Happy Mother's Day, mommies! Instead of buying my own mum a present, I spent most of the day tooling around with this fanfic. I changed the present-tense scenes to the past, in order to match up with the rest of the story. Aside from that, it's exactly the same as before.
Deborah Cliff
Early dusk
As thunderheads were building and the first tines of lightning began to flash in the slate gray sky overhead, Gabriel Sheridan snuffed out his small cooking fire. A shriveled mutant fish lay in a crude, dented pan at his side, still raw. He knew he could most likely have cooked and eaten three meals before the encroaching storm would unleash itself on the Romanian countryside, but he was far from shelter. He may have been much stronger than any human that walked this earth, but he was by no means invincible.
He smiled to himself as he led his mule, Oppenheimer, by the worn leather reins. It was lucky for him that there was no one around to see that smile, because they would probably have shrieked and fled in startled, raw panic, fearing they had seen Lucifer in human form. Sheridan was a leper of the worst sort; his illness, known as "whore's blossoms" in Wallachia city and the surrounding villages, had very nearly overrun his entire body. Sores, some months old, others just beginning to form, bulged and twisted on his face, making a series of craters and protrusions like a mass of clay that has been badly treated by children.
His grin widened, revealing a mouth with few teeth remaining. Those that refused to fall out were either broken or decayed to the degree that they had become soft to the touch. His eyes, however, were the most disturbing aspect of all, by far. Red and bloodshot orbs set far back into a somewhat misshapen skull, they stared ahead with an almost self-conscious lack of fear. Nothing of this world held any fear or danger for him, he knew. He had seen too much of the next world and the others past it to waste time feeling anything but contempt for this mortal coil. The eyes said all of this, and much more. They told of life and death, the machinations of Time itself, the idiot laughter and whistling of the spheres. Having been privy to as much as he had been, it was really no surprise that he had gone completely insane.
He was going to die, by the gods; he had known this since the first lesions began sprouting, which had been nearly a year's worth of moons ago. He had been feeling utter calm, peace, and serenity lately, and as he and the animal shuffled along the drawers of the Camilla Flatlands, his mind returned once again to how this came to be.
His eyes became half-lidded (one of them did, anyway- the other eyelid was long gone, having simply been there one day and gone the next, lost as one would lose a coin or a bill of sale) in rumination and simple exhaustion. What mattered now was not that he was dying- he had come to accept that a long, long time ago. Sheridan felt an impish sort of glee at the fact that, no matter how things finished up, no matter who lived and who did not, he was about to play an important role in the beginning stages of what could very well be the end of all life in Europe.
Maybe even the end of humanity in general.
Wallachia Town Square
Early Dusk
If Sheridan had not been so absorbed in his own bitter and twisted thoughts, he could have glanced to his left and caught a glimpse of nearly a dozen figures on horseback, rushing to the village of Wallachia. But his unseeing gaze was fixed firmly on the horizon, where the trees of the Termogent Forest stood in a rough line, so he missed this. In any event, it is not likely it would have interested him terribly much; men with evil on their minds rarely bother with the affairs of others.
The town square itself was more crowded than it had ever been in the recent memory of anyone that resided there. Nearly everyone that was well enough to attend had turned out. Noblemen and rich members of the City Council stood shoulder to shoulder with various dirty and unwashed peasants, vagrants, and gypsies who had simply been too curious to keep to themselves, as they usually did.
In the center of this mass, which numbered around seven hundred with more arriving by the minute, stood the inner cadre of the Wallachia peacemakers. The mayor, Stephen Wilkes, a hale and hearty man for his old age, stood next to four of his most trusted law enforcers. Although normally a smiling and pleasant man, Wilkes' face was drawn and guarded, the wrinkles standing out on his cheeks and forehead like a carving on wood. His eyes drooped and were bloodshot from lack of sleep. The incredible event that was about to unfold had been talked about at length in the bars and taverns of Wallachia and the surrounding towns for longer than he cared to know. Along with the Constable and his deputies, he had been nearly driven mad by the inquiries and protests from civilians and city leaders alike.
Next to the unshaven and distressed mayor was Wallachia Town Constable Trevor Belmont. Standing over six feet in height, with massive shoulders, brawny physique, and amazing intelligence to go with it, he had been Wilkes' intended choice for Chief of the Guard since childhood. His face, while moderately handsome, was not threatening and would not have convinced you he was a dangerous man. On the surface, he was a very open and earnest person, almost always unable to hide how he truly felt from others. His eyes, which were large and black as bits of obsidian, often betrayed his emotions. This was never a problem in the line of duty, however; when faced with danger, Trevor Belmont was resourceful, strategic, and fearless.
The Constable's best friend and chief deputy, Rikuo Montoya, stood a small distance away with the other two officers. Montoya had served Wallachia for nearly twenty years, almost three times longer than Trevor had thus far. For this reason, he was often the man the Chief looked to when he had to travel or was simply too busy to handle something.
Montoya's face, like Trevor's, belied his personality. A thin, intense-looking man, he had small, dark features that made him look uptight and defensive. His nose, which was crooked, discolored, and full of burst capillaries, looked as if it had been mashed onto his face with a spatula. He was also missing several teeth, but this was fairly common among the less well-off citizens. Despite his appearance, which Trevor likened to the Cyclops that was said to roam the woods at night, he was married to one of the most beautiful women in town. Sonja Montoya's family owned the city's clothing store, and while she may have been afflicted with terrible arthritis from her years of sewing, she was surely never in need of money.
In truth, Montoya had a reputation among his fellow deputies as being a joker and trickster. In addition to his experience, his sense of humor was a valuable asset, often succeeding in raising the spirits of his fellows as the rigors of duty took their toll on the exhausted Officers of the Guard. This aspect of his personality was not evident now, however. In fact, Montoya was quieter than Trevor could recall him being in recent memory.
Montoya, who had been conferring with the other two deputies, McDonald and Chamberlain, turned to the others. "We should get this rolling pretty soon, Constable! Storm's coming in pretty quick! Apt to be the bitch of the season!" He had to scream to be heard above the yelling crowd.
Trevor nodded. "Agreed."
He stared into the crowd, at the many faces gathered to see what would transpire. He had presided over many town assemblies before, but never one quite as large as this. He didn't think he would ever have to again, either. He scanned the front three rows of people for signs of any suspicious behavior, but there was no real motive behind this activity. It was simply habit, ingrained in him since his youth, when he had briefly worked as a personal bodyguard for Mayor Wilkes.
He was again surprised at the diversity of this group. He saw a cluster of scholars and noblemen to his right, dressed in comfortable shirts and capes against the somewhat chilly weather. Next to them were a group of ancient gentlemen that could have been fortune tellers or even wizards (if Trevor had believed in such things). A few other random people jumped out at him. A family of four had brought a pig and were roasting it on a spit. A woman on the extreme left edge of the crowd was breast feeding her baby while avoiding the obvious stares of the men nearby. Trevor smiled to himself bemusedly.
"Here they come, at last," Wilkes announced in a tone of unmistakable relief. He gestured at a loose knot of men on horseback drawing near them.
Suddenly and without warning, the crowd became violent. A band of about thirty men rushed toward the arriving travelers, brandishing sticks, shovels, and torches. The horsemen, who had just arrived from the Old Druid Low Road, pointed muskets at the attackers, who fell back quickly.
"God pound it!" Wilkes cried. "They'll kill him before he makes it to the platform!"
"No they won't," Trevor assured him. "The Coffin Hunters have it well in hand."
Trevor looked over the rest of the mass, intending to locate any other potential ruffians and neutralize them at once. He was clothed in full battle dress, a remarkably rare thing for him. Over his thick tunic (made from the hides of horses and harpies) he wore his chain mail, a gift from King Seldon, who passed through the town twice a year and had heard tell of Trevor's bravery and compassion. He also had his snakeskin boots, which he had bought from a merchant in the town of Veros.
There were only a few occasions that called for Constable Belmont to appear in full battle regalia. One was a wedding, which he had never attended. Another was a funeral, of which there had been several lately. The last one was the event that found him here today.
An execution.
There had not been a hanging in the town of Wallachia for decades; centuries, some of the old-timers claimed. This alone was responsible for the sheer number of onlookers. (The crowd, well over eight hundred by now, was effectively double the official census population of Wallachia city- something which troubled the Mayor and his confederates greatly.)
As Trevor continued his survey of the townspeople, he noticed their faces begin to blur and overlap. Men began to look identical. Even the occasional Brown Person, who stood out in the crowd like an ant in a sugar pile, began to lose contrast. The volume of the noise seemed to increase. The criminal's name was chanted, cursed, and threatened with damnation. Some of the villagers were holding signs, which were either commending or protesting the execution.
Trevor unconsciously began to ignore the crowd. To him, it had become one face, one entity. The god named Crowd hungered for one thing now: blood. The screams and cries of the men and women began to lose cohesion. Trevor shut all this out gradually and automatically, with no conscious thought or effort. He knew, he did. You couldn't lose yourself in there for long, because Crowd would happily eat you alive, if it didn't drive you mad.
His attention now fully devoted to the approaching entourage, he put his hand on Wilkes' shoulder. "I don't think we have anything to fear from this crowd, but I want you to know that we will resort to lethal force if we need to protect you and ourselves. Understood?"
"Yes." Wilkes looked at him balefully from deep-set, watery eyes. "I pray it shan't come to that."
The horse carrying the bound prisoner approached at the head, and Trevor got his first and last good look at the condemned man.
He was thin, frail, and weak (as Trevor had heard from the various reports that flowed in from the surrounding villages as regularly as the Send River), but the Constable was surprised and sickened to see that the man had been tortured. Scars and wounds covered every visible inch of his body. One of eyes had been removed, and the socket was covered by a carelessly applied patch that leaked a whitish-yellow fluid around the edges. It was unquestionably infected; nearly half of the man's face was overrun with sickening red threads of fever. His mouth, while covered with a rawhide gag, was stained with blood. Trevor supposed the man's teeth had been knocked out, or his tongue possibly cut off.
After a moment, he realized that such surprise was naïve. He was looking at the most wanted criminal Wallachia had seen in nearly a hundred and fifty years. Declan Mulqueen was an Irishman who had immigrated to Romania after the War of a Thousand Heads (which had ended nearly a decade ago), and had become the most universally despised and reviled bandit in the country. He had been responsible (or so popular opinion claimed- Trevor himself had doubts as to the man's guilt) for the murders of countless merchants, men, women, and children. Rumor had it he had even bragged of killing the babies of Ruty LeCook, the woman who had lost her three children in the middle of the night under the assumption that they had been taken by wolves.
Rumors with absolutely no substance whatever, Trevor reminded himself again. That's all we have to go on to judge him. He stood frozen, staring into the eyes of the dead man for nearly half a minute before Wilkes turned to him and gestured impatiently.
"You're in charge from here, Trevor. Let's get this over with as quickly as possible." The Constable nodded solemnly and took hold of the strong chain binding the prisoner's wrists. Again fully conscious of the stares and shouts of the crowd, he began to lead the man to the gallows.
The wooden parapet had been hastily erected in Wallachia Square that morning, shortly following the news that the execution would be held there. The original plans had called for it to take place in Jova, a small farming community more than fifty wheels south. However, when a crowd of more than five hundred had appeared in Jova three whole days before the event, it was decided to relocate to the biggest city in the country. The Mayor had not been notified of this decision until nearly noon, causing a massive uproar that required the service of all available deputies and carpenters. Trevor had been forced to leave his last two officers, Helzer and Goriyas, manning the station. Despite their bitter complaining, they remained there still, although the chances of them being called to arms for another matter were so slim that Trevor would have welcomed them at that moment.
As they reached the center of the platform, Trevor slipped the noose around the Irishman's neck (it had taken him and Montoya the better part of an hour to figure out how to tie a hangman's knot). He removed the gag from the man's mouth and stood in front of him, blocking him from the mob's view.
"Do you have any final words to impart upon this world?" Trevor asked him, looking into his eyes. "Any protest, curse, wish for a loved one?"
Declan Mulqueen returned his gaze with utter silence. Trevor waited a full ten seconds to make sure he would say nothing, and gestured to one of the Coffin Hunters for the hood.
They must have cut out his tongue. Any other man would be screaming and cursing us all. Trevor wondered if they had bothered to get a confession out of the man first. Or if they had simply beaten it out of him.
Why don't you do something about it, then? A voice spoke up from the dark recesses of his memory. It sounded like his father. His father with several tumblers of ale in his stomach. If you feel this fellow has been slighted, it's your responsibility to serve justice. You are the Constable.
Trevor shut that voice out. It may have been absolutely right, but what would the repercussions be? He would be fired from his post, and the odds of him affecting the stranger's fate were not in his favor. More to the point, what evidence did he have that the man was innocent, anyway?
Moving with sudden speed and decisiveness, Trevor took the black executioner's hood from the Hunter's outstretched hand (noting the blue tattoo of the Holy Cross as he did so) and began to fit it over the prisoner's head.
"Trevor."
The Constable was so startled at the criminal's knowledge of his name that he jerked and dropped the hood. Laughter rippled through the crowd and several insults were yelled, but he barely registered it. The Irishman's voice was deep and guttural, almost nonhuman. Hearing him utter those two syllables was like the sound of a crypt door opening. Or closing forever. Trevor felt sure that the throat issuing that voice must resemble a dark and foreboding cave, filled with moss, slime, and darkness.
Absolute darkness.
"Belmont. Hear me out."
Trevor tried to reply, but his mouth seemed lined with thick fur. He was suddenly aware that, while he was sweating profusely, he was shivering with cold (and fear, he realized reluctantly). He opened his mouth and his tongue made a few idiotic clicking noises before the prisoner continued.
"An Age of Darkness is approaching fast, Constable. I can see from your eyes that you're aware of that. That's very well. But what I think you're unaware of is that you are inherently responsible for this crisis. Thissss…" His voice trailed off like a snake, as if he were searching for a word. "This apocalypse."
For a moment, Trevor simply stared at the man, his jaw agape. And yes, it was true, he could feel the approach of something, a menace, but it was beyond his comprehension.
"We want to see 'im hang, Constable!"
"Let's us get a look at Satan's soldier, eh!"
"Aye, cully! Move yer sweetmeats!"
The many voices of Crowd pummeled at Trevor's ears, but he still ignored them. He picked up the hood and looked the murderer once more in the eyes.
"Did you commit the crimes you are accused of?" It seemed an irrelevant question to ask now, especially after what he had just been told, but he still wanted to know. Trevor doubted the man would bother lying now.
The Irishman chuckled tiredly. It sounded like stones scraping together. His one eye rolled toward the Constable and his lips parted in a sardonic grin. "I am as good as guilty. Are you surprised? I can see from your eyes that you wondered of my innocence."
That was enough. "I wish thee well on thy journey," Trevor intoned, as per tradition, and fastened the black hood over the bloody man's head. Without another word or a look around, he exited the platform and accepted the sword Montoya offered him.
Trevor cut the rope near the steps with the ceremonial blade. There was a sudden crash as the floor, which was supposed to have swung downward as a trapdoor would, collapsed entirely and dropped to the ground. The crowd surged forward like a pack of dogs, eager to claim a souvenir for the mantle. A small smile began to form itself on Trevor's face.
There was a brittle crunch as the Irishman dropped through the hole. Although his neck had surely been broken, the body twitched helplessly in a sort of death dance. Urine spilled hotly down the front of the prisoner's pants, forming a wet spot. The crowd quieted as the seconds spun out interminably. A soft susurration, almost an orgasmic moan, swept through the masses. Although it seemed impossible, Trevor could hear the strangled gasps of the dying man as the last few seconds of life drained from his body.
The smile died like a wind-blown candle before it had even been half-realized. He had never seen a man die of anything other than natural causes before, and he watched the scene as avidly as anyone else in the group.
Camilla Flatlands
Before the StormSheridan shuffled along the plains just outside of Wallachia town. When viewed from above, the veldt seemed to resemble a Castles board, with random patches of grass among the dirt and dust. Oppenheimer occasionally stopped to take a bite of the dried weed and devilgrass, but Sheridan jerked him along impatiently. The donkey was very close to collapsing of dehydration and starvation, he knew, but time was running very short. He had an appointment with The Prince of Darkness himself, and only a fool would deign to be anything but punctual for a meeting such as that.
Gabriel Sheridan may have been many awful things, but he was most assuredly not stupid.
Wallachia city's main entrance loomed just to his left, but he bypassed that with nary a second glance. His destination was the cemetery on the outskirts of town. Even over the steady bass rumble of the thunderstorm that would soon be opening its floodgates, he could hear the steady roar of the city mob. In fact, he was so close to the Town Square that, had Trevor Belmont and his compatriots been alone there, they could have easily heard him shout.
The graveyard loomed closer in his vision. And yes, he could feel it, he could feel the Master's presence! He released Oppenheimer's reins and broke into a shambling run, his face breaking into a childlike grin. Bounding along, one leg limping almost comically (a two-week old twisted ankle that had swollen and turned the dusty gray color that is the precursor of gangrene), he resembled a gantry, a mad haunted house on legs.
The mule began to move in the direction of Wallachia town, where it could smell food, water, and the manure of other animals. Sheridan didn't mind this at all, however; in his ecstasy he had completely forgotten the animal. A low keening sound began to emanate from his throat. He was scarcely aware of it, but he was weeping in joy.
"Yes… my… dears… I will… release you…" He rushed onward to the deserted burial ground, where his family, friends, and neighbors resided. He was an asset to the Prince of Darkness. More than that: he was his trusted liaison with this world. There was one simple task to perform, and then he would be reunited with his loved ones once again, to become undead servants of his master. The possibility of reunion had never occurred to him in all of his years of loneliness.
He picked up speed and began laughing, the tears running to the end of his nose and splattering on his dirty nomad's robe. He stumbled on a large stone near a dropoff and very nearly fell to his death, but managed to maintain his footing. It was an unfortunate thing that he survived, because Declan Mulqueen's prophesied Age of Darkness would have been delayed with his end.
I will see them in the clearing where the path ends! he exalted, running past this quirk of fate without a second thought. I will reach the gates of the Fields and then I will sing all of their names!
Then I will sing all of their names!
Wallachia Town Square
After the Execution
Even before the body had been taken away in a horsedrawn cart, nearly half of the crowd had disbanded.
A team of burly carpenters moved in to tear down the platform, which was stained with the Irishman's various bodily fluids. Wilkes and Montoya were supervising the cleanup, leaving Trevor and the others to steer away the crowd. This was not going to be necessary, however, as most villagers had lost interest almost as soon as the rope had been cut. Trevor himself, however, was shaken and mortified, mostly due to what the prisoner had said to him.
About the sense of approaching evil, he was a believer. He had felt it for nearly an entire year now, and while he at first hadn't known what it was, it had been there. Crouching in the back of his mind like a cat waiting for prey, it had planted itself in his subconscious and simply refused to go away, releasing its vague and ominous feelings like a bad smell. As for his responsibility…
That is bullshit, Trevor told himself firmly. That is absolute malarkey and I will not believe it, I refuse to believe it. And this feeling of doom? Bad weather. Change of seasons. It happens to everyone.
It was very rational and sensible, but it did absolutely nothing to change what he knew (or thought he knew) in his gut.
"Hey? Cap?" It was Helzer, looking at him in a concerned manner. "You feelin alright? You look kinda… I dunno…"
Trevor smiled. "I'm okay. Just feel like a goose walked over my grave, is all." He looked at his deputy out of the corner of his eye. "Kristof, who's tending the bar?" It was their slang for "keeping watch".
"Nobody, fer right now. There wasn't a soul in town."
Trevor nodded. "Did you see him go?"
"No… I just got here. Hey, uh…" Helzer looked slightly embarrassed. "I… just wanted to thank you." He held out his hand. Trevor shook it slowly, his brow creased and an uncertain smile cracking his lips. "You've… well…" He stood up straight and seemed to collect himself. "You've been an inspiration for all of us. I know those two-" he jerked a thumb at Chamberlain and McDonald- "can be real Christless bastards-"
"They're good men," Trevor interrupted, but he was grinning and nodding in agreement.
"-but you've led us through the past six months better than any Sheriff I've ever seen. I honestly don't think we'd've made it otherwise."
Although it had clearly been rehearsed, Trevor was touched. "It couldn't have happened without this team of officers."
Wilkes and Montoya approached them. "Gentlemen, I dismiss us all until further notice," the Mayor announced. "A group of men handpicked by myself and the Council will handle all official duties for the next couple of days."
There was a general cheer from the group. Montoya drew a massive goatskin bag of silver coins from his jerkin and handed it to Trevor.
"What's this?" Trevor asked, eyebrows raised.
"Constable, your last responsibility is to make sure none of us leave the tavern until we're pissing down our legs and staggering into walls."
Trevor smiled again. "Are you referring to your normal day of patrol?" There was general laughter.
Montoya grinned good-naturedly. He turned to the rest of them and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Who's going to help me plow every virgin cunt in this town tonight?"
McDonald, Goriyas, and Helzer replied that they would.
"I dunno 'bout that, Rick," Chamberlain drawled, spitting a massive wad of tobacco onto the dusty earth. He ran a dirty hand through his red shock of hair, leaving a trail of grime. "Think I might go visit that pretty number of yours. Reckon she took a hell of a shine t'me." He grinned with pride, revealing a set of brown-stained chompers.
"You sure he wa'ant talkin about her?" McDonald asked, and chuckled in a wheezy voice, spraying spittle from his mouth, which caught in his full beard.
"I think we just settled your hash," Goriyas put in. "We'll see you when you get home, Montoya."
Montoya grinned and held up the laboriously tied noose. "Alright, gents, who's next in the gallows?"
Laughing and joking amongst themselves, they started off toward Soobie's Tavern. The Mayor was in the lead.
The present-tense scenes were just experimentation on my part (yeah, it failed horribly…). They were a bitch to fix, though…