Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 2

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   Guinevere had given her a few precious minutes of flight into the countryside, and she hadn’t wasted any. She hadn’t even looked back, lest she slow her feet by a fraction. Though her sides ached, and her breath stung in her throat, and her head pounded with worry over what might happen to Guinevere, she ran. She’d been told not to stop, and she was a good girl. The moon guided her way, pointing out farmer’s fences to leap over and creeks to splash through. Her dress became soaked to her knees, courtesy of evening dew in the tall meadow grass, but she did not let that slow her down.

   As she danced carefully over the roots of an ancient apple grove, her brain piped up with a thought not of Guinevere. She paused for the first time, leaning against a curlicue tree trunk to steady her ragged breath. The thought came again, her subconscious cutting through the panic in her mind: Listen. You must listen.

   She could hear no footsteps, no voices, only the hiss of a nearby river. Heart sinking, she crept forward, following the trajectory she’d been on since she’d fled Guinevere’s cottage. Between the mottled silhouettes of ancient trees, the great rushing river revealed itself. Flickers of white water. Rocks hidden in deep frothy flows. It roared at her, hungry for the reckless person who might try and cross its rapids. Taunted her with the safety of the thick forest on the facing bank.

   The mill, she thought. She’d bought some flour there just last week. Upstream. The waterwheel. Slow and shallow.

   She stifled a gasp as a branch snapped nearby. Marigold leapt back into her run, turning blindly upriver.

   Sir Roger followed the edge of the apple grove, listening carefully to pinpoint the girl. Before he’d been a witch hunter, which was not all that long ago, he’d been a gentleman of leisure. That leisure included deerstalking, in which his experience was now proving useful. This woman was much easier to follow than the average doe. Deer never gasped for breath, they didn’t often break large branches, and they were a hell of a lot faster than a frightened young lady.

   Up ahead he could see the bend of a raging river. No bridges in sight. This was good. He tuned out the rush of the water, focusing on the old orchard. Nothing. She had stopped.

   He raised the crossbow to his eye, scoping one crooked branch hanging low in the moonlight. A stark silhouette; the perfect target. He fired with a whispering twang. The bough snapped with a noise like breaking bone. Sir Roger heard a small gasp, then the crashing cacophony resumed. Upriver, he decided. With a flick of his cape, he gave chase.

   Her path through the apple grove was clear cut. He abandoned his stealthy silence, tromping over her dainty depressions with his own sturdy boots in order to gain some ground.

   Sir Roger slowed to a stop as the trees began to thin. He shied behind one, to observe. Before him was a vast meadow. There were no hiding places on that moonlit plain. He looked to his left, towards the river, and tightened his grip on his crossbow. There was a gristmill a few yards along the bank. The waterwheel spun silently, detached from the millstone for the night. The miller’s home was quiet as well, windows dark, shutters closed. Of greatest interest to him was the young woman running full tilt across the meadow for the little tangle of buildings.

   He had the bow loaded in an instant. Keeping it to his eye, he sidled out from between the trees, holding the quarrel aligned to his prey, in the very centre of her back. It would have killed her, had that been his intention.

   Instead, he raised his sight to the sky, and fired.

   The first quarrel buried its head in the ground a few steps in front of Marigold. She cried out, and stumbled, and fell backwards as she tried to dig in her heels. Trembling, she leapt back on her feet as quickly as she could. She wasn’t able to stop herself this time; she needed to see. She glanced over her shoulder as she ran.

   Only one man, emerging from the trees, but he was close. Close enough to be raining bolts upon her. A second one drilled into the dirt a few feet to her right; she flinched away from it, but kept her pace.

   A third quarrel missed her just before she ducked behind the miller’s ancient stone barn. She hated to stop, but running was no good either, not now. If she tried to cross the river, she knew she’d be shot dead before the water reached her knees. With a shaky hand, she reached in her pocket, and pulled out the pistol she’d taken from the men in Guinevere’s cottage. She had no bullets. She cold only hope there was one loaded already. One chance to defend herself.

   A fourth quarrel zipped past the corner where she hid, striking the wall of the mill opposite. She peeked, ever so slightly. Her assailant had halved the distance between them. She needed to hide, double back, and lose him for good. Guinevere had told her to run, but she no longer had the option. Marigold apologized silently to her as she unlatched the side door of the barn, which creaked loud enough as it opened to make her wince. She slipped in the smallest width possible and pulled it shut behind her.

   Slivers of moonlight punched through cracks in the old thatch roof. By this faint glow, Marigold saw the streets and alleys of a city of burlap. Huge gunny sacks were stacked as high as her head, all throughout the barn. A storehouse for the millers’ grain, and a hiding place for her.

   Slowly, quietly, Marigold slipped into the maze of maize. Rye, wheat, and shadows closed her in on all sides.

   She hadn’t crossed the yard, Sir Roger knew that much. It would have been impossible to miss her by the incandescent moon. The old stone barn was the only place she could have gone.

   The wide gates at the end were barred by a sturdy plank. He circled around to the small side door, closed but unlatched. He silently fastened it, too, and followed the wall to the back of the barn. At the far end, he looked up at the roof, and smiled. There was a loft door a few feet above his head.

   He slung his crossbow onto his back, next to the quiver that fed it. The ancient cobbles of the wall were big and rough, mortared together by amateur builders, perfect handholds for a quick climb. The leather of his gloves and the soles of his boots clung to the rock with a gratifying roughness. He reached the bale-sized loft door in no time at all.

   Marigold leapt to attention as light suddenly flooded the rafters. It brightened in time with the creak of an old wooden door. She peeked cautiously from her hiding place, a single eye and a strip of hair all that was visible.

   A man in a cape stood tall in the loft, picked out in grain dust dancing in the moonlight. He wore a broad-brimmed hat with a feather flying from the band. As he turned his head, Marigold saw the outline of a long nose, a short, scraggly beard. She flinched as his voice filled the granary.

   “Marigold?”

   Her skin prickled so tightly it was painful. She’d never felt colder.

   “That was your name, wasn’t it? Marigold?”

   She pulled back into the shadows, quick and quiet. She listened to the whisper of cloak, the creak of rafters…then the sound of boots hitting the floor. She tightened her grip on the pistol.

   “You could have shot me just now, Marigold. I gave you plenty of time.” His voice started to circle behind her, fading from one ear to the other. “Were you more afraid to miss me or hit me?”

   He was following the wall of the barn, towards her. It was only a matter of time. In a panic, she darted further into the maze of gunny sacks. She listened to his footsteps come closer, then pause. She peeked out again. He was nowhere to be seen.

   “You don’t strike me as the hostile sort,” called the witch hunter. “I don’t think you’re dangerous, Marigold. I think you’ve just been mixed up in the wrong crowd. Is that fair to say?”

   She hadn’t heard him move, but the voice was closer. She scurried across an aisle to the next stack of grain, a few precious feet both closer to the door and further from him. She waited for another sound.

   “I won’t hurt you,” he assured, and her heart stopped. Those words had come from the other side of the barn, closer than ever. She didn’t understand how she had missed him, but had no time to question it. She raised the pistol in both hands. There were open alleys left and right. Her head snapped back and forth, desperately keeping tabs on her dim surroundings.

   “I won’t send you to inquisitors,” he continued. To her left, then. She thrust out the pistol, wide-eyed and ready to shoot, waiting for him to turn that corner. There was a pause, filled only by the sound of her panting.

   “I just want to help,” said a voice in her ear.

   With a scream of panic, she turned and fired. She’d never shot a gun before. It was more terrifying than all else that had happened to her tonight. The pistol jerked violently, bruising her fingers. It set off a plume of smoke so thick and choking she couldn’t breathe for the smell of fire and brimstone. Her ears rang with the explosion, granting her momentary deafness. She held the spent gun to her chest, shaking like a leaf. As the smoke started to clear, she saw movement within it. It hadn’t been a bad shot for her first one. Had the witch hunter been standing there, he would have been injured, but the only thing she’d hit was a gunny sack. A steady stream of wheat kernels from the bullet hole was piling up on the floor. Where Sir Roger stood, behind her with his arms spread wide like a bat in flight, he was safe.

   She screamed again as he pulled her into a hug, pressing himself to the curve of her body. Her arms were pinned by his. Two strong hands clad in black leather clamped over the pistol at her chest. She could feel its warmth pressing into her breastbone as she struggled. The warmth of his lips against her ear was even worse. The tickle of his beard made her skin want to crawl off her body.
   “Throwing your voice is such a useful skill, wouldn’t you agree?” he breathed, this time genuinely into her ear. His hands tightened on hers as she tried to wrench the pistol loose. “Drop it, please, Marigold. There’s nothing more you can do.”

   

   David never forgot the shadows. The sickly trees faded into the background with the rest of the forest. The rubble of burned houses was the same as any consumed by woodfire. The ashen plain where the market square had been was as blank as the sheaf of paper it resembled. All of these he only half-remembered; David would forget his wife’s face, he would forget his own name, before he forgot the living shadows.

   Some were long and thin, some crumpled and short. Some were muddled and strange, some all too clear. Humans burned onto the remains of the town. Human shapes, he had to tell himself daily. Human shapes.

   A shadow woman knelt beside her garden wall, tending the ghosts of plants that had vapourized even more readily than she. Silhouetted children played on the hollow shells of burned-out houses, wrapped around the stone as if it were a gift. A man leant a ladder against his shed, the roof he’d hope to reach long since destroyed.

   They hadn’t known, David told himself. The shadow people were going about their days. They weren’t standing, staring at the oncoming wave of whatever had sealed them to the bricks. They did not know that they had died. He tried, and largely failed, to be comforted by that.

   The Guard had been the first to attend the destruction at Steadney. They had come from all neighbouring outposts: Braichlie, Blankston, and Felltown all had squads dispatched. All officers were steeled for their task, including David: help the living, remove the dead.

   It soon became clear that there were no living. A few within the radius of destruction still breathed and bled, but to call them alive was an insult to the Mither. They were helped in the only way they could be and wrapped in shrouds alongside the cold corpses of their neighbours.

   David died along with them. His heart continued to beat, his brain continued to tick, but the rhythm they kept was unrecognizable. He couldn’t focus on very much for very long. His bitterness turned to anger turned to melancholy; of these moods, none were much use to a man sworn to keep the peace. David’s fellow officers, and Captain Bossard, noticed fairly quickly. One day as he returned from patrol, he was told that Bossard wished to see him before he went home. The captain had been at his desk in the office upstairs. David was invited to take the seat across from him.

   “David, I just want to be clear…you’re not fired.”

   He knew what was coming next. As soon as the desk sergeant had told him he was expected upstairs, he knew.

   “You can always come back, any time you’re ready. For now, though, I have to put you on leave. Starting tomorrow.”

   David had no illusions about his behaviour. It still hurt to hear it aloud. Hurt enough to break him. The tears had come forth unbidden.

   “Please, captain,” he’d warbled softly. “I can’t!”

   “You can’t be here either, David. Not like this!” Bossard had bobbed his hand up and down to indicate the extent of the damage. “This isn’t good for you, or the force. The only proper course of action is for you to take a break.”

   David had leaned forward, folding in his chair to place his entwined hands on the desk before the captain.

   “I’ll do anything, Captain, please, just don’t let me go! What about desk duty? Can you put me on desk duty?”

     Bossard had leaned in, as well, covering David’s pleading fingers with his own.

   “If I thought that would be good for you, I would,” said the captain. “I would love for you to stay, David; I would love for you to get better even more. You’re a fine constable, and a good man, but you haven’t been the same since Steadney. None of of us have,” he added quietly. “I don’t want to tell you that your emotions are wrong, or that it’s a shortcoming to have them. What it is, for us, is a liability. This is the Guard. Mistakes get made when emotions come into play. People can get hurt, including our officers. If I don’t have level heads in the force, I can’t ensure the safety of the Guard or the public, and that’s my only job. I’m sorry that I have to favour my responsibilities over yours.”

   In truth, David had only one responsibility; not that she was any less important than the Guard.

   “My wife…” he sobbed.

   “…cares more about you than a wage, David. I guarantee it.”

   Bossard had been right about that. Paula hadn’t batted an eye when he’d told her. She’d held him as he’d cried, and ranted, and cursed, without offering any of her own. Only hugs and reassurances.

   He started to sleep again after a few days at home. The visions that kept him awake began to fade, and he slept even more, and the visions faded further. Shadows stopped following him. Meat on the dinner table no longer looked human. Wind in the trees was just that, and the moans of those too weak to end themselves. He felt better, more grounded, at least for a short time.

   Then he began to notice the toll he was taking on Paula. She was working for the both of them. The baker had her up early, and the alewife kept her out late. He could ease her workload around the house, of course, but it wasn’t enough. Guilt began to fill the space left vacant by anxiety. He no longer needed his doomsday visions to stay awake. He lost weight. He aged ten years in ten days. Paula, despite her busy schedule, caught on right away. She made her husband promise to see a doctor, and after a few more weeks of withering away, she took him there herself.

   Dr. Balmoral did make him feel better, but not because of the medicine he prescribed.

   “Are you working right now, David?”

   “No,” he’d been forced to admit. “Captain Bossard said it would be better if I wasn’t.”

   “Hm. I suppose he had his reasons,” mused the doctor. “However, I think gainful employment would do you good. Keeping busy prevents those nasty thoughts from getting in. Has Bossard said when you can return?”

   “Not really. He just said, when I feel better.”

   “I see,” said Balmoral, dripping skepticism. “Yet he leaves you with idle hands.” His own hands sprang into action, drawing ink and paper close. He wrote with clipped efficiency.

   “I’m going to write you two prescriptions, David. One is for a tonic of St. Frida’s Wort; it eases the nerves. The other is for a job application. We - town council, that is - are hiring at Seagate.”

   David hadn’t been sure what to make of this.

   “The witch prison?” he asked. Balmoral had paused, fixed him with a hard look, continued.

   “The prison, yes,” he said firmly. “Where we keep criminals. We can’t help that most of them happen to be witches, can we? Now,” he said, handing two illegible notes to David, “I encourage you to apply. I think a Guardsman would be a wonderful fit, don’t you?”

   Paula liked the nerve tonic. She didn’t care as much for the job offer, but in the end, there was little she could do to stop him applying, and even less to stop his application from being accepted.

   The uniform was drab green instead of denim blue, starched linen instead of rough cotton, ironed shirt instead of iron plate. Even the cap had been stiffened, it seemed. No expenses spared at Seagate Prison. David dressed in front of the single small mirror that Paula kept in their bedroom, admiring his sharply laundered clothes by the last of the day’s light. They’d given him the night shift, of course, the only place for a new recruit.

   David didn’t know exactly how long his wife had been standing in the doorway. He only noticed her when he finished buttoning his crisp white shirt and looked up to grab his jacket off the bed. Her arms were folded over her chest. She leaned against the doorframe, watching him. He turned towards the mirror a bit more.

   “Are you still having nightmares?” she asked quietly.

   “No,” he said, sliding his arms into the jacket. “Hardly dreaming at all, actually.”

   Paula studied his face carefully in their smudgy little mirror. He studied his jacket just as intently.

   “You mutter a lot,” she said. “In your sleep. Are you sure you’re not dreaming?”

   “Well, I don’t remember it, if I am.”

   She waited until his hands stopped fiddling with his buttons.

   “You don’t have to go.”

   “My shift’s in an hour,” sighed David. “It’s too late to have this discussion again.”

   Paula came forward and took him by the elbow, pulling herself close to whisper in his ear.

   “If you start feeling worse,” she said, enunciating every word, “come home. Don’t push yourself.”

   “I won’t,” he muttered.

   “Have you taken your tonic?”

   “Yes,” he said, pulling out of her grasp. “Could you trust me to do one thing on my own, please?”

   “I was asking a question.” She paused. Breathed. There would not be a fight, so help her god. Not this time. “Because I love you, and I want to make sure you’re okay.”

   He also paused. Breathed. Just like they had agreed.

   “I am,” he said. “And I’d be better if you didn’t doubt me.”

   “I’m not,” she insisted. “I am NOT doubting you. I know you can do this job. What I doubt is that it’s a good thing for you right now.”

   “Doubt away,” said David. “I can’t back out an hour before I start. What good is it telling me this now?”

   “I told you weeks ago and you didn’t listen. If you had…”

   He grabbed his cap off the bed.

   “I’m gonna go,” he announced, “before we fight again.”

   “David…”

   “Good luck at the pub tonight.”

   She paused. Breathed. And he was already gone, pushing past her out the door.

Next...

Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 1

If you have not already, please start here!

   Autumn of the following year was a warm one, and dry. On these clear days, the citizens of Blankston could see the shadow in the hills that had been Steadney only one year ago. The shadow was small, all things considered; not more than a mole on the vast green face of the mountains. It cast a yellow penumbra on the surrounding trees, which seemed to have sickened at its touch. Some of the more imaginative citizens claimed these trees gave off a glow in the night, though nobody dared get close enough to check. After a handful of first responders had come down with unspeakable and sometimes fatal illnesses, even the teenaged boys stayed away.

   Marceline had loved a teenaged boy. She had been a teenaged girl, of course; she would never be so unseemly. She had loved him as a young lady, and as a woman, and had married him in the end. He was now Captain of the Guard in Blankston, and she loved him all the same. She loved him all the more because he helped with the dishes and did his share of the laundry. She had chosen wisely, as had her husband. Captain Bossard knew his wife had no interest in joining the force, which was a tragedy for the force.

   He was sweeping the kitchen floor, picking his way through the maze of table and chair legs. The opened stove at the head of the table was burning low, casting just enough glow by which he could stab at errant crumbs. At the basin under the window, Marceline was drying the last of the dishes and storing them away.

   Gazing out into the night, Marceline suddenly stilled her hands. Calmly, quietly, she set down the bowl she held. She towelled off her fingers, and placed the cloth neatly down on the counter. Then she reached for the drawer beside her. Captain Bossard only looked up at this strange display when he heard the squeak of metal on metal. He saw his wife staring out the window, a sturdy carving knife in her hand.

   “Marcy?” he said cautiously.

   “There’s a man in the garden,” she replied, without turning around. The ever-present Guard in him took over immediately. Moving swiftly and silently, he crossed to the cupboard tucked away behind the stove, where mops and brooms made their happy home. He replaced his broom with a click against the stone, then turned to the wall opposite. An ironing board slouched there. He pushed it aside to get at the huge flintlock pistol hanging underneath, for just such an occasion. When he turned around, his wife was already standing beside him.

   “Just one?” he asked.

   “That I could see. Hooded.”

   They tensed as someone knocked quietly at the front door. They could see it through the kitchen archway. Both waited, listening with all their might. Silence. The door remained untouched. No one rattled it on its hinges. No one tried the latch. After all of this nothing, the knock came again, loud and clear. Mr. and Mrs. crept towards it, keeping half an eye on the windows. Marcy set her hand on the latch, ready to pull the door open and shield herself behind it. Her husband took up on the other side, flat against the wall, pistol at the ready. They made eye contact across the span of the front archway.

   “Who is it?” asked the captain, of his late visitor.

   “Julian?” came the excited whisper. “It’s Alfie.”

   Captain Bossard wished he could have set his pistol down immediately and thrown the door open, relieved that the danger had all been imagined. For any other friend, he would have. For Alfie, he hesitated. He reflected carefully for a moment, though his wife opened the door before he could reach a conclusion. He stepped back a bit from the swinging edge to allow his hooded visitor to wheedle in. He hid his pistol hastily in his trouser waist. Alfie didn’t seem to notice this. He began to speak even before he’d crossed the threshold, riveting immediately on the Guard captain.

   “Thank the mither,” he whispered. “Julian, I’m—“

   He cut himself off with a startled cry. Marcy had stepped out from behind the door and walloped him across the back of the head with a firm hand.

   “You scared us half to death!” she snapped, shutting the door behind him with a similar cadence. “What are you doing sneaking in the back garden this time of night?!”

   Captain Bossard knew Alfie as a proud man. His pride had caused trouble through their boyhood and beyond. His pride had made one of his friends hesitate to open a door for him, unsure of whom he might have made angry this time. Whom he had talked back to erroneously. Whom he had tried to punch. This prideful little maniac, for once in his life, bowed his head in deference. That was the moment that Julian knew this was no ordinary escapade.

   “I’m sorry, Marcy!” said Alfie. “I’m so sorry! I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important!”

   “I’m sure,” she spat. “Why didn’t you take the front walk?”

   “I…I didn’t want to be seen,” said Alfie shakily. “I mean, not that I’ve done anything, I just had to be careful. I—“

   She stepped up to him, towering as best she could, though they were of a similar height.

   “Whatever you’ve done, I hope Julian arrests you for it. Like he should have,” she continued, looking to her husband, “a long time ago. I’m going to bed.”

   She turned, knife still in hand, and stormed back into the kitchen. The two men in the front hall watched the fading flicker of a candle on the walls as she headed for the back of the house.

   “What ARE you doing here, Alfie?” sighed Bossard tiredly. Alfie darted forward and took him by the arms.

   “I swear it’s important, Julian! I’m sorry to come so late! I had to make sure you knew as soon as you could.” He leaned in, his hands still gripping tightly. “Someone’s plotting to destroy town hall!”

   She heard the sounds, all at once, and she knew. A single blast from a pistol, the shattering of wood, the remains of the lock bolt breaking through the wall as the front door was kicked in. Orders shouted, clipped and clear. A stampede of heavy footsteps. She knew exactly what they wanted. Knew that escape would not be easy.

   Her young apprentice was at her side in that same instant, drawing herself close. Guinevere thought of her as ‘the girl’, though they had less than a decade’s difference in age. The girl’s hands closed gently on her upper arm.

   “Guin, what’s going on?”

   Guinevere saw the first wave of men charging through the dark beyond the kitchen door. She reached past her apprentice to the stove, where the girl had been minding a bubbling pot of topical ointment. It was turning oily and yellow, just as it should. The girl had done a fine job.

   Guinevere ignored the stinging heat in the handle. It would only take a moment. She hurled the contents of the pot in a graceful arc, adding the pot itself for good measure. The screams were instantaneous. She muffled them by slamming the kitchen door. She leapt at the crockery cupboard in the corner and tipped it over across the threshold, blocking the entryway in a thunderous crash of plates and teapots.

   When she turned to her apprentice, the girl was pale and frozen. Her eyes were the size of the shattered platters on the floor. Guinevere took her by the hand and pulled her towards the cellar door.

   “Everything’s going to be okay, Marigold. You’ll be fine if you do what I say.”

   “I will,” squeaked the girl. “Who are they, Guin?”

   “Witch hunters. You mustn’t panic,” she said calmly, as Marigold’s expression twisted in fear. “You’re going to be alright, do you hear me?” She nudged the girl in front of her. “Get down the stairs. Go!”

   Marigold staggered down into the dark cellar as fast as her nervous knees could take her. From a nearby counter, Guinevere snatched up the candle by whose light the girl had been reading her recipe. She hurried after her apprentice, pausing only to bolt the cellar door behind her.

   “Come here,” she ordered, as her feet hit the stone floor. Marigold followed her closely to the corner opposite the stairs. There were barrels grouped here, dozens of them, each as big around as Marigold was tall. Guinevere held the candle out to her apprentice.

   “Hold it away from the barrels,” she warned, as the girl took the flame. The witch dove down and grabbed the end of Marigold’s tidy white apron before she could react. Guinevere tore it up one side and down the other, making a neat rectangle. She began to twist this into a rope. With one hand, she wrenched the lid off a barrel near the centre of the pack, and with the other plunged the makeshift fuse deep into the white crystalline contents. She withdrew her fist and slammed the lid back down overtop the dangling cotton. It slunk from the barrel like a sickly cow’s tongue.

   A deafening roar sounded above them. Marigold looked to the floorbeams in fright, dust and cobwebs falling over her face as the cellar ceiling shook. Once, pause. Twice, pause. The scrape of a fallen crockery cupboard on an old wooden floor, as the door behind it was forced ajar by a legion of strong men.

   “Guin…?” she whispered.

   “Stay calm, Marigold.” The witch had crossed to a shelf on the far wall, overtop the potato bins and jarred cucumbers, and was taking down a bright blue bottle from among its fellows. When she returned to the barrels, she wrenched the cork out with her teeth and started to pour the contents over the sickly tongue. It was clear liquid, easily mistakable for water were the smell not so strong. Guinevere splashed some of it over the barrels once the fuse was sodden. When it was empty, she spat out the cork and threw the bottle across the cellar towards the stairs, where it shattered in a dim blue supernova. It was obvious from the pounding footsteps above them that the witch hunters had good boots, but there was never harm in a sharp greeting mat.

   Guinevere’s strange ritual was drawing to a close. As the cellar door began to splinter, raining even more sharps down the stairs, the witch pulled the candle out of her apprentice’s hands. She hooked her other arm around Marigold’s shoulders, drawing her further into the corner beside the barrels.

   “You’re going to be alright,” she assured in a whisper. The first of the good boots were coming down the stairs, now, lanterns throwing monstrous shadows around the stairwell. Marigold huddled close to her teacher.

   “If I’m going to die, you can tell me,” the girl whispered back. “I-I can handle it.”

   Guinevere removed her arm from the girl’s shoulders and reached for her chin instead. She guided Marigold’s gaze to meet her own.

   “You won’t,” insisted the witch. “I might, but you will not. I am going to get you out safe, I promise.”

   “But, Guin—“

   “Hold up!”

   The shout from the stairs made them jump. They knew the men were there, could see them plainly, but the volume had surprised them both. They riveted on the intruders; one man in particular, the one at the front of the pack who had shouted. He had his hand up, an order for his fellows to stop. He stood on the last step. Two huge pistols hung at his hips. He seemed to be listening for something. Then, he inhaled deeply. Across the dim cellar, he made eye contact with Guinevere.

   “Kerosene,” he remarked.

   “Damned right,” barked the witch. “And a dozen barrels of nitre salts. All I need now is a little provocation.”

   The man scanned the floor below him; jagged, but dry. He stepped down onto the shards of glass with a quiet jangle. His soldiers waited for his word.

   “Provocation’s the last thing on our minds, dear.”

   “Is that why you kicked down my door?”

   Mr. Kerosene smiled at this. “We had to hurry, my lovely. No time to knock. Now that we know you’re safe, we can take our time.”

   He took a long step forward, crinkling more glass. His hands stayed firmly in the air.

   “I’m gon’ to reach for my pistols, now,” he said plainly. “An’ I’m gon’ hand them to the fellas behind me.” He pulled one out of its holster and dangled it back over his shoulder, never looking away from the witch. A lackey behind him took it with a quiet crunch of glass. “And then the fellas behind me are gon’ do the same. We’re gon’ trade bullet for quarrel so nobody’s itchy finger gets us in trouble. Did we all hear that, fellas?” he asked, as he handed the second pistol away. The only sound of assent was the quiet rustle of steel on leather as pistols were passed up the stairs. In that brief pause, Mr. Kerosene unslung a monstrously big crossbow from his back. He simply held it, loose and lax like his pistols; he did not aim it. Most of his men did the same.

   “There,” said Mr. Kerosene. “Now nobody’s gon’ set a spark they shouldn’t. Fire’s all in your hands. An’ you don’t wanna die, do ya?”

   “I don’t want to see the inquisitors, either,” said Guinevere.

   “Of course you don’t,” said the man, quietly. “Come forward, gents. Fan out.”

   A dozen men came trickling down the stairs, all with crossbows ready at their chests. They formed a loose semi-circle beyond Guinevere’s candlelight. As they tightened formation, the witch took a step back, releasing her apprentice and taking up the cotton wick instead.

   “Come closer,” she breathed. “I dare you.”

   “Nobody doin’ no such thing,” said Mr. Kerosene. “We’re stayin’ right here, ahn’t we?”

   His men did not move.

   “Good,” he said, satisfied. “Now we can talk.”

   “Not yet, we can’t,” snapped Guinevere. “We’ll talk after you let the girl go.”

   Mr. Kerosene turned his attention briefly to Marigold.

   “This girl, here?” he asked. “Where’s she gon’ to?”

   “Anywhere that isn’t here. She’s getting out of this cellar alive.”

   “I’d like nothin’ more, lovely. I want all of us outta this alive! If we talk, we can make it happen, don’t you think?”

   Guinevere’s grip on the cotton wick tightened, squeezing out a few drops of kerosene onto the floor. She didn’t look at Marigold. She only had eyes for the man before her.

   “She had nothing to do with it,” whispered the witch. “I’ll come with you, but she won’t. She’s innocent. She didn’t even know.”

   Mr. Kerosene’s hazel-bright gaze flicked to Marigold once more.

   “She looks it,” he said kindly. “You know she won’t be hurt, don’t you?”

   “I don’t know anything when it comes to you people. I need her safe.”

   “You will be, honey, if you come to me,” said Mr. Kerosene. To Guinevere’s horror, she realized he was addressing Marigold directly. He let his crossbow hang a bit as he extended a gloved hand her way. “I can tell you ain’t a part of this. Would you like to get outta here?”

   “Don’t listen to him!” snapped Guinevere. The harshness in her tone made Marigold flinch. The girl hadn’t moved at all, frozen in discombobulation. The witch glared at Mr. Kerosene, and brought the candle closer to the fuse. The width of her body was all the distance between them now.

   “If you speak to her again you’ll have her blood on your hands,” breathed the witch. Her voice could have melted glass. Mr. Kerosene, for the moment, kept his tongue. Guinevere turned her tone on her apprentice.

   “Marigold, do as I say, and don’t argue. These men are going to let you pass. Just walk by. Don’t look at them, don’t listen to them. When you get upstairs, take one of their pistols. They will let you. Don’t worry. Once you have one, run. Run as fast as you can for as long as you can. Do not look back and do not stop, not for anything. Do you understand?”

   Her apprentice was staring at her with huge, sad eyes. Guinevere did not look her way once, instead watching every tiny movement of the witch hunters.

   “Guin, what about you?” whispered the girl.

   “Don’t worry about me. Go, now. If you’ve ever loved me, go!”

   She raised her voice as her apprentice made no move. Then, she raised it to the men surrounding them. “If you so much as look at her you’re all dead, do you hear me?”

   They obeyed, even more amenably than the apprentice. Marigold inched past their ranks at a snail’s pace, hands up in surrender. She didn’t know where she was going, could barely grasp the situation as it was, but she knew she had been given an order.

   Once the creaking of the stairs had stopped, and the sound of Marigold’s running feet on the floor above had faded, the cellar came to silence.

   “Happy?” asked Mr. Kerosene quietly.

   “No,” said Guinevere. “Not ’til we’re burning in hell together.”

   She heard the whisper of a quarrel zipping past her ear, and a stark stony clunk as it hit the wall behind. Let them shoot, she thought, as she brought candle and wick together in her hands.

   The wick did not catch. It only took a second for Guinevere to realize there was nothing in her hand to catch it with. She held only half of the candle; the other half was on the floor, neatly cut at an angle. The flame burned harmlessly against the dry stone floor.

   “Touch it,” said a new voice, “and you lose the hand. Put them up if you want to keep them.”

   She would never have paused, should never have paused, but her previous assailants seemed just as taken aback as she that the voice had spoken. Mr. Kerosene tilted his head to see behind him, one curious eyebrow raised.

   Guinevere could see this new man only in shadow. He had come forward from the very back of the throng, but stayed behind the men’s lantern light. She could see the outline of a broad-brimmed hat. He was holding his crossbow to his eye.

   Enraged, she dove for the candle top, throwing the useless nub of wax to the winds. Another whisper crossed her path. Pain exploded through her hand as it was jerked aside by a sudden silent force. Gasping, she looked to her palm, pierced through by a quarrel. Blood welled up around the shaft, running in tiny rivulets down the head, droplets hitting the stone in time with the shaking of her hand. She cried out as her fingers curled instinctively, driving the pain up her arm.

   The man with the crossbow had already reloaded. He stepped out from among the men, keeping his weapon firmly on the witch.

   “Cuffs, now,” he said flatly. “And watch that hand.”

   The men made no move.

   “Do as he says,” sighed Mr. Kerosene, his own bow trained on the witch in sync with the newcomer’s. Guinevere grunted as her arms were twisted behind her back by two men, a third between them with a pair of iron shackles. The pain in her hand was excruciating, but she swallowed her cries. She gritted her teeth and glared at the crossbowman instead. She knew that face. That hat. Those wide brown eyes. Everyone knew them these days. He stared back, smiling the tiniest of smiles. Once the shackles were on, he lowered his weapon. Mr. Kerosene did the same.

   “I don’ recall your assignment to this case, Sir Roger. Could you refresh my memory?”

   “Certainly, Mr. Belvedere. Only a moment ago, you were flirting dangerously with fiery death. I assigned myself to save you.”

   “You’d know if I was flirtin’, son. That there was hardly a come-hither.” Mr. Belvedere reslung his crossbow onto his back. “Now’d someone tell you where we’d be, or’d you follow from town?”

   “A little of both, my comrade in arms. Naturally, I’d heard the inquisitors whispering. And, also naturally, I was surprised that they hadn’t approached their best witch hunter for help. So, I took matters into my own hands.”

   “They approached their best elite forces, Roger, which is exactly what they should’ve done. This is hardly to do with witches. It’s all to do with dangerous criminals.”

   Sir Roger spread his hands in a gesture of truce.

   “Why in the world should we bicker? You have your suspect, I have my tale of derring-do, we can all go home and chalk this up as a success.”

   The witch hunter sauntered towards the shackled Guinevere, now upright with a man at either side. He knelt down to retrieve the still-burning stub of candle at her feet. He studied it thoughtfully for a moment, the orange twinkle reflecting in his deep brown eyes, then looked to the witch.

   “…or can we?” he mused. “I feel as though something’s missing.”

   He was well within her reach, and would have regretted this had her arms not been shackled behind her back. She could only stew silently in her guards’ embraces. He blew the flame out in front of her with a tiny puff of breath.

   “I’ll see to the girl.”

Next...

Sir Roger And The Witches - Prologue

   The tempest in her head had only worsened with time. When she had awakened that morning, the white noise and sharp colours would have fit inside a teacup. Now they spilled the brim, sticking to the inside of her skull and making a home there like rogue spiders. One look at her brother’s stiff face told her he had the sense of it too. Neither could say quite what it was. Neither knew what might make it go away. Wordlessly, as were most of their decisions made, they set out for the market as planned. All that could be done, came the silent decision, was to act normal, hard as that may be even without the stormy intrusion of the day.

   It had been her idea, and at her insistence. Go to town. See people. Meet them and talk to them. Her brother had opposed this, staunchly at first, but she’d worn him down slowly and surely. The straw that broke him had been the reminder of how their mother had lived and died; alone, friendless, both hateful and hated, in this very castle not a mile from town. He still had reservations about mingling with the common folk. With the ‘normals’. Though, these reservations were now outweighed by his fear of becoming the reviled hermit his mother had been.

   They had started with short walks along the main street. Then, long walks. Taking the leap to lunch at the inn had been a hard one, but they both survived relatively unscathed. After taking a few days off to recover, they tried the market in the town square. Now they went every week without fail. Her brother was still a bit lagging; he didn’t talk much, though this was true even when they were alone. He was working on ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. But he walked among the common folk almost invisibly now. She was proud of him, and of herself, and justifiably so. Breaking the eons-old barrier between humans and sorcerers was deserving of pride.

   Harvest season had truly begun; potatoes and pumpkins and apples and parsnips crept into the market stalls, replacing the summer berries bit by bit. One man had an orchard’s worth of apples, all shades and sizes, surrounding him like a fortress of fruit. She always enjoyed stopping by this stand. She didn’t feel any particular way about apples.

   There was no way of guessing how old he might be. His skin seemed too pale and smooth for a man who worked a farm. He appeared a dainty, freckled child that had somehow had children of his own. The youngest often stayed with him as he peddled, busying herself atop the counter with whatever she could lay her tiny hands on. As the tall dark woman approached, the baby looked up from her scattered pile of toys, face slack with the look of permanent wonder that all children possessed. Her father looked up as well, though he had the sense of mind to smile. He lifted his hat to his visitor, the tiny bouquet of feathers in the band riffling in the breeze.

   “Good morning, madam! How does the day find you?”

   She could see it in his eyes. She could always see it, and it always hurt. Behind the warmth and cheer on his face, there was fear. Worry. Uneasiness. Completely unconscious, she knew. People never knew why they felt anxious around her. She didn’t know the mechanism behind it, herself, but it was plain they could feel her wild energy. Though the hurt stung her heart, it was always assuaged by the gratitude she felt that they tried to hide their unease. She smiled graciously at his warm welcome.

   “Very well, sir. I am enjoying the weather. It is most pleasing.”

   She reached across the fields of apples on display, towards the small child staring at her in wonderment. She patted it twice on the head.

   “And good day to you, young one,” she intoned. The fear pulling at her aura loosened slightly, as the apple seller relaxed. He tensed immediately after as someone called him, not by name, but by title.

   “Dad! Dad!” A boy no older than five weaved his way through the crowd towards the apple seller’s stand. He leapt out of the throng, grabbed the wooden edge of the display and pulled himself up on his tiptoes to see the man of the hour. “Dad, can I have a penny?”

   The apple seller gave his tall, dark customer a knowing smile.

   “Pardon me,” he apologized, and leaned over to speak to the boy. “What’s it for, then?”

   “There’s a lady selling rock sugar,” said the boy sheepishly. His father stood straight and reached into his trouser pocket. He pulled out two pennies and dangled them in front of the boy, just out of reach of his eagerly extended hands.

   “You get two,” he ordered, “and bring one back here for your sister, alright?”

   “Okay,” said the boy, nearly dancing with excitement.

   “Anything else?”

   There was an infinitesimal pause.

   “Thank you,” came the hurried response. The apple seller dropped the pair of pennies into his son’s hands. The boy ran off, dodging the crowds like a pachinko ball.

   She had been formulating the words in her head all the while. She was glad for the boy’s interruption, as it gave her time to make them sound right.

   “You have beautiful children,” she said, slowly and carefully. “And so very polite. Your son is quite the gentleman.”

   His proud smile was a rich reward.

   “How kind of you to say, madam,” he said with a nod. “Unfortunately, I can’t take the credit. They got it from their mother.”

   She believed this to be a joke, and so offered a smile of her own. It went over smashingly. She slid a coin from the lining of her cloak and offered it to him.

   “May I take an apple ‘for the road’?”

   “Of course, madam.” He diverted his daughter’s attention towards their customer. Her unsure gaze followed his pointing finger.

   “Go on, then, sweet,” said the apple seller. “Give the nice lady an apple!”

   The baby looked to him, eyes wide with confusion. She turned the same look on her customer. Her father helpfully pointed to one of the hundreds of apples before her. She leaned forward and grabbed one in both chubby fists, raising it up and out to the nice lady. The lady accepted it in one long, graceful hand.

   “Why, thank you, my darling,” she said, with a quiet laugh. She slid the apple into a cloak pocket, then pressed the coin into the baby’s palm. Tiny fat fingers closed instinctively around it. When they opened closer to the baby’s face for examination, the apple seller swooped in and stole it before it could be eaten.

   “Most welcome, madam,” he said in his moment of preoccupation. “Have a lovely…”

   He trailed off, as he looked up. She had gone. He didn’t have long to dwell on her, much as he wanted to, as other customers began to come around.

   She hated to leave like that; vanishing into the crowd like the mysterious wispy woman whose image she preferred to shed. Hated it but could not have avoided it. It was louder, now. Louder even than the buzz of the market surrounding her on all sides. That the apple seller had not fled in vicarious terror was a testament to her achievement in the field of appearing normal. She was feeling ready to flee herself.

   As she dissolved into the market crowd, a man fell into step behind her. She led him to a quiet corner of the square, at the mouth of an alleyway. Only then did she turn to look at him. He wore a flat cap to keep his wild shock of white-blond hair under control.

   “You can feel it, can’t you?” he asked quietly.

   “Of course I can.” She looked around, lowered her voice. “Not ‘it’. ‘Him’. I think it is Old Skull. Something is wrong.”

   Her brother paused a moment, listening. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.

   “Gone,” he breathed. He did not look at her.

   “Gone,” she agreed. “And coming for us.”

   He looked sharply at her, as if she’d cursed. “What makes you say that?”

   “It has only gotten louder. Have you listened?”

   He thought carefully for a moment. His sharp glare turned into a sideways squint, eyeing up the milling crowds in the market. She took his silence for a yes.

   “Why,” said her brother. “Why would he come for us?”

   “Why would a moth fly to a flame?” She took him by the arm, clinging like an insistent child. “We have to get away from the crowds. There is no telling the harm he could do here.”

   She switched her grip to his hand, and began to lead him around the edge of the market square.

   “You have a plan,” he observed.

   “No. I do not. I only hope to keep the town innocent of mad sorcery. We must make plans elsewhere to help Old Skull.”

   They paused in their discussion as she dodged a man pushing a cart of potatoes. Her brother followed her handhold fluidly around the curve.

   “He…cannot be cured,” said her brother, apologetically. “I hope you know that.”

   “Of course I do,” she snapped. Her bear of a brother looked suddenly sheepish.

   “I’m sorry. I did not want you to be disappointed.”

   Her pace relaxed slightly, though the grip on his hand did not falter.

   “I won’t be,” she said, quietly. “I will even do it myself, as long as no one is hurt.”

   She stopped suddenly. Her brother ran a few more steps, carried by his larger momentum, before he slowed to a halt beside her. Their handhold did not break. They studied the street before them with blank intensity.

   Black. It was all black. The whine had stopped. The colours had faded. The world had returned to its everyday hum. The siblings looked to eachother across the span of their arms. Each got a glimpse of the other’s bewildered face before the white crashed down upon them.

    It was everywhere; stinging her brain, ringing her ears, blinding her like errant sunshine. Her brother squeezing her hand as the same overwhelmed him was only a butterfly’s touch on her fingers. She stifled a cry as her senses were torn to shreds.

   She could not stifle the one that came forth as teeth sank into her shoulder. Strands of her luxuriant curls caught in snarling snaggles of yellow bone. She threw her elbow backwards instinctively; it connected with rail-like ribs. The grip on her shoulder did not waver for an instant. She hit again, and again, harder, and harder…

   The teeth were ripped out of her flesh, more painfully than the bite itself. She turned, ready to fight. Her brother had pulled the assailant away and thrown him to the ground. He stood between them, prepared to defend his sister with fists or with magic.

   At a glance, he looked like any other old man. Frail and skinny, liver-spotted and long-bearded. Bald as a baby and hunched as an ancient grandfather. Blind, it was plain to see. No light could pierce the pearly clouds in his jaundiced eyes.

   His teeth, what remained of them, ran over with brittle foam. It stained his beard all the way to his waist, down the front of his tattered and filthy robes. He panted like a dog in the dead of summer as he fought to stand.

   What no one could see, save the two he had come for, was his aura. They could feel it, certainly, those astonished observers. He radiated death and madness. His wild energy raged about him, searching for something to consume.
   The siblings fought to keep their focus. They had only one: harm as few people as possible. This proved to be difficult, as more and more townsfolk had gathered around to watch this inexplicable spectacle. They kept their distance, though this hardly mattered. A sorcerer on the edge of his sanity had a destructive potential that rivalled a small supernova.

   One man ignored the border of the crowd. She saw someone running from the edge of her vision; as he pushed past the silent observers, her heart froze. He went straight for the old man.

   “Please, do not!” she shouted. “Stay away!”

   The apple seller ignored her, falling to his knees next to the thing that looked like an elderly man trying to stand. He hooked his hands under the thing’s arms, cradling it carefully.

   “It’s alright, sire, I got you,” he said softly. “No worries.”

   “Let him go,” said her brother. His voice was low, deep, rumbling like the earth. “Very slowly. Back away. Do not startle him.”

   The apple seller bore into her brother with a glare as vivid as the unseen tentacles of energy flailing around him.

   “Startle him?” he barked. “You mean like throwin’ him to the ground? At his age? Who do you think you are, tough guy?”

   She broke, then. The apple seller looked at her. The hatred in his eyes shot a crack through her already ice-cold heart. That kind face, twisted in contempt, almost pushed the danger from her mind.

   She watched helplessly as a gnarled, veiny hand reached up and grabbed the apple seller by the cheek. The thumb fell across his lips. One yellowing fingertip dug into his ear. He looked down to the old man in his arms, not confused but concerned, wanting to help. To the very end, wanting to help.

   His eyes widened, widened, taking up most of his face. He moaned incoherently into the thumb blocking his mouth. He released his grip on the old man, grabbing his wrist instead and trying to push it away, but that bony hand was stronger than it looked.

   The skin underneath it started to crackle and peel, crisping and breaking like weathered bark. Oils and fats ran down his chin, down the old man’s wrist, dripping onto the ground between his knees where they sizzled in the dust. The moan turned into a scream soon enough, though it was muted by the molten flesh sealing his lips like wax on a letter.

   The apple seller fell backwards, trying to scramble away, but the old man leapt on top of him, keeping his scorching hold tight. The mad sorcerer let out a roar not human, not even mammalian. He planted his other hand over the man’s eye, the heel of his palm against his nose, fingers in his hair. Smoke rose from these fingertips. A sickening, sticky smell arose as the concealed eyeball began to melt into its host’s head.

   The apple seller’s boots, scrabbling to find purchase on the packed earth, began to slow. His flailing fists ceased their frantic beating on the old man’s chest. The screaming was the last to stop, dying down gradually to soft, twitching grunts.

   Most of the crowd had caught on, and were fleeing with screams of their own. The apple seller had gone from a helpful young man to a disfigured vegetable in a span of seconds. The eye still intact was wide and blank, staring unseeing at the autumn sky. His body shivered and writhed under the old man’s weight, baptized by drops of brittle foam from the roaring maw.

   A few of the bolder marketgoers that had stumbled forward to help were now backing away. She and her brother were the only ones slinking towards the grisly scene.

   “Old father,” said her brother quietly, “are you there?”

   The old man turned, still crouched over the apple seller. He huffed at the air like an animal. The electrical thorns in the air around them started to prick harder.

   “Answer if you know me,” continued her brother. “If you remember.”

   “Or me, old father,” added his sister cautiously. “Answer us. Please.”

   The old man lurched to his feet, dripping yellow ooze from one corner of his lips. He turned to face the siblings and began to shamble blindly towards them. He half-raised his hands, coated with tatters of crispy skin.

   “Back,” breathed her brother. “Back away. Let him follow.”

   She knew it would hurt, but she felt it was owed. She looked back at the splayed body on the ground. It had not stopped twitching. The fingers jerked over and over, begging her to come hither.

   Two small figures had appeared in the road, only a few feet away from the charred spectre. Nobody to shield them. Nobody to turn their eyes away. The small boy held tightly to his smaller sister’s hand.

   “Don’t look,” said her own brother. “We can’t worry for them if we want to keep them safe.”

   Struggling to avert her gaze, she kept careful tandem with her brother’s pace. Staring into that monster’s face pained her greatly. They had known Old Skull, though not well. Nobody could. In his elder years he had been reclusive, and more often than not in a bad mood, but he had been human. There had always been something to talk to and reason with when they crossed paths. Now he was a creature they hoped to lead to a quiet corner and put out of its misery.

   She heard a soft sound, like the mewling of a grouchy kitten. Her eyes snapped instinctively towards it. The tiny girl was struggling in her older brother’s grasp.

   “No, Anna!” she heard him hiss. “Don’t!”

   The baby was not of an age to understand. She mewled louder, trying to shove her brother with all the force she could muster in her two-foot frame.

   The fine hairs on the old man’s arms raised up. He stopped shambling. His breath whistled slightly through his nose as he paused, scenting and listening. The boy, too young even for school, knew precisely where the danger lay. He fixed on the old man, frozen, trying not to be seen. His sister slipped his grip as fear overwhelmed him. On unsteady legs, she toddled towards her father’s fallen figure.

   “Hey!” barked the sorceress. The blind eyes turned back to her immediately. With a low growl, the creature started slouching after her once more.

   “Get the children,” she whispered to her brother. “Bring them to safety. I will keep him away.”

   “I won’t leave you. The risk is too great alone.”

   “Kill him, then. Right now. End this.”

   “We have to think, not act. If I make a mistake he could go off.”

   She knew this. Had seen it before, even, had seen the towering cloud of destruction that nothing could endure. Now, she could see the baby girl, crawling towards her father. Could hear the contented cooing give way to shocked silence as what remained of the apple seller’s face formed in her undeveloped vision.

   Nobody could have stopped the sudden wail that burst forth from the tiny girl. That shrill siren shattered the sorcerers’ trance on the creature. He clapped his curled claws to his ears with another reptillian growl. Hunching, slavering, he turned his back on them, loping unsteadily towards the children.

   The sorceress threw her arms wide as she leapt in front of him. The air between them cleared and hardened, distorting the light like a pane of thick glass. The constant wild whine of his madness was muffled to her ears. He ran up against her barrier like a slow, drooling bird, rebounding off it with a hiss of indignation. A far-flung gob of spit hovered before her, bubbles drying and bursting in yellow streaks on the air. After a quick shake of his head his cloudy eyes settled in her direction.

   He leapt, howling with rage. His animal brain beat his body against the shimmering shield, hoping to break through with sheer stupid strength. Fists pounded, fingers scratched, teeth tried to gain purchase, leaving more oozy streaks. She pushed the children from her mind and focused. Clawing and biting could not hurt the barrier, as the mad monster refused to learn, but his poisonous energy could. She could feel it thinning at that very moment. 

   Her brother was by her side in an instant. The shield doubled in strength as he added his power to hers.

   “This is making it worse,” he warned. “We need to calm him.”

   The tiny girl behind them was still wailing, driving nails of insanity into the remains of the old man’s brain. His eyes rolled like a frightened horse’s as he pawed and bit at the solidified air.

   “We need to kill him,” she replied. “Go. Take whatever you can and drive it through his head.”

   “Are you sure you can hold him?”

   “Yes!” she said sharply. “Please, go! Hurry!”

   “Do not lie to me,” said her brother, calm as anything. “Are you sure?”

   She shot him a glare, but it quickly softened. He asked out of love, not of doubt. She took a deep breath to remove the frantic tremor from her voice.

   “I am,” she assured. “But you must go now. He—“

   The siblings turned in unison as a bright streak of scarlet lit up the air. It spattered like a virulent sneeze across the waning barrier. As one, they looked to the old man beyond their safeguard.

   Streams of red were pouring from his nose, his ears, even the tiny ducts in the corners of his eyes. His growling and hissing had stopped, replaced by rattling heaving breaths. His thin chest was pulsing in and out at an alarming rate. They smelled it before they saw it; smoke. The soft, wet, wispy kind that arose from roasting meats. The blood from the old man’s ears and nose was turning black as it dried to a crisp. The invisible tempest around them had faded to a low toll of thunder. All topics of debate vanished from their minds as the monster collapsed to its knees, the pearls in its eyes rolling up to red-streaked white.

   He reached for his sister and pulled her into a bear hug, breaking their shield.

Next...

In For A Penny - Part 17 - End

   If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   Weatherdecker hauled himself up over the lip of the platform, scrabbling on wet wood. It was dangerous and stupid to be up here, but he saw no other choice. He could make a stand from this height. He only had to watch the ladder and cut down whatever came up it.

   The captain settled with his back to the mast, and kept his sword trained rigidly on the ladder, just in case. Just in case Airedale was feeling reckless.

   He kept his eyes and his weapon focused on that same spot. Never once did he bother to check the rigging behind him. Though, he may not have seen Airedale anyway, in the dark. The first mate only appeared when lightning lit up the sky; crouched on the yard of a mast, or crawling on the ropes like a monkey. Dangerous and stupid. Two could play at that game, and Timothy Airedale played every game to win.

   Weatherdecker didn’t see the hand gripping the planks behind him, illuminated by a strobe flash of lightning. The sound of the wind drove out any noise that Airedale might have made as he pulled himself over the edge, a long dagger gripped in his teeth.

   The dagger was shortly at Weatherdecker’s neck. He jolted in fright as he felt the cold edge across his windpipe; Airedale’s hand slid under his chin and held it up, immobile. The captain tightened his grip on his sword, hard enough to make his arms tremble.

   “You could try it,” said the first mate, calmly. “But, you do not have a clear shot. You would be flailing like a fish and I would gut you as one. Drop it.”

   The captain did not make a move.

   “It is no good being stubborn, Richard. You are only delaying the inevitable. Drop the sword, and be sure to drop it over the edge.”

   It took only a tiny tear of blood nicked from the captain’s neck to spur him to action. He yelped and released his hold on the weapon; it shuddered like a leaping silver shark from the impact and tipped over the ladder lip, disappearing into the dark.

   “Good,” sighed Airedale. “That is the first good decision you have made in a long time.”

   “What’re you waitin’ for?” grunted Weatherdecker. “I yielded. I’m unarmed. Point me down the ladder so you can throw me in the clink, you traitor.”

   “I could. I could do that,” agreed Airedale thoughtfully. “And yet…I hesitate.”

   Weatherdecker’s stomach dropped as his first mate gripped him more tightly, pulling himself in to whisper in his ear.

   “You have given me such a grand opportunity, Richard, and I must consider it carefully, if you would indulge me a moment. We are forty feet off the deck. The rain is pouring, and we are slashing away at swords. You might not see the edge as you move to strike. Your foot might slip, it just might.”

   Weatherdecker swallowed precariously around the dagger.

   “I did not enter this fight hoping to kill you, but, I may never have such a chance again. It could look an accident this high up, could it not, Richard?”

   “You’re not the type, Tim,” quavered the captain. “You wouldn’t kill a man at your mercy. You got more honour than that, I know you do.”

   The world stood still for a moment; then, slowly, Airedale withdrew the dagger, tucking it back into the sheath. A few strands of his perfectly coiffed hair fluttered in the wind, illuminated in another lightning flash.

   “How kind of you to say, Captain,” said Airedale graciously. “I am flattered that you would think so highly of me.”

   After a pause, filled only with the sound of wind and rain, Weatherdecker began to turn.

   In a blink of fine cotton, the loop of an ascot tie fell over his head and hugged his neck. The ends were pulled tight.

   He growled and gasped as his head pulsed with trapped blood. He reached over his shoulder, clawing at the tie, but Mr. Airedale’s grip overpowered his. He tried to slide his fingers between it and his neck, but the cotton did not yield.

   “I apologize, Richard,” said Mr. Airedale quietly. “I wanted to end it peacefully. However, a sword spills evidence. A shove from a height may not silence, not always. But, throwing a dead man over the edge - the hard work is already done, is it not? An accident, a fall in the rain. Who will argue, Richard?”

   He wrenched his arms back, tightening the loop.

   “Who will argue?”

   Mr. Vesco burst through the hatch onto the deck, leaping immediately to his feet. He held his lantern high, though its light did not go far into the stormy night.

   “Tim!?” he shouted as he ran along. “Tim! Captain!”

   He looked frantically around the dark boards, searching the orange shadows, ignoring the water dripping down his neck. He didn’t know who he was worried for; he just knew he did not want either of them to do anything they’d regret.

   Nobody. The deck was barren. Perhaps they’d gone below through the aft doors. He hurried along, lantern bobbing in time with his steps, eyes and ears searching the darkness.

   As he passed the mainmast, his foot nudged something heavy, and he shied back in a panic, tense as a violin string. Skirting around it, he extended his lantern, and stopped.

   A sword, clean as anything. Not a drop of blood anywhere near it. He exhaled. A good sign, he supposed, but the owner was nowhere to be seen. Where could it have…

   He looked up just in time.

   “By the gods!” he shouted, staggering backwards. He slipped and fell hard onto the deck. His captain followed his lead a second later, only much, much harder.

   The sounds. There were so many sounds, sharp and clear in the constant patter of rain, all ringing at once. The dry tearing of skin as the deck met it at speed. The slimy burst of muscles and organs on impact. Bones shattering, vertebrae crunching. Teeth rattling across wood as they split from seeping gums.

   The silence lasted longer than the sounds. Vesco stared, unable to take his eyes away. He’d seen gore, and blood, and he’d even seen a neck twisted that way before, but it had never been his captain.

   The rain diluted most of the blood, helping it spread through the wood of the decks. It washed oozing organs clean. There was orange. There was purple, and blue. Vesco finally looked away, and up, and paused.

   Mr. Airedale was climbing down the ladder. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Calm and collected, as ever.

   Vesco stood himself up on shaky legs, trying not to look at the wreck of his captain. He glowed in his lantern light, pale and sickly.

   The first mate set one boot on the ground, and the other. He turned, with his usual stony indifference, to study the body of Richard Weatherdecker.

   When he finally looked up, he saw Vesco staring at him, gaping in shock. Rain ran down their faces, dripping through sodden hair. Mr. Airedale didn’t blink the water from his eyes. When he spoke, he spoke softly, in a sad choking whisper.

   “He fell.”

   Mr. Vesco did not argue.

   The next day, Mr. Tiller said goodbye to Damian on the Port Nichols docks. The crew of The Ship said goodbye to Captain Weatherdecker, though this event was surrounded by less pomp and circumstance. The ship’s doctor did his best to gather the captain into one piece, wrapping him in linen to hide what he could not fix, and then a dinghy of crewmen rowed him out to the deeps. The cannonball roped to his ankles quickly dragged him from sight. Mr. Airedale watched from the deck of the ship - his ship. From that distance, he could hardly see the splash.

   Adam was readying the SS Cartleblat to pull out and head home. Tiller met Susan on the dock, next to the berth of the hardy little tugboat. She held Damian in her arms. Mr. Tiller held the large rucksack he’d packed last night.

   “You should take this,” he said, offering it to her. “Got some extra clothes for the kid. Snacks and the like.”

   “Oh, Mr. Tiller, thank you,” said Susan. She let him drape one of the straps over her arm, and she hefted it onto her shoulder. “That’s so kind.”

   “Some toys in there too, just in case you want ‘em. Figured he might like ‘em for the trip home.”

   “I’m sure,” said Susan, smiling, “but, are you? How much did you spend on all this?”

   “It was nothin’,” said Tiller. “Don’t worry about that.”

   “I’m going to, you know. I hope you didn’t put yourself out.”

   “Not at all. It went to a good cause.” He was suddenly unable to look at her. He stuck his hands in his pockets, and studied the dock boards underneath his feet. “I should get goin’, I suppose. Let you folks on your way. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime, eh?”

   She lunged at him as he turned to go, seizing him by the wrist.

   “Mr. Tiller, you did me a favour I can never repay. You know where I’ll be. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, anything at all, let me know.”

   He had stopped, but he kept his head down. He turned towards her the tiniest bit.

   “I s’pose…there’s maybe somethin’ right now you could do.”

   “Anything!”

   “Can I hold ‘im one last time?”

  A tear fell from the tip of his nose onto the dock. Without a word, she turned Damian around in her arms and offered him up onto the boatswain’s shoulder. Tiller squeezed him tight, crying silently into the boy’s soft curls. Susan dove in and wrapped her arms around the both of them, her head on Tiller’s other shoulder.

   In that quiet moment, she thought, and thought, and thought some more. About all the things that had happened. About this kind, gentle man. About how much he cared for her son.

   In the next quiet moment, she began to whisper in his ear.

   The new captain insisted on seeing the SS Cartleblat home as a security escort. He knew the Benefactor would have something to say about it, but he was not troubled in the least, as he knew what to say back.

   They anchored in the bay, and rode a dinghy to the docks. Acting Captain Airedale and his first mate Vesco met the young family, and the boatswain that had joined them for the trip home, by their tugboat.

   “Miss Carruthers,” said Airedale, taking her by the hand, “I must apologize for this brief farewell. I regret we must take our leave as soon as we may.”

   “I understand, Mr. Airedale. Oh! I mean, Captain Airedale. Thank you for all your help.”

   “You were most welcome to it, Miss Carruthers. My crew and I remain in your service whenever you have need.”

   He released her hand, and took up the hand of Captain Cartleblat.

   “The same is true for you, sir. I hope our paths across the seas may intersect again.”

   “Sure,” said Adam. “Here’s hopin’. Thanks, Cap’n.”

   Mr. Vesco shook the hands of Adam and Susan in turn, as his captain had done.

   “I’ve seen folks crazier than you two, no doubt about that. What I ain’t seen yet is anyone braver. Your kiddo’s gonna have a hell of a time keepin’ up with mum and dad.”

   Susan laughed and hugged him.

   “I can never thank you enough, Mr. Vesco. Any time you’re in Port Victor, please, come see us!”

   “Any time an’ every time, miss. You give junior my best, eh?” He turned to Adam. “Cartleblat, let’s make a deal.”

   “A…deal?” said Adam, confused.

   “What’s say the both of us give up cards for a while? Seem to be more trouble than they’re worth.”

   This cheekiness earned him a half-laugh.

  “Don’t have time for cards anymore, man,” said Adam. “I got a kid to look after.”

   Vesco grinned and clapped Adam on the shoulder. Captain Airedale offered his own polite little smile, before addressing his boatswain. Tiller held Damian in his arms.

   “I apologize for our haste, Mr. Tiller, but we must be on our way. Have you any farewells left to say, say them now, and we shall set sail.”

   Mr. Tiller looked nauseous. He clutched the boy tightly, and glanced briefly at Susan. She smiled and nodded encouragement. Tiller handed the boy to her, and took a step forward to face Mr. Airedale.

   “Uh, Cap’n…” said Tiller quietly, “…permission to take shore leave?”

   The captain’s eyebrow twitched upwards, ever so slightly.

   “On which grounds, Mr. Tiller?”

   “Well, y’see, Tim, there’s a home for foundlings an’ orphans, here, and Susan’s one of the Misses, there, an’ they’re gonna be short-staffed soon on account of a new baby on the way, and since, well, I really felt like I was doin’ good by lookin’ after this little guy, more of ‘em would just be better, right? Susan says I have the knack for it, and I ain’t had the knack for many things in life so I figured I had to take the chance while it was here for me.”

   The Captain studied him for a moment, thinking. Mr. Tiller’s stomach tightened all the while.

   “I-I know it’s short notice, Tim. I’m sorry. I just don’t know when we’ll be back here again!”

   “Mr. Tiller,” said Airedale, “I don’t either. No one can say when we may return. Though, I take comfort in knowing that you will be here, with the people that need you most.”

   “Is that…was that yes?” said Tiller nervously.

   “Jeremy, I am not a father. If I were, nothing would put me more at ease than knowing, were something to happen to me, you would be the one to look after my children. Go with my blessing. You are discharged with full honours, Mr. Tiller, from my service.”

   He didn’t think about it; he just hugged his captain, the same way he breathed, or blinked. The message went straight from his brain to his muscles. Airedale was too tall to hug around the shoulders. The Captain patted his former boatswain’s head a few times as his waist was manhandled.

   “Thank you, Tim! I’ll never forget you boys!”

   “Nor we you, Mr. Tiller. May your land-legs find you swiftly.”

   When Tiller finally let go of his captain, Vesco dived in and grabbed his hand. He didn’t shake it, he only squeezed it tightly in both of his.

   “Good on ya, Jerry. Stay outta trouble, eh?”

   Tiller grinned back at him.

   “I’ll try, Vesco. Thanks.”

   The three (four, if the sleeping baby was counted) left on the dock watched the dinghy bob away, watched The Ship raise its anchor, lower its sails, and cruise out of the bay. It was late afternoon when they made their way back home.

   Mr. Tiller carried the sleeping Damian on his shoulder. Adam and Susan walked behind him, hand in hand, enjoying the quiet. Their son’s face was peaceful.

   “I think he’ll work out just fine,” observed Adam. “With the kids.”

   “I know he will,” agreed Susan.

   “Great stroke of luck to find someone so quick, before you’re down a hand. Who’s expecting? Anyone I know?”

   They walked on in silence. After a few seconds, Adam looked to Susan. She looked up at him and started to smile. He slowed his pace, and she fell back with him.

   “You’re kidding,” said Adam blankly.

   “You weren’t, when you said your cot would do the trick.”

   He smiled and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

   “Sure wasn’t,” he agreed.

   “Are you going to stick around for this one?” she asked.

   “Sure am.”

   She hugged him around the waist as they walked home.

In For A Penny - Part 16

If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   The bright and sunny today was replaced by a grey and dreary tomorrow. The sky had clouded over by the time they reached Port Nichols, and after the moon had risen, it had begun to pour steady rain. After the moon had set, Mr. Tiller hefted his rucksacks onto his back, gathered the boy into his arms, and left his cabin for the last time. He crossed the deck under cover of night, casting cautious looks around but never back.

   He knocked three times on Vesco’s door, propping Damian in the crook of his arm. The boy was tugging an overlarge sealskin hat over his ears to keep dry.

   “That’s a good lad,” said Tiller quietly, adjusting the boy’s similarly outsized coat. “Keep warm. We’ll be back with Mummy in just a minute.”

   The door opened, dousing them in lantern light. Tiller took a hurried step forward, followed immediately by a hurried step back, squeezing Damian to his chest.

   The sight of Captain Weatherdecker was not what had him worried. It would have been easy to make up an excuse for this late-night visit. What had him worried was the line of steel crossing the threshold. The sword that the captain held jutted out into the rain, only a few inches shy of Tiller’s belt.

   “Uh…” said the boatswain. “S’just me, cap’n. No need for a fightin’ stance!” Damian was staring at the captain with laser intensity.

   “No, there’s need, Jeremy. I figured you’d argue, so I wanted to cut it short. Put down the boy and back away - then, I can either drag you to the hold or you can walk and save me some work. What’ll it be?”

   Tiller did back away, though he didn’t loosen his grip on Damian. Weatherdecker matched his steps.

   “What’d you do to Vesco?” demanded Tiller.

   “He’s in the brig, with his little lady. What, you think I hurt ‘em?” he asked, of Tiller’s suspicious glare. “I’m not that crazy, Jeremy. I’m just gonna keep ‘em there ’til I get a chance to debark ‘em. You’ll be joinin’em, don’t you worry. Now, drop the kid.”

   “W-what lady’s’is?” asked Tiller hurriedly. “W-why would you put me off ship, Cap’n? Vesco only asked me to meet him here, I don’t know what’s-“

   He staggered backwards as Weatherdecker rushed the sword forward. It was only a warning, but an impatient, unforgiving one all the same. Tiller slipped on the wet deck, hitting it hard on his back. He carefully braced Damian against the fall, which ended up making his own bruises much worse.

   The point of the sword was immediately in his face.

   “Don’t you dare treat me stupid, Jeremy. You been part o’this since the start. Now, let go o’ the kid. If I have to ask again, I’ll ask with steel.”

   Tiller looked to the boy in his arms, staring up at the Captain with tearful awe. The boatswain reached up and set his hand on the crown of the water-slick hat, pulling the boy’s head to his chest, hiding his face.

   “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “You’re safe. We’ll get you back to Mummy, okay?”

   With a grunt of frustration, Weatherdecker pulled the sword back, ready for a stab. Tiller winced and closed his eyes, ready for the worst. He did not let go; he only held tighter.

    In that single dark second, he heard a pair of hard, fast bootsteps, then a sharp, squeaking clang, followed immediately by a dull wooden thump. Then, quiet. And rain. And the creak of the ship. Was this death? He felt no pain. Not so much as a scratch. He risked a peek.

   A second figure was silhouetted next to Weatherdecker in the pouring lamplit rain. Even without his bicorne, there was no mistaking the stature of the first mate.

   Airedale had driven the point of Weatherdecker’s sword into the deck beside Tiller’s leg. His own sword was crossed overtop, weighing it down. It would have been easy enough for the captain to pull it out and have another go, but he was staring, eyes locked with the first mate’s.

   “Drop your weapon,” said Airedale. Weatherdecker only glared at him some more. His hand stayed firmly wrapped around the sword’s hilt.

   “I told you to drop your weapon. I did not ask.”

   “I don’t take orders from you,” snapped Weatherdecker. “Get outta here. This ain’t your business.”

   Carefully, still keeping his lock on Weatherdecker’s sword, Airedale took one long step sideways, settling himself between Tiller and the captain.

   “If it happens,” he said, pressing down on the sword, “aboard my ship…” He suddenly let go, arcing his own sword through the air to reestablish a good grip. “…it is my business. If you want to kill an innocent man on my deck, you’ll have to get through me. Pull that sword up and face me, Richard, if you’re eager to kill. Show me you aren’t a coward.”

   Weatherdecker hauled on his sword, dislodging the point from the deck. With a growl, he raised it to Airedale’s own.

   “I’se killed men bigger’n you with my bare hands,” said the captain lowly.

   “Before, or after they were hogtied?”

   Weatherdecker thrust his sword forward with a savage growl; Airedale caught it with his, and held it.

   “C’mon, you fuckin’ poof,” snapped the Captain. Both their locked arms were starting to tremble. “We gonna talk, or am I gonna cut you open?”

   He slid his sword along Airedale’s, making them sing. He pulled back, and tried another, lower cut. The first mate got his weapon under it and threw it aside before it could hit. Thus separated, he said:

   “Mr. Tiller.” It was a command, catching the boatswain’s attention. Mr. Airedale reached into his jacket and withdrew a ring of keys, which he tossed in Tiller’s direction. They landed with a jangle on the deck beside him. He could have caught them, if not for the baby in his arms. The first mate had not diverted his eyes from the captain for a single second.

   “Get to the brig,” said Airedale. “Release Mr. Vesco and Ms. Carruthers. Get off the ship. Mr. Cartleblat’s vessel is docked not far from here, to our stern.”

   Tiller had grabbed the keys and scrambled to his feet, still clutching the boy to his chest, though he did not leave.

   “But, Tim…what are you…?”

   “Either I will meet you shortly, or you will have gotten a sufficient head start. Go, now. Do not argue.”

   Mr. Tiller took a few hesitant steps away. Mr. Airedale still had not looked in his direction once.

   “Thank you,” he whispered. The steps turned into a run, towards the hold. Mr. Airedale stared his captain down, sword at the ready.

   “I would rather not do this with weapons, Richard. If I admit that I am, in fact, a poof, are you willing to have a reasoned discussion?”

   The captain’s face darkened, his eyes bright with hatred. He bared his teeth. With a sudden gargling yell, he raised his sword high in both hands, bringing it down as hard as he could. Mr. Airedale met it in a cross over his head, and threw it off once more.

   “Shut your mouth!” bellowed the captain. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth, you fag! Quit tossin’ your fancy words around an’ fight me like a man!”

   Quick as a wink, Mr. Airedale swept the point of his sword a few inches from Weatherdecker’s belly. Had he been trying to, he would have opened his captain hip to hip. Weatherdecker staggered back a few steps, startled, wide-eyed. He looked like a child who had just discovered the claws on his pet cat.

   “I do not hope to fight you, Richard. I hope to make you see sense. I am distressed and disappointed that we had to come to swords over this. Do you really wish to add assault to the list of charges against you?”

   For once in his life, Richard Weatherdecker listened. He stayed silent.

   “Miss Carruthers has gotten away with her child. It is over, Richard. There are plenty of witnesses willing to put this to court against you, myself included. If you kill me, there are others. You aren’t going to get out of this. If you put your sword down, and come with me, it will be better for you.”

   The wind whistled in their ears; it whistled through Weatherdecker’s nose as he breathed, hard and fast, his brain whirring.

   He swiped again, suddenly, but Airedale had seen it coming a mile away. He deflected deftly, locking their weapons once more.

   “You can take me to fuckin’ court,” growled the captain, “when you drag in my dead fuckin’ body.”

   “I will do no such thing, Richard. If I have to drag you, I will drag you alive.” He pressed harder. “I want you to see their faces. See the pain you caused. You do not get to escape that easily.”

   Weatherdecker shoved him back, bracing the flat of his sword against Airedale’s, but the first mate knew he had already won. The look in his captain’s eyes was all he needed.

   “Fuck you, fag,” spat Weatherdecker. “Always knew you for a traitor. Never shoulda let the lady pick my first!”

   Mr. Airedale’s cut came down on him so hard, so quickly, he barely had time to lift his sword over his head to block it. It rattled his teeth and the bones in his fingers. Sharp ringing sounded in his ears from the slash of metal on metal so close to his head. His arms started to tremble as Mr. Airedale forced the sword down, harder.

   “I always knew you as an oaf, as an ape, as a dangerous man and a terrible captain. I never should have let Miss Bankshead make me your first. I deserved a proper captain and you deserved a drowning in a sack in a river, you cur!”

   Weatherdecker was so fixed on the sword from above, he missed the boot from below until it had already kicked him in the liver. He doubled over, breathless, stumbling backwards out of Airedale’s reach; but only barely out of the reach of Airedale’s weapon. The captain looked up, groggily, to see a point of steel aimed right for his face.

   “Put it down, Richard,” said Airedale, with finality. A pause passed between them, filled only by the patter of heavy rain on the deck. The captain stood a little straighter.

   With a huge grunt of effort, he swept his sword up and out. It clanged against Mr. Airedale’s, knocking the first mate’s arm aside as the steel in his hand vibrated angrily. He recovered in an instant, ready to parry his captain’s next strike, but it never came. Weatherdecker had not been attacking. He had been distracting, throwing his first mate off balance just long enough to turn tail and disappear into the dark.

   Mr. Airedale leapt after him, after a brief pause to sort through his confusion. He had been expecting a poor fight from his captain, certainly, but not outright cowardice.

   His long, steady strides caught him up to Weatherdecker in no time at all. At least, they would have, had Weatherdecker stayed on deck. Mr. Airedale slowed to a halt in a few awkward steps, before he ran into the wall of the foredeck. He looked around, looked behind, weapon at the ready. Impossible. Where could he…?

   A lightning flash illuminated the rain, freezing it in tiny slivers of glass. The rigging of the ship burst in silhouette like a spider’s web in black. On the ladder of the mainmast, partway up to the flat platform that served as a fighting top, was the spider himself. Airedale’s eyes locked on as if drawn there by magnets.

   He sheathed his sword, keeping his captain clear in his sights. From the sheath on his other hip, he drew a long, sharp dagger. Then he moved, slinking along the dark deck. Had the thunder not rolled, had the wind not roared, he still would have been silent as a shadow.

   The captain had left a pair of kerosene lanterns for them, his one small gesture of goodwill. They hung on the wall opposite their cell doors. He had made plenty more small gestures of bad will, however; locking them in, taking the keys, manacling Mr. Vesco by the hands after threading the chain around a cell bar. Mr. Vesco was an able lockpick, and Weatherdecker knew this, having employed his skill on several occasions.

   His throwing knives had been cut from his wrists. He couldn’t reach the bigger ones at his ankles. He was having trouble remembering how he got here, much less how to rifle around in a lock. The bruise that the captain had flowered at the base of his skull was pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and sighed.

   “I’m sorry,” he murmured. It was quiet in the brig, and Susan heard him well enough. She looked up from her knees, hugging them tightly in the corner made by cell bars and wooden wall. From that flat angle, she could only see his hands hanging from the bars, and the edge of the cuffs around them.

   “He was asleep,” continued Vesco. “I swear to gods he was asleep when I looked in.”

   “Don’t be sorry,” said Susan. She sounded calm, though whether this was actual serenity or simply shock even she couldn’t say. “You couldn’t have known. It’s the easiest thing in the world to fake.”

   “Couldn’t’ve known,” he said. “Should’ve thought.”

   He sighed again, letting his forehead rest between two of the cold cell bars. Susan watched his hands for a while, dangling uselessly from their manacles.

   She turned suddenly as the hatch in the ceiling cracked open. Beyond it was only darkness. As it was overturned, a few raindrops snuck through, spotting the floor of the brig in a square. The rope ladder kept at the top dropped through with a rattle and hiss, like a snake from a branch.

   She didn’t immediately recognize the feet that hooked themselves into the rungs, but she knew they were not the captain’s. She stood as Mr. Tiller dropped to the floor, one hand letting go of the ladder, the other arm holding tight to her baby. Relief swept her away like a sudden riptide.

   “Tiller!” she cried. Mr. Vesco’s chain rattled against the cell bars. She could see his hands tighten around them.

   “Jeremy, thank gods! You alright?”

   “Fine. Just fine!” Tiller pulled a ring of keys from his trouser pocket and started to flip through them. Damian tried to help, unhelpfully. “I’ll have you outta there in a sec, just hold on…”

   He unlocked Susan’s cell first. She pulled Tiller into a strangling hug, then took Damian from his arms and hugged him even tighter. The boy chirped and showed off his new hat as Tiller freed Vesco, from both cell and cuff.

   “Did he catch you?” demanded the quartermaster.

   “We got away,” said Tiller. “We have to hurry, Vesco. I dunno how much time we have. We have to get to—“

   “How much time before what?”

   “Mr. Airedale’s keepin’ him busy. He told me to get you and head for—“

   Mr. Vesco’s hand dropped absentmindedly to the scabbard at his hip. The one that Weatherdecker had so helpfully emptied for him before locking him away. That sword was not just for ceremony, not tonight. Vesco had been careful to sharpen it.

   “Fuck,” he breathed. He looked up at Susan. “Get off the ship, all of you. Go on without me. I’ll catch you up.” He grabbed a lantern off the wall as he ran past. He nipped the handle in his teeth and leapt onto the ladder like a monkey, climbing as fast as he could.

   “Where you goin’?” called Tiller. “Vesco, he said to—!”

   The quartermaster ignored him, vanishing into the rainy night.

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