Plague pt. Two

The bitter winter winds whipped past Peter as the slowly made their way down the dirt-trodden road towards the hamlet supposedly in need, the utter cold seeping through his furs and into his skin, numbing his body with frost. Peter ignored it, something he was used to doing, and did his best to keep pace with his would-be mentor, the still as-of-yet named man he had taken to calling Raven. Their walk, which was now going into its second hour, was done with little conversation, just a few mumbled words from Raven here and there that Peter could barely make out. The brisk night air was bright with starlight which, despite the tall trees growing about them, was more than enough to allow them full visibility without the need for a torch or lantern.

Raven had told him the town was mainly a logging camp that had grown too large to be called as such anymore, developing over the last forty years into a farming community that grew barley and rye throughout the year, their fields ever expanding as the woodcutters cleared away vast swathes of forest for their farming cousins. Altogether, a fairly humble place home to fairly humble people, that rarely if ever called for assistance from the outside world. About a week earlier, a boy had stumbled into town, seeking the aid of the Church and their doctors, claiming that the town had been overtaken by the fast-acting illness.

Peter was a little surprised when he was told how the boy was quickly slain; his body burned before it even grew cold and stiff, in order to ensure the illness did not spread. A small detachment of armed soldiers had formed a loose perimeter around the village, isolating them and barring them from leaving the area, effectively placing them under quarantine. As they grew closer to the village, Peter caught sight of the soldiers, all wearing the same Raven-esque masks as his supposed mentor, though without the full leather suit that accompanied it. They walked like soldiers, stiff and with purpose, and all had longbows slung over their shoulders. One reported to Raven that they had already slain three men who had come stumbling from the village a few hours ago, to which Raven merely nodded as if this were acceptable.

“When we arrived, the entire village was practically deserted, with the sick cloistered within their homes, the streets littered with corpses.” One of the soldiers calmly explained. “We kept a good distance away, and made certain to track any movement we could find. So far there’s only been a few isolated incidents, though I imagine that will be changing soon?”

“I would hazard a guess that you would be correct. If my calculations are right, we are moving into the thirtieth hour of exposure, a rather pivotal time frame if I do say so myself.” Raven replied, pulling a long stiletto blade from his belt. Tossing it to Peter, he let out a dry chuckle. “That axe of yours should see some work today, but be sure to keep that close by in case of an emergency.”

“Against plague victims? Are you joking?” Peter snarled, mood still sour from his fate as a Church doctor. “What, will I be hacking the corpses into small enough pieces to burn then?”

Raven was silent for the briefest of moments before he let out a long, high-pitched whinny of laughter. “Yes,” he choked amidst his laughter, “Yes, you will be doing exactly that!”

Peter fumed at the very thought of the amount of disrespect he was being shown. He should be in the North, leading his people as his father had trained him! But due to the wiles of a religious zealot and his army, he was banished to the lowliest of jobs, in a faraway land, as a slave to some strange plague-doctor.

The town was buried deep within the Black Forest, a vast expanse of densely packed trees and darkened paths, trodden dirt paths acting as the veins to the whole of the forest, twisting and turning in an near endless series of spirals and drops. Raven took it all in stride, sliding down the steepened path when needed with the grace akin to the mountain goats Peter had grown near, leaping to and fro to avoid knotted roots and jutting rocks that would otherwise make this path a difficult one for him.

Peter merely tackled the path as any proper Norsemen would: headlong and with unyielding might. Thick leather treads crushed rocks beneath his feet and tore corded roots free of the cold-packed earth. He had abandoned all form of decorum and already drawn his ancestral axe, the heavy haft granting him a sense of peace that he had sorely been lacking the past few weeks, traveling amongst the “civilized” people. Raven had said nothing when Peter had drawn the large blade, his head only inclining a touch at the sheer size of the weapon, and probably in wonderment of how Peter had been able to conceal it as well as he had.

“The village is up ahead,” Raven said, breaking the silence of their march and coming to a sudden halt. Peter trudged up next to him, peering easily over the shorter man’s head and through the brush of the wood at the town that lay before them.

Ringed by barren fields of frost-ridden soil, a small cluster of squat stone houses sat quietly behind a low cobblestone wall. Several barns were visible from their vantage point, the doors thrown wide open… looters had obviously come to the weakened settlement in search of plunder. Peter had seen it often enough, hell, he’d done it a few times as a young soldier. His keen sight allowed him to see that beneath the soft dusting of snow there were several mounds.

Bodies, long dead if he was any judge of the matter.

Raven pushed onward, pulling a small crossbow from his side and carefully loading it, ignoring the drifting snowflakes that had begun to flutter down from high above. Peter smiled at his mentor’s line of thought, arming himself in case any looters remained. Now he could see why he was here! To defend this man as he cleansed the bodies of the living and dead of this foul disease, to protect him from those that would take advantage of the weak and ill.

As he moved to jog past him, Raven’s hand clasped his shoulder in a movement so sudden it caused Peter to spin off balance for a moment. “We stay together, no wandering off.” Raven ordered as he pulled a wide-brimmed hat from his satchel, fastening it over atop his mask.

“I can handle myself!” Peter growled, throwing the hand from his shoulder with a jerk. “No man can cross blades with me and live, least of all some puny looter or bandit!”

“And I fully believe you, but my orders remain: stay with me, no going off alone.” Raven said calmly. “Between the cover of snow and our small numbers, I would prefer that we work together. Besides,” he said with a low chuckle, “I could have sworn you are my apprentice, are you not?”

“Yes…” Peter growled out, hands tightening over the haft of his great axe.

“Than do not question me.” Raven ordered with a hint of cheer lacing his muffled voice. “Stay by my side, and keep that behemoth of a blade away from me; I’d rather not die today, and one wild swing will leave me as open as a broken door.”

They continued closer to the village, snow and ice crunching beneath their feet as they crossed the barren fields. Raven came to a halt some twenty yards before the break in the low wall, twin lamp posts rising from the worked stone dark, candle wax having dribbled out and frozen along the way. Guess with the plague they couldn’t spare anyone to put out their lights… Peter idly thought as he watched Raven root about in a small side bag. What the hell is he doing now?

“Tell me Peter,” Raven said in a conversational tone as he pulled a small wooden whistle from the pouch. “Have you ever used one of these before?”

Peter snorted at the stupidity of the question, but chose to merely shrug. “Nay, I was no shepherd, nor a watchman. I know enough to use it though, why? Why do you ask such a question?”

“Because of my mask, I cannot use it, obviously. So I would like you to do me the honor of taking it and blowing it as long and loud as you can.” Raven said, a smile clearly hidden behind his facial covering. “And to of course keep a cool head for me.”

Peter shook his head, snatching the offered whistle with his meaty hand. “I truly do not understand how your people have come to conquer all of Europe in such a fashion… utter morons, asking me to reveal our position in such a way.”

“Just blow the whistle for me.” Raven chirped, rocking back and forth on his heels happily.

Peter sighed before placed the simple wooden instrument between his wind-chilled lips, taking in a deep breath of frigid air and letting loose a shrill shriek that lasted well over half a minute. The cry echoed all about them, calling back from the darkened wood surrounding them, a haunting cry far different from the high-pitched screech he had let loose. He tossed the whistle behind him, ignoring Raven’s sudden intake of breath and glared at the reflective lenses that served as his master’s eyes.

“There! Are you happy now? Now everyone within a mile knows we’re here!” Peter cried, waving his arms high above his head, the heavy-ended blade of his axe digging a deep trench to his right as he swung it about. “Damn thing was loud enough to wake the dead, so we’ll not find anyone to hold responsible for the looting now!”

“Rarely have there been truer words spoken, my dear Viking.” Raven said with a long sigh, twirling his crossbow about between his gloves. “But looters and thieves are not what we came to seek, and are not what I brought you here to aid me with.”

“Than what then?” Peter howled, his temper finally flaring at the sheer stupidity of the entire situation. “I am a son of Odin and Thor, a warrior that was bred for the battlefield! I have no need for your false god nor his martyr of a child! I need only a foe to fight, and a battle to be won! No man can stand before me, and here I am, trapped as the servant of a cowardly healer that hides behind the face of death as if he can lay claim to its domain!”

Whatever Raven’s reply would have been was kept silent as a low howl of the winter wind whipped through the woods, the very trees groaning as if alive. A noise he had heard many times in his own native home, yet such noises were always accompanied by a gentle breeze. After a few moments of the groan growing louder, Peter could hear multiple different octaves within the noise, akin to a flock of birds crying as they flew from danger.

Turning, he watched the village as it seemed to be coming alive before his very eyes.

The slumped forms of the dead partially buried beneath the snow were rising sluggishly from beneath their icy covering, blue-tinged flesh drawn taut over their bones, pockmarked with countless open sores that leaked thin rivulets of dark molasses. Dressed in a mixture of night clothes to work clothes, to a few fully nude, men and women began to crawl from the recesses and corners of the village where they had lay hidden, jaws wide open, a distraught cry rising from their frostbitten lips. Stumbling woodenly, arms outstretched, the crowd of plague-stricken peasants began to advance upon Peter and his whistling mentor.

“Halt!” Peter cried, waving his axe in front of him to show them he was armed. “We’ve come to aid you! Return to your homes and we will begin treating your injuries, and tending to the illness!”

His cry fell on deaf ears as the crowd continued their advance, slowly gaining speed as their thin sheets of ice broke away from their flesh. One, a large man that easily rivaled Peter in size, stumbled headlong into the low wall, grunting in frustration as the cobblestone impeded his path. With a series of sickening cracks, the heavy man crawled over the wall, his thick fingers cracking beneath his heavy weight and the strain he was putting them under. He tumbled over the wall and, without pausing a moment, began crawling to his feet. A hideous moan wracked from his throat, wordless and primal.

“They won’t listen Peter,” Raven said quietly, moving to stand beside him. All humor had left his voice, which was now harder than steel. “The Plague that we came to cleanse is now before us, a curse that afflicts man and woman alike, forcing them to rise from the grave. We must prevent it from spreading, my friend. I hope you are ready to do what is needed.”

Peter studied the crowd slowly closing in upon them, hands outstretched with hooked fingers, mouths wider than humanly possible. He almost couldn’t believe such abominations could exist, save for when he caught sight of their eyes, set loosely back within their skulls, glazed over like the eyes of the monster fish he and his brothers would dredge from the churning waters of the Atlantic; cold and glassy, unfocused and dark.

These things were anything but human, and as one finally came within reach of him, a young woman naked from the waist up, he made his decision with a sudden snap of his wrist, his axe springing forth and connecting into her side just beneath her arm, a solid, wet noise cracking through the crisp night air.

She remained standing, arms flailing about wildly as she hissed and howled. Peter was momentarily stunned, staring at the head of his axe, how half of the hardened iron was buried deep within the woman’s ribcage. Something she didn’t really seem to notice, somehow. The strike had felt as if he were trying to fell a century old tree, her body as solid as rock for reasons he couldn’t begin to understand.

Her wild flailing ended as a slim crossbow bolt pierced her left temple, cracking through the thin section of bone with a sickening crunch. Peter turned his head to see Raven already reloading his crossbow, a long serrated knife held in a defensive position in his left hand. “Go for their limbs or their heads, winter has granted them a boon by freezing their insides!” He cried, unloading another bolt into the crowd, striking the heavy man with the broken fingers in the left eye, his body slumping to the ground with a crunching of ice as several more of the groaning dead crawled over his bulk.\

The woman at the end of his axe, now merely a frozen corpse, was quickly removed with the proper application of Peter’s thick boot, leaving his blade covered in bits of mottled grey flesh and tissue. The force of his blade leaving her body carried onward and, with a savage howl, Peter spun the blade above his head and through the neck and shoulder of another blue-tinged undead, ending its high pitched moans with a sudden screech.

Raven darted forward, long blade twirling in his hand almost playfully as he lashed outward, severing groping fingers and hands with brutal efficiency, his crossbow letting loose the occasional twang as he fired bolt after bolt into the approaching dead. The center region of their torsos was nothing but ice and frozen muscle, allowing the shambling horrors a strange amount of resilience; it mattered not to Peter.

Peter was Norse.

Peter was a soldier of Odin, a true follower of the Father-God’s ways and practitioner of his sacred teachings.

He found himself praying, in between gasps for breath, as he swung his axe into the frost-hardened corpses that were slowly overcoming him. His prayers grew louder when, due to a particularly fast victim of the plague (a young child, though the cold had caused much of its skin to fall away, preventing any way of identifying what its gender once was), he found himself separated from Raven, plunged headlong into the mass of frigid limbs and gaping, bloodless maws.

As the grey hands grew more and more fervent, grabbing at his furs and tugging at his pelt, his prayer’s became far louder, his screams rising almost as high as the chorus of moans coming from the innumerable horde pressing in all around him. Peter could feel their nails, cold as the grave, pierce and tear into his chiseled muscles. He howled in agony as their teeth broke through his boiled leather and tore into his corded muscle.

And still he fought on, swinging his axe in wide arcs, loudly crying to the heavens the prayers of his forefathers, and of theirs. As his blood flowed freely from his body, the warmth of life ebbing rom his very core, he cursed the name of Olaf, cursed his sniveling uncle… and most of all, he cursed the name of that damnable false god that had caused all of his misery, and lead to this horrible death. He prayed that soon he would be with his ancestors in Valhalla, and that all of this would become nothing but a tale he told to his fellow warriors in heaven.

His hands aching with fatigue and cold, his grip slackened just enough for his axe to go flying from his grip mid-swing. Peter idly noted with pride that even without trying, the blade was able to cut deep into the flesh of one of the attackers, lodging deep into the chest of a slack-faced man missing the right half of his face.

As the edges of his vision began to fade to black, his ears filled with the thundering sound of his own blood and the innumerable moans of the dead, Peter smiled. Smiled and laughed, as he knew he would soon be with his father, and his fallen brothers. He had fallen in combat, and while he had not claimed the lives of any more enemies of his people, he had at least escaped the clutches of the Church and their fool of a god.

And that was enough for Peter, as it would be for any true Norseman.

High above the carnage playing out in the ice-packed fields of Relmut, a lone child squatted atop the low, steeped roof of the town’s church, idly twirling the iron cylinder that dangled from a long length of chain from around her neck. Her flesh, paler than the untouched snow at her bare feet, twitched as the wind carried the scent of fresh blood up to her, carried the screams of the living as they slowly gave way to the inevitability of death. Smiling, she palmed the cold tube, thumb running over the frosted skull topping it, and murmured a prayer she had murmured many times over her long life.

The doctor was the first to go, pinned beneath a mountain of flailing limbs and jagged teeth as the dead she commanded had charged at him, moving around the gigantic Northerner in order to gain a better vantage point to attack. The young boy who had spit upon her, whose skin now hung over her like a sinister cloak, had served his purpose when she had mentally commanded him to sacrifice himself, tripping the Viking up and sending him deeper into her army of hungering dead.

Her smile grew wider as she could feel the doctor’s life essence drift from the mob, slowly drifting towards her and her phylactery. A flash of memories flew through her mind as his life, his very soul, joined the thousands of others trapped within her toy; Alice caressed the tube lovingly as she awaited the soul of her Viking friend to come forth, one she had yet to sample and, she hoped, would prove far more entertaining than the countless serfs and peasants she had supped upon so far.

“The Black Death…” She said aloud, voice honeyed and sweet like a summer’s day. “Death to all who would try and quell us, and our kind…”

She had cursed God for allowing her to fall prey to a similar fate, just as the Viking now was. She had screamed and cried as the illness robbed her of her strength, sapping away everything that made her human. The only difference between the two of them was that she believed in God, and was now serving the other side… her hatred of that mad God and his Church had allowed her to rise as something far more powerful than the Ghouls she commanded. Just as such hatred had done for all of the Reapers in the world, those that spread the true word of the “Lord.”

“There is no such thing as eternal life.” She intoned with a smile as the Viking gave his last cry, falling beneath the tide of putrefied flesh. “The only true eternity is found in Death… come serve him, and spread his word. Spread the truth.”

She watched as the Viking rose unsteadily from the crowd of undead, her mental call for them to fall back working faster than any bugle or drum. His dead eyes opened glassy, dull. With but a single thought, he wrenched his massive axe free from the chest of one of his new comrades, and began slowly walking into the village, towards her.

“Will you help me spread the word?” She asked him, high atop the church, knowing full well that he would. After all, he was now a devote follower of the truth. How could he say no?

Plague

Peter was not a man of the cloth, at least from what you would guess by looking at him. Old far beyond his time, the young Norsemen was a recent convert to the Church, following his Fief’s wide swept conversion lead by their “benevolent” king. Olaf was many things, but kind was rarely one of them; he had issued commands throughout all of the North that all of his followers were to accept Jesus as their spiritual lord, or face the figurative fires of Hell, and the literal fires of Olaf’s wrath.

The conversion had little effect on Peter’s life, truth be told. He was still a soldier in the name of his Fief and King, he was still a mountain of corded muscle and tribal tattoos, face worn dry by the bitter winds of the northern seas. The only real difference was that he had more work now, as he was offered up by his King to the priesthood, as a token of goodwill.

Peter snorted at the very thought. Goodwill… Olaf was wise in sending Peter south, far from the beautiful peaks of his homeland. Peter’s father had been a strong rival of Olaf, been one of the last of the Fief lords to oppose him. He hadn’t surrendered in the face of Olaf’s larger armies, nor his exotic soldiers from the far-flung edges of the Christian world… he had stayed true to the way of the North, to remain as stalwart and strong as the mountains that bore them. A mere handful of Peter’s clan survived, and only due to the fact that the Christians were inclined to take captives.

Not as slaves mind you, though they had a fair share of those amidst their ranks, but as converts. Among the survivors had been Peter, a score of women and children, and Peter’s uncle Ulag. Olaf had offered Ulag the throne to the newly conquered Fief, on the condition that the region would convert to the new religion, and that they would pay large sums of tribute annually. A final, smaller note amidst the wheeling and dealing the weasels Olaf had sent as emissaries and his cowardly uncle had been to send Peter to the Church, to become a priest.

So here he was, clad in his traditional furs and leathers, strolling down the paved streets of Sankt Veit an der Glan, the home of his new patron and master, and of the church he would be serving. Peter did his best to console himself with the changes, though the wide eyed stares from the truly miniscule people surrounding him did little to ease his temper. Whereas he wore several layers of wolf pelts over a set of boiled leather armor, these doddering German fools wandered the streets in thin layers of wool and silk, their only armaments thin black sticks that seemed more for show than any real purpose.

Peter tightened his grip over the haft of his axe, the wide double-edged instrument fully covered by the aged bear pelt he wore as a cloak, his first kill as a man some ten winters earlier. His hand had yet to stray from his blade, something he merely shrugged off as a warrior’s instinct, choosing to ignore the small voice in his head telling him it was because he was afraid of all of this, of his new future as a man of God.

After asking for directions (as best he could, with what little German he actually knew) he was finally able to find his destination: Rabe an Basilika, loosely translated to be the Raven’s Basilica. Lovely name, Peter thought sardonically as he shoved his way through the crowd of dwarves meandering about the street, much to their consternation. Why these slovenly barbarians have to come up with such silly names is beyond me…

While the rest of the city was crafted with thick slabs of stone and darkened wood, the looming figure of the Raven’s Basilica was one of dark iron and polished black marble, a high tower rising above the wooden roofs and columns of smoke that glinted faintly from the setting sun. Easily visible from the moment Peter had caught sight of the city, he had not even known what the building could have been, but upon learning that it was the home of the local clergy, he had let out a burst of deep laughter, so amused by the revelation. The very idea that the spirits would require such a luxurious home would be almost insulting back home, yet here in the so-called civilized lands, the Living God demanded tribute in such odd ways. What did he need such large buildings for?

Peter smiled as he drew closer to darkened building, shaking his head at the sheer audacity that these Christians showed; he had read their supposed holy texts, something that surprised many he encountered. Most assumed that since he was from the North, he was nothing but a ravaging marauder of men, more beast than human in the finer of arts. But Peter’s father had made certain he could read, so that should he ever find a need for it, he would have the proper skills readily at hand. He could distinctly remember reading in the texts how their prophet had warned against greed and opulence, insisting that if his followers wished to truly emulate him, they would divulge themselves of all worldly possessions and dedicate their lives to helping their fellow man, as God wished for them to do.

The gigantic structure before him was anything but humble, and absolutely reeked of wealth and power. Great metal doors, embossed with thousands of tiny birds in mid-flight, ascending to the heavens, stood before him, set into black marble walls and above marble steps. Twin gargoyles loomed overhead, both essentially gigantic Ravens carved with absolute care from a single piece of Obsidian. A slight layer of frost had already begun to settle over the doors as Peter pushed them open, the darkened skies above promising a cold night for any unfortunate enough to stay about to experience it.

The interior, a dark hall full of cold stone pews lined before a high crucifix set along the far wall, a morbid display of prolonged death, suffering and apparently salvation. Thick wax candles glimmered softly, a thousand glowing lights piercing the darkened cathedral, casting long, flickering shadows against the thick marble columns. A short line of robed monks, heads bowed in prayer, knelt before the tall relief of their Lord, their hushed prayers echoing along the high walls like the low buzz of marsh flies.

“A new convert, perhaps?” Came a low, grumbling voice from the shadows. Peter half drew his axe from beneath his cloak before a thin hand stopped him, resting along his forearm. “Ah, you must be Peter then?”

He merely grunted in acknowledgement, readjusting his axe and its sling beneath his furs, eyes locked on the arm that had snaked from the shadows, along with the man it was attached to. Obviously a man of the cloth if the numerous crosses sewn into his leather armor, though from the way he moved, as well as the strength he exhibited beneath his leather-clad hands, he was also clearly a warrior. Dark-dyed leather allowed him to blend into the shadows of the Basilica, the carefully stitched material covering every square inch of his body, hugging it like a mother would a child. While not as tall or broad as Peter, he was nowhere near as small as the insects praying to their false god, nor the dwarves wandering the streets of the barbarous city. His face was a mystery, trapped behind a full-mask wrapped about his head, a thick hooked beak drooping from his face in lieu of a mouth, a pair of glinting glass covers over his eyes acting as his only portal to the world outside his leather-bound bodice.

It was what plague-doctors wore, men and women who went to regions stricken with the Black Death, a horrid sickness that supposedly seeped into your very soul, corrupting you from within until your mortal flesh couldn’t handle the darkness within, bursting with a sour-smelling black ichor like an over-stuffed turkey. Odd that a priest would dress in such a fashion, but then again, all of the people in the South were odd to Peter.

“I had imagined you as a giant, but the reality is far greater than the idea!” The man crowed delightfully, slapping Peter playfully upon the shoulder, beckoning him to follow him into the darkness. The man disappeared through a darkened doorway that had so far remained hidden to Peter’s well trained eyes, another thing about this horrid structure he could add to the list of reasons it should be burnt down.

The hallway was narrow and lightless, a dim glow in the distance serving as their only guide. The man chattered on like a gull at low tide as they walked, speaking of the many adventures they would be sharing and of the lives they would save. Peter groaned internally at the very thought and cursed Olaf and his cowardly uncle once more… sending him to some distant church full of religious lunatics to become a healer for the damned! What a waste of his hard-earned skills and labors from years of military training. They’d probably ask him to even hand up his axe… what a thought!

The light at the end of the tunnel was from a large hearth, roaring flames instantly suffusing Peter with healthy warmth he had not even realized he’d lost. The room itself was circular in nature, with four smaller cubicles branching off to form small bedchambers that, while open to the center of the room and it’s hearth, were able to provide a notable amount of privacy for those lying down to rest. The walls between the bedchambers were lined with shelves, crammed full with tomes and scrolls, jars and artifacts. Several small globes hung from the high ceiling, all rev9olving slowly about the largest one along thin wires. Several small tables lay strewn about, artificer’s tools and books laid out haphazardly between them. Two other men stood in the room by the high flames, drinking deeply from simple wooden bowls. Both were dressed in the typical priestly vestments: flowing white robes decorated with red finery. One was older than most Peter had ever met a stooped vulture of a man that leaned heavily on a small cane. The other was a younger man, probably younger than Peter, and seemed to defer to the older priest as if he served him.

“You’re late.” The Vulture drawled, a thick accent almost making the butchered German completely useless.

The Raven bowed deeply, sweeping a thin cape that seemed to be connected to his elbows back dramatically, a long string of light, musical words filtering from his mask in a language Peter had never heard before. Great… he though miserably, am I going to have to learn yet ANOTHER one of these horrid tongues?

The younger man took the older’s elbow and helped him move to sit by the hearth, murmuring in the same lilting tones as the Raven in a way that seemed to calm the Vulture’s sudden spike in ire. The Raven continued speaking to Vulture, soothing tones mixed in with his garbled words as he handed him a wooden cup, pouring him a small measure of wine from a stoppered decanter. After a few slow sips, the Vulture once again turned his milky eyes onto Peter, a scowl gracing his thin lips.

“So he is to be your protector then? A heathen?” The Vulture spat, glaring at Peter as if he were some useless cow. “I suppose he could have his uses, but his Grace would still prefer it if you were to have a few Schweizergarde along with you as well; a measure of intellect can go much further than mere muscle can.”

“My dear Cardinal, I assure you he will be more than I truly need, and appreciate your concerns. I have only taken him in, as it were, due to his Grace’s wishes.” The Raven replied cheerfully, dropping to a nearby stool with a casualness not often displayed before such high-ranking officials. “I barely operate within the bounds of the Church, and while I know that is irksome to you, I would suggest you get used to the idea.”

The Cardinal scowled even further, heavy lines creasing his face as he set his cup down to the side with the deliberate movements of the old and infirmed. “If you choose to ignore our most gracious of offers once more, who am I to say anything over it? Always be aware that the offer stands, and that I could have three of our finest soldiers here within a fortnight to assist you in your… endeavors.”

“Rest assured, my endeavors will always be aligned with the goals of the Church and his Holiness. By your leave, I offer you a home for the evening before you wish to return to Italia; travel by night is rarely as safe as one would hope.”

The Cardinal waved away the suggestion with a disgusted face. “Bah, I will be fine. I’ve had enough of the cold North.” Turning a gimlet eye upon Peter, the elderly priest let out a dry wheeze. “How your kin survive in climes such as this is beyond my comprehension, especially without the grace of our Lord for so long. Truly, a miracle if ever there was one.”

Peter chose not to respond, merely staying silent as the two priests slowly made their way from the comfort of the hearth and into the darkened hall. Raven, reclining now along the low table with feet propped high upon an overturned cauldron, lolled his head to the side to look at peter through his rose-tinted lenses. “The Church has been hounding me for months to take on an apprentice, someone to aid me in my war against the darkness that has been consuming Europe these past few decades. They keep trying to foist onto me some of their own, someone that they can depend upon to report back to them about my actions and my methods. I have to thank the fates that you were sent to me at this time, to help me in my hour of need.”

“You can thank my treacherous family and their silver-tongued advisors…” Peter grumbled as he pushed Raven’s feet from the cauldron and dropped down upon it, snatching the cup that the Cardinal had left half-empty and taking the last swallow. “Blech, even the spirits of this land taste horrible.”

Raven chuckled, a low reverberating echo from within his hood. “It does take some getting used to, but we’ll have plenty of time for that later. Now that you’re here, we have some business to attend to.”

“Business?” Peter asked, already bored with the line of thought.

“Yes, we are needed in a small town due south of here, near the border of the Black Forest.” Raven said, rising to his feet with a practiced fluidity. “Relmut has been struck by the Plague it would seem, and we’re needed there as soon as can be.”

The Abyssal Maw

From darkness it rises,

All enveloping

Twin crescent pools of pitiless silver

That rest

Above an Abyssal Maw;

Needles and knives shift along

Chitin and bone,

Set deep back into a skull

Like so many men past

After years of six-deep rest.

The moons judge

Quivering yet unwavering

Seeking an answer to a question

Not yet asked.

The skull drifts closer, slinking along the warm current

A curtain of shimmering hair hovering silently in it’s wake.

The Abyssal Maw widens,

Teeth pulling back as the jaw creaks

A silent scream echoes through the water

The question now asked,

I try and find the words to reply.

The Abyssal Maw drifts ever closer,

A sinuous body of dreadful scale

And hardened bone that

Lazily

Push it ever closer to me.

Closer to an answer I do not have.

This flower of the macabre is now close enough

For the moons to be mirrors

Showing me what I truly am

And for what I can be.

I have my answer, as does it.

If by the way the head rears back

Into a cloud of beauty can show me.

Like an arrow fired

Into a starless

Sky

The Abyssal Maw darts away into

The

Void

A rush of warmth

And shame

Washing over me

As I watch it swim away

The Abyssal Maw

A creature as old as it

Is young

Has judged me

And I have

Failed.

Upon Dark Wing

Upon Dark Wing

That which has haunted my dreams for a fortnight or more,

Pale of flesh and gleaming red eyes which bore,

Jaunting along walls, inhuman movements terrifying to behold,

Has finally come to claim that which has been sold

Crimson dead eyes dance long my supine frame

As if seeking which part first to claim

My tender meat and warm blood it does desire

But it visibly curbs such wants due to a higher power

“You know why,” its says, the words cutting my mind like a knife

“That tonight is the last night of your miserable life?”

And know well I do, I happily admit,

That tonight will be the night of my final exit

“Will I see her? Will she be there?” I croak to inquire,

“Will she be with me, in the Heavenly Choir?”

The creature’s eyes grow wide, teeth a silvery gleam

A horrid dark chuckle rumbling from its throat and it starts to sing.

“She burns as well as the rest.” It sings soothing my worries.

“For her sins done in life, the flames bury her with unholy fury.”

The Beast now looms overhead, arms stretched out as if to embrace

And I find myself leaning in, the cold of death breathing soft on my face.

“So long as she burns, than all shall be well.

Take me dear Angel, for my fears have been quelled.”

Cradled like a child to chilled breast,

Hugging me close with no protests,

The Angel takes flight upon rotted black wing

The fell chill of death now stilling my joyous heart,

Dragging my soul to where the Seraphim still sing.

The Many Misadventures of Master Mystery: Murderous Mohrgs from the Moors, Part Four

      Previously

      “…So I tells the bloke, why not just put the bloody ting on the mantle an’ call it yer mum!” Charles finishes his story with a snort and a laugh, on shared by everyone at the table save Reginald, who was nursing the last of his Absinthe with both a look of bliss and disdain.

So far he’d been slumming it with these magical dock workers, all clearly descended from Troll or perhaps even Ogre stock, and he’d yet to have even gotten a bit of lip service to the murders within Whitechapel.

Oh, he’d gleaned a few things here and there. The murderer was targeting magical people, specifically women. The murderer was removing organs after the fact, but was particularly brutal in his methodology, generally slitting the throat of the victim in a fashion that O’Donahue referred to as a “Chelsea Grin.” So far the public, and indeed Reginald himself, had been convinced those targeted were mere ladies of the evening.

That was what all of the clues pointed to, in any sense.

Sipping from his second bottle of Absinthe, Reginald steeped his fingers before himself as he pretended to listen to the boisterous workers as they told their bawdy tales and sordid deeds. He’d already woven a subtle charm over himself to make those around him merely “forget” he was there, and in doing so was learning more and more about the London underground.

The only victim reported to the police so far had been dear Mary Anne, who had inde3ed been a prostitute.

She’d also been part-Succubae, a descendent of a fiend that fed off of latent sexual energy from their string of lovers. For a being such as her, a profession such as that of a working girl seemed appropriate. There had been two other deaths that hadn’t been reported due to their… sensitive nature. One was a Witch from Nottingham that had come to town with the intent to sell a good deal of treated opium, her liver and spleen cut from her body with unique precision.

The third victim was the daughter of a local Hedge Wizard, a sort of magical repair man for the supernatural community. Emily Schroeder had died a horrid death to say the very least, but she’d at least been able to put up a fight. She’d been found dead, her throat slashed and neck broke, numerous organs missing from a savaged chest cavity… but a few feet from her lay a silver knife with what Charles had described as “charred goo.”

With that tidbit of information, along with the knowledge that the killer seemed to prefer hunting those of the supernatural community, Reginald had a good deal to begin his case with. Now all he had to do was wriggle his way onto the case itself…

***

            Sitting in perhaps the stiffest wooden chair in all of London, Reginald quietly picked the smallest pieces of lint from his black silken clothes as the Detective Inspector looked over his documentation citing him as an “outside source called in to aid the local Police with the rising rate of crime in Whitechapel,” or some other such nonsense. He’d merely glamoured a newspaper to reflect impressive qualifications, along with a message proclaiming him to be the Metropolitan Police force’s newest forensics expert.

            Perhaps the only thing not to be a bold faced lie upon that paper was his self-proclaimed title of forensics expert. Over the years Reginald had discovered that the budding world of science was in no way an enemy to the ancient world of magic, but more of a complimentary tool that could be used side by side with his esoteric forms of investigation, providing him not only a new perspective with which to look at a crime, but evidence he could present to normal people without having to resort to such… petty trickery, like some common street magician.

            “So… Master Reginald,” The Inspector said, clearing his throat as he folded the magically enhanced newspaper in half, placing it gently atop his paper strewn desk next to his lukewarm cup of tea. “I must say it is something of a relief to be getting a man of your qualifications at such a time as this. I’m sure you’ve heard of the recent killing in the Whitechapel district, no doubt?”

            “Of course,” Reginald replies, bobbing his head as in ascent. Reading the man’s aura, Reginald could tell he was a ball of nerves string far too taut, with too little rest. His words rang true to say the least: he was glad to have someone of the visiting Wizards supposed skills around. “I know I am from America, but my skills are among the finest in the western world I assure you. Allow me a chance to take a crack at this killer and perhaps I’ll uncover a stone as of yet unturned.”

            He waves his hands in front of him, leaning back in his far more comfortable chair with a smile upon his moustached face. “By all means, please do. The poor girl is still in the morgue, the poor lass; the clergymen have been up in arms at my refusal to release her remains for a proper burial, but with the recent advances in medicine and forensics…”

            “You wanted to wait for an expert to examine her before turning her over for burial.” Reginald finishes for him, nodding in understanding. “Well I happen to be such an expert, so let’s get this unpleasantness undone, shall we?”

Both men stand up, the portly detective grunting as he gets to his feet, tugging at his vest to smooth out the wrinkles. Reginald ran his thumb over the head of his walking stick, activating an enchantment that made those around him seem to disregard him, making them suddenly remember something of great importance or that they’d forgotten something instead of noticing the magical detective.

“That’s alright Detective Inspector, I know where the morgue is and already have the clearance granted by you to perform the autopsy.” Reginald said with a kind smile, allowing a bit of energy to flow into his walking stick to empower the confusing aura it gave off. “Just give me the papers and I’ll be on my way. I imagine you have more important matters than watching a yank cut into a stiff, eh?”

The detective stared at Reginald for a moment before shaking his head, muttering to himself how he did have a notice that needed to be addressed. He leaned over his desk and grabbed a small stack of papers, as well as a golden badge that would allow him access to restricted areas of any police stations. Accepting them with a kind smile and firm handshake, Reginald allowed the heavy set man to drop back into his chair, a relaxed sigh escaping his lips.

Reginald made his way from the office towards the morgue, a room set in the basement of the Metro Police station. Walking past several officers at a brisk pace, he quickly shuffled through the papers that the befuddled Detective Inspector, magically altering certain portions to grant him further access here, allowing him certain privileges there.

Descending the stairs two steps at a time, Reginald quickly made his way to the morgue with a sense of familiarity. All places that housed the dead were of course more attuned to the magical world due to the passage of the souls from this world to the next. Stopping at the door to the morgue, Reginald straightens his coat, reaching into his pocket for a small tool kit bound with a leather thong.

Knocking on the door hurriedly, Reginald waited to see if anyone was within the morgue at the moment.

“Come in!” A woman’s voice called out, hollow and watery.

Smiling grimly, Reginald pushes the door open into the dimly lit room holding five bodies on metal push tables, along with three specters hovering about, all bearing horrendous wounds they’d sustained in life. One familiar ghost drifted down from her perch atop a cabinet, her clothes silvery where the blood spattered wounds had been inflicted upon her in life. Her throat was savagely torn to utter shreds, whereas her abdominal wounds were neat and precise.

She lunged forward, her sunken features seemingly elated at the very sight of him. “You came after all!” She cried her voice watery as silvery fluids seeped from her opened wound. She wrapped herself around him in what would have been a hug had she been solid, but was more of a chilling wind combined with the slimy feel of ectoplasm seeping through his clothes.

Today was turning out to be as bad as he thought it would be. 
Next

Son of a Preacher Man: The Carver, Part Three

Previously

The rest of the meal passed pleasantly enough for me, though Takeshi kept his eyes locked on me the whole time as he ate his steak. I myself merely had ordered the Seafood platter to appease the nervous waitress, who seemed to somehow be nervous around me. Perhaps she could sense what I was.

Curious.

We make idle chatter, catching up on old times like old friends often do, doing my best to break the ice with a few jokes or humorous tales I’d heard during my long life. As he finished his steak and began on his baked potato, I pulled an envelope from my wallet and placed it on the table. Looking at it, he looked back to my eyes with the same nervous tension that I’d tried so hard to quell.

“Now I know you believe me to be the perpetrator in this “Carver” case of yours, and I must admit my hand was involved.” I say, holding my hands up as if to surrender. “But the wholesale slaughter of so many, all in one night… it’s just not good business to do so.”

“What is good business to you then Salinger?” He asked, an edge to his voice.

“Please, call me Shylock. Good business to me is leaving no clues and leaving a clean crime scene. From what I recall when I left the entire place was practically drenched in blood and positively stank of gore. Like I said, not good business.”

“What does that even mean?” Takeshi asked, cutting into his potatoes slowly.

“What it means is that even as we speak, your forensic experts are determining that the victims hearts were torn out with a forceful jab to the chest, piercing through bone and muscle alike to reach the precious organ. What you thought to be my handiwork in cleanly cutting them apart was actually the brutality of my son finally showing itself for the first time.”

“Your son?” Takeshi asked, disbelief on his face.

“Shocked? Yes, before I was turned into what I am today, I had a baby boy that survived the horrors War with me. I cared for him as best I could, and helped him along his own path to greatness in becoming an engineer.” I said, looking at the salt shaker as memories flew past my mind’s eye of better days. “But then he grew ill. Liver cancer, inoperable at the time, a parasite slowly leeching the very life from the very flesh and blood that had kept me human for so many years, that had prevented me from being a mindless hunter… a beast just looking for his next meal.”

“So what happened?” Takeshi asked, leaning forward.

“I Turned him. Human illnesses were of no concern to me, and I hoped that my own sickness would override his, kill it as it transformed him into a Vampire as well.” I continue, reading the thoughts of a few people passing outside out booth, waiting for Takeshi’s signal. “Sadly, his cancer persevered and kept him locked in a state of permanent weakness and pain, the only panacea a temporary one that he could be granted very rarely due tio his own unique gifts.”

“Gifts?”

“Yes, just as I can wrap the shadows around me to fade into the darkness and read minds, he could transfer wounds and his ailments to other people, living hosts. Of course such hosts would die, and his ailments would return… we kept on like this for well over twenty years, before you entered my life.”

“Me? What do I have to do with anything?” Takeshi asked, looking at me with concern.

“You were a man bent on catching the killer that was plaguing your town, a man you thought to be a heartless, amoral beast that merely wished to kill.” I said, my voice full of emotion. “And for the first time in a long time, I felt a pang of guilt over my actions, however necessary they were for my continued survival.”

“So that’s why you stopped?” Takeshi asks around a mouthful of potato.

“No, that is merely incidental. What made me stop was the discovery that I could create a new home, and a new family far from here. Start anew, as it were.” I said with a growing smile. “When time is but a meaningless concept, you have to dig up your roots now and again, just to chase away the doldrums.”

“So you stopped because you were… bored?”

“Essentially. Your partner was… a relative of mine, however distant, and I chose to claim his niece as my next Vampire. The poor girl was a wreck, a torrent of depression and darkness that not even I could rival on my darkest of days.”

“Elizabeth…?” Takeshi asked, remembering how upset his old partner had been upon his niece’s suicide. “But she killed herself!”

“Again, that is merely incidental. I was there when she slit her throat, and I aided her during her transition.” I say with a calm reverie as I remember Elizabeth, who chose to be called Ash thereafter, charming the mortician into thinking the corpse of a drifter we’d brought in was indeed her own body. Her dark gifts were the ability to cloud others minds with illusions and the creation of Ghouls, intelligent dead that hungered for the flesh of the recently deceased.

“So she’s still alive?”

“In a way, yes. She lives with me and our extended family down in the South, far away from the big city lights and the nosy neighbors and detectives.” I answer honestly, before leaning forward in my seat. “I bet you’re wondering what’s that envelope there, aren’t you?”

He remained silent, but I could see it in his eyes.

“It’s where my no-good son, cured of his ailment through a bit of trickery, has holed himself up at here in the big city. He fed enough at that little rally to not have to hunt again for over two months, but rest assured, he will hunt again.”

“And you’d just turn it over to me?” Takeshi asks, sounding a tad doubtful.

“I’d trade it to you in exchange for two things: the first being calling off your reinforcements so I don’t have to carve my way out this fine restaurant myself, the second being that you deliver a letter to your former partner, on behalf of Elizabeth. Tell him it’s from a lawyer that was told to give it to him after a number of years had passed.”

“What’s in it?” Takeshi asks guardedly. Rightfully so, as Elizabeth’s death had led to a series of child abductions and murders, as well as a round of post-mortem letters dear Elizabeth had written speaking ill of her former family.

“A check. From what I can tell, he has begun to develop the same disease that claimed his father, and was claiming my son. The money in the check will cover all the necessary costs to keep him healthy for years to come.”

“Why?” Takeshi asked after a few moments, staring at the envelope on the table.

“Because my family, while gruesome by your standards, are not rabid dogs loose amongst sheep. We do not merely kill as wantonly as my recently revified son thinks we ought to. We take what little we need and merely live on what will keep us going.” I say with a heavy heart. “We created a Vampire for him from a nosy child that had come to our property, having him transfer his disease over to the boy before doing so. Now that child is locked in eternal torment, his cancer slowly consuming his body as his Vampirism tries regenerates the lost cells within his body as fast as it can.”

“Why not just kill him yourself?” Takeshi asked quietly.

I look at him with a slight frown. “Because we don’t kill our own. If you want the Carver to be stopped, than you’d best agree to the trade and call your bodyguards off.”