Kiss the Shadow
Chapter 2: To Be Stained - Part One
Grissom managed not to cringe as the impact tremor ran up his arm. With his feet planted firmly in the dusty earthen soil he held his ground, gloved hands straining in their grip, eyes fierce and bright as he awaited his opponent's next maneuver. Already his shoulder was throbbing from a previously delivered blow. Still he remained steady and alert, sensitive to the captain's every movement and breath, judging. This particular sparring partner was known for striking without warning, as had certainly been the case when Grissom failed to defend the attack on his left side. He could not afford to be so careless again.
The Violet Patch, as it had been affectionately labeled, was relatively quiet that evening. The flat, dry land that served as training grounds for the Crimson Blades was occupied by a mere handful of armored men, and only a pair of them was engaged in any activity at the moment. A month had passed since the wedding of the Cardinal's cousin, finding the regiment in the first week of October, a time of great importance to them. Only during the onset of fall and spring were the ranks officially opened, giving lower-ranking officers the opportunity to test for promotion, and those of higher ranks a chance to defend their titles. Already one of the Ordained Commanders, only their leader surpassed Grissom in rank, leaving him no option for ascension. There was, however, the--very slight--chance that were fault discovered in his skills, he would be demoted once more.
Grissom wasn't worried about that unlikely possibility now. His only concern was his captain's steel, moving in sharp arcs, stabbing forward like a viper's fangs. He parried and blocked each strike effectively, content to play the defensive in this match. He had little chance of besting Romeo Guildenstern in matters of combat.
Around them in loose formation stood the other blessed commander's of the Order, paying witness to the performed test while nursing bruised, and sometimes shredded, flesh. Each had already performed before their captain, and now waited only for their comrade to finish that they might all be dismissed. Though Grissom's match was taking considerable time to finish, not one lifted their voice in protest. None were very much thrilled by the prospect of annoying the man that would be passing judgment on them; if Guildenstern was drawing out the fight on purpose, it was his business and none of theirs.
Grissom at last found an opportunity to attack, and struck toward the captain's plated midsection, but Guildenstern had anticipated the maneuver even before its conception. The move was dissolved, and Grissom fell back, panting. "It's a bit unfair, don't you think?" he asked, a smirk on his flushed lips. "That you, sir, have been made to fight all of us in the span of a few hours, one after the other, while each of us come at you fresh and still cannot best you?"
Guildenstern chuckled, only the most faint sign of fatigue present in his face despite the sweat gleaming on his brow. "Perhaps it is. But then, your best weapon is not the sword, is it?"
"No, sir. I would much prefer the familiar grip of a stave." Grissom charged again, if only to be quickly repelled. His shoulder's fiery complaints were distracting him far too much for any reasonable offensive to be properly launched. "Must you insist on a duel of blades?"
"It is the Order's rule, not mine. Perhaps we should end it now." He saluted, and Grissom cursed under his breath, preparing for what was to come. As he'd expected the captain shot forward, a blur of reflected brass. Some unseen technique wrenched the blade from Grissom's hand and sent it spiraling away. Such was the way Guildenstern always ended his matches against this particular captain, as he knew Grissom was uncertain in sword handling. It served as a reminder of this. Next would come the blow that felled him.
This time Grissom couldn't help but cringe in anticipation of the upcoming strike. What he wasn't expecting, however, was the extent of the force behind Guildenstern's heavy punch to his gut. After so many consecutive battles the captain should not have had enough strength left to perform so severe a blow. Grissom's breath was forced violently from him as he was taken off his feet. The ground struck his back and head a moment later, momentarily blinding him with the sharp pain. Though this brief discomfort mended quickly, he still couldn't draw breath. Gradually his body recovered from the strike delivered it. He pushed carefully into a sitting position, rubbing his stomach.
Guildenstern stared down at the felled man, smiling faintly in approval. "Thank you for a good match, Father Grissom," he said, offering his hand. "You faired well."
"I suppose that means my position is safe." Grissom accepted, and was pulled to his feet. He swayed only a moment before reclaiming his balance and then his sword. That accomplished, he bowed to his captain, grinning smartly. "Thank you for your strict discipline, sir."
"Always a pleasure." Guildenstern nodded acknowledgment, and turned stiffly to face the rest of his commanders. They snapped to attention--some better than others, depending on their injuries. "Gentlemen--you are dismissed. My decisions regarding ranks will be announced with all the other divisions, this week's end. Good evening to you all."
"Thank you, sir," the men chimed at once, hiding looks of pain. Satisfied, Guildenstern nodded to them again and then turned, striding evenly away from his soldiers. Grissom watched after him a moment--the man's silhouette against the dying-ash sun was not quite without flaw, testimony to his fatigue. How, then, had he called the strength to fell his last opponent so completely, with such ease?
"Looks like another violet drops a seed," declared a strong voice, and Grissom grunted as he was slapped heartily on his bruised shoulder. The culprit was none other than his brother, Duane. He was grinning slightly, having faired better in this contest than most of his peers. Guildenstern had claimed victory over the older man simply by placing his sword tip against his throat.
"You're lucky," Grissom retorted, the pain making his words sharper than he had intended. All around them the other commanders were departing, helping each other along. "Sir Guildenstern always goes easy on you."
"Courtesy for the elderly, and the experienced. He has nothing to fear of an old soldier like me compromising his authority. You whelps are still learning." Duane smacked his brother affectionately upside the head, as he had done when they were children. "Someday he'll let you fight with your stave. Now come along back--I'll have my woman fix you up."
Grissom followed, though answering, "I'm to meet Albred in town tonight for a drink. His examination is two days away, and he'll not sleep without the booze to calm his mind."
Duane appeared to find this very amusing. "All right, then, if you think you can make it that far. Would you be adverse to some company?"
"Not at all. You are always welcomed, so long as we may insult you while you are drunk." Grissom shot him a dry grin, earning him another slap against his shoulder that almost made him yelp.
"That's what I thought. Let's be off then."
By the time the brothers had changed out of their training uniforms and into more appropriate city attire--soft leather and cotton--the sun had long since completed its descent below the western mountains. In its absence the wind grew anxious and timid, sweeping about the streets and calling out quietly to the treetops. Grissom noted with some uneasiness that that the whispering breeze would not be long without company--boiling, dark clouds lay in wait against the horizon. "The eve may not agree to our planned outing," he mused aloud, still gently rubbing his sore abdomen.
"It shan't rain on us, Brother. The night is too young for that."
Albred awaited them at the crossroads of Gerril and Frues, leaning easily against the closed door of a bakery. "You're late," he chided, strolling up to the two. "I've been here over an hour, waiting on you. Was the match that difficult?" His rounded face suddenly took up a look of anxiety.
"'Twas not bad," Duane said with a shrug. "Grissom, on the other hand...." He moved as if to tap his shoulder again, and Grissom retreated, his face hard. "All right, all right, I'll stop. Where are we off to, then?"
"Somewhere with cheap food and good ale," Albred piped up immediately. "They say Brandyvine is not so unsavory. What think you?"
"Any pub'll do. I'm in no mood to be difficult about it tonight."
Grissom was only half paying attention to them, his gaze still fixed upon what was most likely an approaching storm. He could already see the clouds smearing to earth in the distance. "Whatever you decide," he muttered, smirking, "I suggest we go quickly. The skies are about to burst."
Even as he spoke, the wind's childish mutterings rose suddenly in a howl, sending his loose clothing billowing. He shielded his face, and quickly followed his companions as they started out of the street. "So it would seem," Duane consented. "The Maid's Hand Inn is closest, I do believe. Their wine tastes like sow piss, but the ale is strong."
Grissom's expression twisted in disgust. "Men of God should hold standards when it comes to such things," he muttered. "I may be famished, but I'm not a starved man yet. Think of something else. Perhaps if we follow Frues down to--"
"Hold on," Albred interrupted suddenly, dragging his friends to a halt. His head was cocked to the wind, like a bloodhound finding a scent. The thought made Grissom smirk, but he didn't comment. "Did you hear that?"
"'Tis only the wind," Duane said irritably. "Now hurry along or we'll catch our death in the rain."
Grissom strained his ears, and after a patient moment was alerted to what must have caused Albred to pause: a human voice, shouting desperately. "I hear it," he murmured, already heading in the direction of the cries. "It's a man--come on." He broke out running suddenly, stirred by the sounds of distress. He could already tell that it was coming from down Gerril Road, a cobblestone street lined mostly with private, middle-class residences. If some trouble was at hand, he felt obligated to lend his assistance if possible.
"Grissom, hold on!" Duane shouted after him, though he, too, was now running to keep up, Albred on his heels. "Don't rush into anything!"
Grissom paid him no heed, following the voice that had now been joined by others. Several dozen meters away a group of townsfolk had gathered just outside one of the lane's taller homes, shifting and restless. He could not make out their words over the shrieking of the wind. He quickened his pace, his booted footsteps unnoticed by the small crowd, and was soon pushing his way through them into the center.
"What goes on here?" Grissom demanded, seizing the gaze of a tall, bearded man. "What was that cry?"
The man stepped aside, revealing to Grissom a young servant boy who sat huddled within the circle of anxious men and woman. He was trembling, wide-eyed and pale, and viewed the sudden appearance of this stranger with some degree of horror. "A servant, from the Wellerune manner," the bearded man explained. "Came burstin' out a moment ago, all mad-like."
"Please, sir," the boy gulped, clutching his knees to his chest. "T-Take these folk away. Take—take'm away from this ungodly place."
By now Duane and Albred had joined the fray, and were doing their best to calm the citizens, all the while casting confused glances at their brethren. Grissom paid them no heed. Slowly, as to not frighten the boy, he bent down on one knee and touched the top of his head. "Peace now, brother," he said in a comforting tone. "My name is Grissom, and I am one of God's loyal servants. Tell me what has happened here to distress you so."
The knight's words struck the young servant, and with a sudden movement he snatched Grissom's tunic and would not let go. "Thank God—thank God you've come," he half sobbed. "A curse is upon our house. The curse of pagans—"
"Here now," Duane said from above, his face stern. He had little tolerance for superstition, and would not be lenient when faced with a man so deprived of sense. "Speak plainly, boy."
But Grissom had already heard enough. He raised his head, staring up at the Wellerune manner with a strange apprehension stirring his innards. Its spires were silhouetted against a coal black heaven, and the wind whistled through its bones like a dying man's sighs—or so his imagination was inclined to believe. "Perhaps the sky truly shall burst," he murmured, untangling the servant boy from his attire and handing him over to a nearby elderly woman. "Fear not," he directed his words to the entire circle as he climbed to his feet. "Whatever has happened, we shall determine the cause. May I trust you, Ma'am, to care for the boy?"
The elderly woman nodded, holding her charge tenderly as if he were her own. "Bless you, sir. God be with you."
Grissom's expression was firm as he nodded. Though the tension in the approaching storm, the anxiety of the townsfolk, and the boy's strained explanation should have put him on his guard, he felt only strength boiling in his breast. God was with him, as surely as the wind that tugged on his limbs, promising His protection. He turned stiffly to his companions, his intentions stated clearly in his eyes. They nodded acknowledgment, and together the three men approached the manner entrance, left carelessly open after the servant's hurried departure. There they hesitated only a moment before entering, eyes and ears alert for any sign of danger.
The insides of the manner were no more reassuring than the outsides. It was a relatively large residence, well furnished as far as Grissom could tell in the absence of light. There were no lit candles or lanterns to guide them. Their footsteps, laid upon a backdrop of wind-rattled shutters, were the only sounds to pervade upon the dwelling. Grissom paused there in the foyer, trying to get his bearings and decide where to proceed. "The Wellerune Manner," he murmured, the name striking a familiar chord in him.
Albred cocked his head once more, his bard-like sensitivity in hearing again proving useful. "Upstairs," he said quietly. "There are voices." He looked to Grissom, his face covered by shadows. "You've heard the Wellerune rumors, have you not?"
"I've heard those rumors," Duane grunted. "They say the master has long since been 'tainted'. I don't like the look of this place, nor the smell." He turned in a brief circle, inspecting, and at last stopped in the direction of a small hallway. "Can you not tell? It reeks of blood."
Grissom followed his brother's gaze, and though he did not detect anything in the form of sight or sound, his senses were nonetheless put on end by an unfamiliar aura. "I think you are right, Brother. Let us search out the upper floors—if there are people above, they may be able to explain whatever it is that goes on here. Albred—return to the Cathedral and fetch the captain. The boy spoke of curses, and I'll not take that threat lightly."
Albred glared at him in the dark, slightly affronted. "Why should I? Certainly we could just—"
"Because my brother outranks you in sword and faith," Duane snapped impatiently. "Now go, quickly, and hopefully we'll find there was no need for it." When the man still hesitated he added, "Go on—he can't punish you for following orders."
"I hope you're right," Albred murmured, still clearly dissatisfied. All the same he departed, leaving the brothers to their search.
Duane moved to the bottom of the stairwell, frowning up its length. "They certainly are quiet up there, if there is anyone." His gaze shifted briefly. "You sound very sure of yourself," he remarked. "Sending for the captain, when it may just be a child's prank. I hope for your sake his trip here is not wasted."
"As you said, I don't like the smell of this place," Grissom replied. He couldn't explain what it was that guided his thoughts, but he could tell that there was more going on than they knew. Despite the unrest of nature outside the walls, within there was a stagnant calm laid out over the wood and stone. "I'll feel better knowing the captain knows we are here. Now let's see why that boy was so shaken, shall we?" He stepped past his brother onto the stairs and started up them. A moment later Duane followed, shaking his head.
As they ascended, Grissom was finally able to hear the voices that Albred had attested to—several people, speaking in hushed tones, somewhere nearby. But just as he reached the last step the wood creaked beneath his boot. Once alerted to his presence, the voices stopped. He had no choice but to call out to them to know their location. "My name is Grissom Vedivier, Commander of the Order of the Crimson Blades. We have come to help you, if you so require it. Where is the master of the house?"
At first his inquires were met with only silence. The top of the stairway opened to a long, narrow hall leading left and right, and a small room directly ahead that appeared to be a water closet. Grissom was about to repeat his declaration when the sound of a voice reached his ears—a woman's voice, not words but pained whimpering, coming from their left. "Check the other rooms," Grissom asked of his brother, already heading in the direction of the distressed lady.
"Be careful," Duane warned, abiding by his instructions.
Grissom was no fool; though by the woman's voice he could tell that she would be no threat to anyone let alone a trained knight, he traversed the hall and approached the room at its end with great caution. His instincts were torn raw, stretching out like a blind man's hands in search of whatever presence was causing him this anxious spirit. The smell of blood was thick here, invading upon his nostrils. Mixed now with the woman's suffering murmurs was the irregular rasping of shallow breath.
She's dying.
Grissom twisted the door handle and stepped inside. Immediately upon entering a wave of nausea flowed quickly through him, making his knees tremble. He was able to remain standing only because of his yet firm grip on the door. That didn't keep him, however, from gagging at the awful stench within the room. It crawled over him like a tangible mist, causing his eyes to water. Scowling, he scrubbed at his face to clear his senses. Slowly the interior became clear to him.
He was standing in the doorway to the manner's main bedchamber, unlit though not entirely unoccupied. Fragments of what was once wooded furniture littered the dark carpet, along with shredded clothing and papers, in some places arranged in piles. Only the bed had been left in tact, and it was there that the woman had been laid. He could not see her well in such poor lighting, but she remained very still as he entered, pressed upon her stomach. She was still whimpering, every once and a while her terrified voice interrupted by a soft cough or sob. The sound of it twisted him.
Grissom entered further, and had taken only a few steps when his foot struck something soft and unyielding. He paused to investigate. A corpse lay beneath his boot, causing him to recoil. It was the body of a man, broken in too many places to know which blow had killed him, flesh ripped and in some places missing entirely. Grissom bent over him, wishing suddenly that he had brought his gloves along. He touched the deceased's forehead and whispered a brief prayer. In this action he also discovered that the man's eyes, ears, and lips had been removed.
"Dear God, what demons are at work here?" Grissom murmured, climbing to his feet once more and continuing to the bed. He knelt at its side so that he might see the woman better. "Ma'am, can you hear me?" he asked quietly, staring into her face. Her eyes were wide, like those of the servant boy, but they were vacant and dark. She did not seem to notice him at first, her face contorted in a look of utter agony. When Grissom moved to check for injury upon her, he found her back scarred and bloody. The bed sheets were saturated with its liquid-shadow stain, as if she had lain for hours with the wound thus unattended.
Grissom hissed a curse beneath his breath, his hands hovering over the gross injury, distraught over how he might help her. "Duane!" he called over his shoulder, searching for a clear space of sheet to spare for a covering. But there was no untouched fabric, and so he scrambled about in the destroyed room, pulling what might have been a nightgown from the rabble. He tore it into strips, but when he moved to apply them to the wound the woman cried out suddenly, desperate, trying to edge away from him. "Ma'am, please," he said, attempting to continue his crude treatment while soothing her fear. "I am a knight—a priest, Ma'am, do not be afraid. I've come to help you." He paused long enough to call for his brother again. He knew very little about the medical arts, and if they did not come upon a doctor quickly, the lady would not have long to live. Already her skin was cold despite the blood that coated it.
"Help…me…." The woman—Lady Wellerune, he presumed—fastened a strained hand about his wrist, halting his ministrations upon her wounded back. "Father, help me," she begged, quaking from anguish and despair.
Grissom returned to his knees at her side, glancing anxiously at the door in hopes that his brother would swiftly heed his calls. "Worry not, Ma'am," he said, comforting her with a soft hand upon her chilled face. "God is with you. Can you speak to me of what has happened here? Who did these things to you?"
The Lady Wellerune trembled, and her fingers tightened, vise-like, about his arm. "Save me, help me, Father. I am cursed." She coughed violently, spitting blood upon his cuffs. "Please, Father."
"Grissom." Duane entered at last, a lantern in hand. The light reflected strangely against the severe expression his face bore. He surveyed the room briefly before moving to his brother's side. "The rest of the servants are at the other end of the hall," he reported, removing a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it over his face to quell the stench. "Among them is the Master's nephew."
"Why haven't they sent for a physician?" Grissom demanded, taking hold of the dying woman's hand. He moved his fingers over it in a way he hoped was comforting. "The Lady is gravely injured—why has she not been attended to?" Madness, that the woman of the household be left in such a state, bleeding and alone in a room possessed by devils' spirits. He found that he was trembling slightly from the injustice of it.
Duane regarded his brother silently a moment, driving him mad with how much time they were wasting. "They'll not come near her," he explained after a moment. To better display his meaning he moved the lantern over the woman, at last exposing her injury to sight. Her flesh had been lacerated not by sword stabs, as the younger knight had assumed, but by a dagger's precise markings. The carvings were arranged in letter-like patterns—glyphs that Grissom recognized.
Duane retrieved his hand, leaving the woman to gasp in darkness once more. "A curse surely is upon this place. There is nothing you can do for her now."
Grissom stared at his brother in disbelief. The man's gaze was not without sympathy, but it was also cold. He would not lift a hand to save the woman. She was dying, slowly and without chance of redemption. Grissom returned his attention to her, watching her face—once the beautiful, curved features of a mature woman—twist with agony and regret. Surely, she would die; better for them to leave, least that curse be placed on them as well.
"Father…." Lady Wellerune tugged weakly on his arm, pleading. "Please…."
Grissom pursed his lips and, ignoring his brother, edged closer to her. "Fear not, gentle Lady," he told her with firm tone. "Am I with you, as God is surely with you. Can you not feel him? He is smiling at you, M'Lady, and he hopes to see you soon. What is your given name?"
"Marguerite," the woman whispered, here eyes focusing gradually on his serious face. "Marguerite Wellerune. Father, I have sinned—"
"Hush now. He knows." He paused, turning his eyes upon the handkerchief his brother held. Reluctantly the elder relented. Grissom folded the soft fabric and used it to clean the blood and tears from Lady Wellerune's cheeks. "He knows, and he forgives you, Marguerite. For we are all his children, whom he doth welcome even when we have done wrong. Already your husband is filling himself at his Father's table. Will you not join them? They will welcome you, Marguerite, and show you His Kingdom."
The Lady Wellerune clutched at his hands, her face eager and attentive, drinking in every word from the priest's lips as he spoke more assurances. Grissom kept his voice soft and even, as if speaking to a frightened child. Behind him, Duane waited patiently, silently marveling at the strength and comfort with which his brother spoke. By now the woman was so focused on the movement of his mouth, the promise in his tales, that she ceased her crying so she could hear him better. And all the while Grissom was for her alone, gently cleaning her face and hands, tucking loose strands of pale hair behind her ear.
He didn't know how long this lasted. It seemed to take quite some time, as his legs began to cramp, and the other disturbances of the room faded into the back of his mind. At some point two men entered the cursed chamber, respectfully silent when they beheld the scene unfolding before them. Grissom glanced up only briefly to behold their identities: the first was a tall man dressed in black which he did not recognize; the second, Romeo Guildenstern. The captain met his commander's eyes long enough to convey a nod of sympathetic approval. After that, Grissom committed himself with even greater dedication to his charge.
Soon afterwards, the Lady Wellerune was dead. There was no sign at first to signal her release—she had passed on with such peace that her body made no tormented shudder, no gasp as her life at last escaped. It was as if suddenly he could tell that she was no longer listening.
With a sigh Grissom shut the woman's eyes, carefully pried the stiff fingers from his aching wrist, and sat back from the bed. He was exhausted. A kind of dull numbness had settled into his joints, not entirely from having maintained his position for so long. For a while afterward he continued to watch the unfortunate lady, comforted only slightly by the knowledge that he had eased her pain in entering death. "Duane," he murmured, at last tearing his gaze away.
"I'm here, Brother." Duane helped him to his feet, reflecting sympathy. He kept a hand on Grissom's arm to keep him steady. "You've done well. She is with God, now."
"Perhaps," murmured the stranger. Grissom turned quickly to face him. The tall man was clad in a long black cloak that swept about his ankles, disguising his body—and whether he might have carried a weapon. The sharp, angular features of his face were arranged in a look of shrewd contemplation as he inspected the recently deceased noble. "She was cursed, after all. These are unholy glyphs."
"We're quite aware of what they are, Inquisitor," Duane retorted in his brother's stead, for which he was grateful. "What business have you here, anyway? The acts of cultists are concerns for our Church, not your Parliament."
"Any murder is a matter of public safety, and therefore a matter of Parliament," the tall man countered. He paused, turning toward the pair suddenly. "And what of you? How did you know of this place?"
"Can't say it's any of your concern, you--"
Guildenstern stepped forward suddenly, interposing himself between the two men. Instantly Duane silenced, his jaw snapping almost audibly shut. The stranger--an Inquisitor, as Duane had said--looked taken aback and slightly annoyed. But Guildenstern paid them no heed. He was watching Grissom with clear, calm eyes. "Are you all right, Father?" he asked deliberately.
"Aye, sir," Grissom replied shortly, though his voice was not quite so sure as it ought to have been. He could still feel the imprints of the dying woman's hands upon his wrist, the damp stain of her blood. Moreover, the sickening odor of the room was beginning to affect him as well, making his innards twist. How could his brethren appear so calm in a place of evil such as this? He was distraught from too many emotions: pity for the woman; outrage and injustice for the cruelty of the crimes committed; disgust for the foul diablerie employed. He would have dragged the filthy bastards responsible through the streets by their cowardly hearts had he known where to look for them. And yet despite these heated intentions he found that he could barely bring himself to breathe, let alone act to find the heathen wretches.
The captain nodded, though he seemed to recognize Grissom's plight. "Good. You and Father Duane are dismissed--I shall handle matters from here."
"There's no need for any of you to stay," the Inquisitor said tersely, glaring at Guildenstern's turned back. "It's obvious this is the work of cultists."
Guildenstern snorted, casting only a brief glance in the direction of the lady's corpse. "I would beg to differ, sir," he said darkly. "I've seen cult work before and this is somewhat...sloppy." He turned to glare at the man suddenly, as if daring him to refute his words. Grissom stared in confusion as the Inquisitor averted his gaze, as if having stepped down from a challenge. What was going on? His captain was now moving toward the bed, looking as confident as ever despite the sickening aura of this cursed place. Could they not feel it, as Grissom did? It was crawling over him, tearing at his pores....
Grissom turned and strode swiftly from the room, as quickly as he could manage without looking as if he'd fled. He could hear Duane's footsteps following close behind, but even if he hadn't he would have continued on, down the stairs and out into the street once more. During his time in the manor the skies had at last loosed their tears upon the darkened land--despite all the commotion caused by the wind earlier the shower was only moderate, like a child's laughter, having tricked the city into believing a storm of some importance was upon them. Grissom ignored the rain splattering his shoulders, thankful only to have escaped that demon's den.
The crowd that had gathered earlier had now departed, save a few--the tall, bearded man, the old woman, and the servant boy were standing about Albred's recognizable form, seeking explanation and assurance. Though a storyteller to be marveled, Albred was no preacher when not faced with a willing audience, and appeared to be struggling with them. When he noticed his fellows returning, he quickly excused himself from the trio and hurried over. "There you are," he declared, as if weeks and months had passed since he saw them last. "What in God's name is happening in there? When I told the captain where you were, he came as quickly as he could."
"It's all over now," Duane told him firmly.
"Yes, apparently, but what was the matter? Still the boy will not speak."
The eldest of the three glanced to his brother, who nodded slowly. "There are black arts at work here," he began to explain, sparing Grissom from relating unpleasant details. "The master and mistress of the house slain by a devil's hand...."
He went on to describe the scene for his comrade; Albred listened, growing ever paler, shifting in the rain. Grissom had his head turned away, trying not to hear even as the words reached him with perfect clarity. He could feel that his insides were still trembling slightly. The rain slid over his hair and down his shirt collar but he didn't care. It almost felt cleansing, after having been trapped in that horrible filth of a room for so long.
Dear God, he prayed silently, his face lifted so that the droplets fell over him like tears. I pray that you shall comfort the lady, now that I cannot. And...I pray you.... His fists tightened reflexively. Punish the ungodly heathens that caused this.
Grissom's sight was distracted momentarily by a shifting of movement off to his right. By all accounts it should have been impossible to see so faint a disturbance amidst the rain; nevertheless his gaze fell upon the cloaked figure of a small man, standing in an alley some ways down the all but deserted street. After the original motion that had attracted Grissom to him he remained quite still, buried beneath folds of soaked fabric. Even then, however, his body was turned in such a way that anyone could clearly see the focus of the stranger's lingering vigil.
He knows.
Grissom's focus jumped from the cloaked man to the manor he'd just left, and back once more. Gradually the trembling began to leave his soaked and weary limbs. Was this some sign? He took a testing step forward, and instantly the stranger's head turned beneath his hood, regarding the knight without so much as a sound. Slowly, the figure began to drift backward, into the alleyway shadows that had been it's birthing.
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