intense, gloved fingers closed around the handle of the sharpened rapier.
Grissom tightened his own grip on his sword, savoring some of that courage for himself. The rest he gained from the steady presence of his elder brother, who stood always at his side. He would be forever grateful for that steady comfort. As a boy merely in his sixteenth year of life he was still a somewhat awkward youth, wary of the world but trusting in those that offered him guidance. One such symbol of that trust rested around his neck, providing a pleasant weight upon his heart: a Rood, passed down through his mother's family. He fingered it idly out of habit.
East Vallport was quiet that evening. The festivities of the Summer Faire had ended long ago, and only a few stray drunkards littered the black-painted streets. Grissom's company lay in wait hidden within a narrow alleyway--seven men, including himself and the Owl-man, awaiting a signal from their companions who lay in the slumbering inn across the cobblestone road. Among them Grissom knew only his brother by name. This was his first official act as a member of the Holy Order, and he was therefore unfamiliar with those that served alongside him. One of the elder men, however, he recognized as a friend of his brother's, whose name escaped his memory at present. But then, the identity of his comrades was not his concern. All his attention and imagination was focused on those who held the swords he would cross with.
A man's scream echoed from the two-story inn that was their target. Grissom jumped at the sound of it, if only slightly, and stuffed the Rood into his shirtfront where it would not be damaged. A prayer fell over its worn metal as it passed his lips. Already the other men were in motion, drawing swords and stretching cramped muscles. The Owl at last found his limbs worthy of movement, and turned to view their preparations. Once satisfied that all were ready, he raised his hand in a gesture for silence. Then he was gone, gliding swiftly across the town street, his boots making only the slightest of noises on the stones.
Grissom followed instantly in his captain's wake, glancing back only once to note the progress of his brother. Duane was just behind him, his face as always solid and unreadable. But he was confident, and so Grissom was confident. The seven men moved quietly to the back entrance of the inn and entered, paying close attention to the movements of men's voices within the building. Without a word the captain motioned which of them would stay behind to guard the exit. Grissom, his brother, and his bother's acquaintance would not be among them. All four men slipped inside, weapons ready.
The inn, by now, was in an uproar. All around could be heard the echoes of men's voices, rising in thunderous curses and shrill cries. Almost immediately upon entering they came upon a section of the dispute--several armored men surrounded and butchered a pair of fleeing youths. Blood splattered upon the captain's boots but he paid no notice, stepping over the bodies and continuing further inside. Grissom paused a moment, watching as the assailants murmured a quick apology over the slain and moved on. He, too, moved on. He followed the captain through the twisting halls, past several similar scenes, toward the western corner of the establishment.
Duane was muttering under his breath. His younger brother could not hear him, as he was too caught up in the air of it all. He had expected chaos, frenzy, fear--he felt none of these things. The armored men moved calmly and dutifully through the different rooms, carrying out their justice without hesitation. They were the very hands of God delivering punishment. Grissom swelled at the thought, empowered by it. His Lord had descended from his heavenly grove to sweep through the misguided and soiled, and Grissom and his comrades were paying witness to his pure punishment. He thought almost that he could feel the awesome presence beside him, tugging on his boots, hurrying him to meet his own deliverance. For in the work of God he received his own repentance.
The captain threw open the door to the westernmost chamber with a resounding impact of wood, revealing several men in leather cloaks. They were attempting to escape through a small trapdoor in the room's corner. All froze at the unexpected intrusion; looks of horror twisted across their repugnant faces. They were arrangements of muscles and flesh such as Grissom had never seen--the fear of death scarred them. It was a disgusting sight, and Grissom pitied them.
The captain swept into the room without introduction or warning, and soon after the two elder men joined him, cutting the men down. In the confusion that followed a pair of cloaked men fled for the door. Grissom intercepted them. His hands were tight about his weapon, sweat already beading on his pale brow. The men stopped, watching him. They did not hold the agony of terror in their visages; their faces were cut of the same stone as The Owl. This caused Grissom to pause, as his eyes landed on the younger of the two--a boy, no older than himself. Though he was heavily disguised within folds of leather he was clearly flawless; his eyes were wide and round, his skin the unblemished pearl of a woman's.
For a moment the two young boys stared each other down, judging. Then Grissom's sword moved. He hadn't intended the action--he was taken by it. In a flurry of movement the elder of the cloaked men revealed a blade to halt the swinging arc. He shouted something then, in a language Grissom did not recognize, and the sword was wrenched free of his grasp and thrown away. Startled and bewildered the young knight retreated several steps, gawking.
By then the captain and his company had finished off what remained of the their quarry, and started upon the last pair. Seeing their advance the beautiful boy fled, abandoning his companion. The captain immediately gave chase. Grissom stared, still attempting to comprehend how his weapon had been stolen from him so effortlessly. At last he retrieved the steel, just as his brother and friend succeeded in striking the cloaked man down. His body seemed almost to shrink once the life was stolen from it, huddled there in a bleeding mass on the wooden floor. Grissom was entranced by the look upon his already paling face--the man would greet the afterlife with a smile.
The struggle was coming to an end. The once deafening swirl of shouts and sobs seemed to silence all at once, leaving only piteous moans which were also quickly erased from the tainted air. Grissom emerged from the room slowly, breathing it with hesitant lungs. He checked the Rood clasped close to his heart and whispered anther short prayer--he had not expected so quick and smooth a mission. Though he had had little part in the success, that detail was far from his mind. He was only thankful to have their duty fulfilled.
Duane led the trio through the inn, checking the success of the other groups they came across. It appeared that their forces had suffered no loss of life and only a handful with minor injuries. God had been merciful indeed. Grissom released a sigh, and congratulated the commander on his success. There would be cause for celebration later.
It was then that Grissom noticed the absence of their captain. He hardly had time to mention it, however, as in the next moment a dark-skinned slave girl came running to meet the commander with ill news.
They followed the servant girl out of the inn and down the street several blocks, struggling in their armor to meet her urgent pace. The commander remained behind but sent for a doctor that would catch up with them when possible. Grissom followed their guide with only slight apprehension--it was, after all, the captain they were going to find. He didn't believe that anyone could harm a man such as that. That stiff spine would never crumble.
They had entered a wealthier area of Vallport, now; the houses towered over the road with their spires and wide glass windows. Grissom paid them little notice as they at last approached the scene the servant girl had intended. To the surprise and fright of the trio of men, their captain lay stretched out on the dusty stones, surrounded by a creeping stain of red life fluid. Several of the local residences had crowded around; the ring of their bodies muffled the sounds of pain coming from his raw throat. Grissom felt a surge of what might have been panic overtake him. Quickly he pushed his way through the sparse crowd to kneel at his captain's side. He grew faint upon viewing the injury: a dagger had been sheathed firmly in the knight's heart.
Duane and his friend joined Grissom, amazed by the damage--the dagger had somehow cleaved through the captain's armor and into his flesh. The man's face was contorted, anguishing, and through his crimson lips short, harsh breaths were drawn. Grissom could only stare. He knew that the hand of God lay upon the man's brow, where the beads of sweet collected to reflect the grieving moon. Surely not even the physician, or the Cardinal himself could rectify such a wound. He crossed himself, and sat back, where upon his gaze caught that of a young girl in white night robes, performing a similar gesture. She was kneeling at the head of the fallen soldier, her hands already dampened with his blood, her pale eyes wide. Her lips were moving in whispered prayers.
They knew it was hopeless. Yet Duane and his comrade held the captain's limbs still when he attempted to thrash, and murmured words of encouragement to soothe his tormented visage. The two girls cleaned his face with their hands as they had no cloth to offer, and Grissom began to recite the Last Rites. The captain struggled when he heard the words, denying them, his back arching and arms thrashing. All around the audience backed away, fearful of becoming the target of some dying man's curse.
Grissom held on to the man's right arm while his brother the left. He hadn't expected a man in this state to hold so much strength left in him--by all rights he should have been dead already. His armor was soiled, his breath hoarse and eyes wild. He should have been dead….
He wanted to remove the dagger.
Grissom shook his head. Removing the weapon would only increase the bleeding--they would not be able to remove his armor in time to stifle the wound. And even so, to think of bandaging the injury was madness. His heart had been pierced. He was going to die. He should have already been dead.
The blood-armored body began to tremble, then shake, violently, attempting to retain the grip on its weary soul a moment longer. Those weak-stomached citizens turned away so as not to see, stopped their ears to save themselves from hearing the death moans. Grissom had no such luxury. He did not leave his position at the man's side, holding him firm as he continued his prayer. He hoped that God would quickly end this pain--he should have been long since dead by now.
But he wasn't.
Why wasn't he dying? These words spoke through the eyes of his brother.
The little girl was still praying as well. She was praying for deliverance and mercy. Her wide eyes glistened, mourning with the moon, tainting her white cheeks with marks of despair. He should have been dead by now, to save them this pain.
Grissom's gaze turned to the face of the Owl. He did not wear the smile of the slain man in the inn, but the terror of those that looked upon death and regretted suddenly the failures in their life. No man should wear a face such as that. It made him want to pity the captain, who lay dying there in the street, surrounded by men and woman whose breath still reeked of an evening of mirth. He didn't want to pity him.
Grissom reached out suddenly, wrapping his fingers securely around the handle of the dagger impaled in his leader's breast. He pulled, his face unmoved as the blade made slow progress in retracting from its flesh-sheath. The captain's eyes widened and his mouth gaped silently. All around eyes were fastened on the young knight in his bold effort, but he paid no heed. He only wanted to remove the weapon that had caused this suffering. His arm trembled, not with exertion but from the feeling of withdrawing the dagger--it slid with agonizing slowness until finally pulling free.
Grissom's own force sent him tumbling backwards. At the same time, also, did the captain cease his struggling. Both men slumped to the ground, breathless and wheezing. The air stood still, waiting to be joined by a last breath, a whispered promise or other such trifle thing men release when their body has failed. But a moment later the breeze stirred to life again, denied of this.
The captain was not yet dead.
Grissom pushed himself back into a sitting position, still tightly clutching the dagger. He was staring, as everyone else about was, at the captain who lie panting, his eyes now closed and limbs peacefully immobile. With every new breath of cool night air his lungs grew stronger, expelling clots of blood in sharp coughs. The color was returning to his bleached cheeks.
It was then that the doctor arrived with his assistants. They surrounded the captain and began to remove the plates of chest armor, mumbling to each other in questioning tones how it was that the man was still alive. Their inquiries spread to the witnesses as bandages and medicines were prepared. Those closest to the injured could not speak nor barely breathe themselves, to answer or celebrate or give praises to their beloved God. They could only stare at the Owl who had clawed from the brink of death, feeling the heavy weight of his blood on their own pale and trembling skin.
Romeo Guildenstern 34 24
Grissom Vedivier 26 16
Duane Vedivier 37 27
Samantha Wilmott 24 14
Balv Tieger 40 30
Neesa Daw 29 19
Sydney Losstarot 25 15
Agnew - Lamb
Bartlett - bright, glorious
Blunt - bright and fair
Daw - beloved
Darcy - dark
Dove - dove
Wilmott - beloved heart