by Alan Scott
Confused, Dennis watched Luke walk away. Why the emphasis on ‘late’? Shaking his head, Dennis knelt down and recovered the crossbow. The bolt he had fired was still in the creature, but then, it could stay there, as the potency it had against the werewolf was now gone.
Scholars among the Craktoneon faction of the Church, the faction he and all the Guardians belonged to, were aware for some time now that silver harmed werewolves; however, discoveries made in newly found scrolls showed a way of treating the silver to make it even more potent against the cursed shapechangers. Although there was a huge downside, as the cost was huge and the silver was always destroyed once it made contact with the werewolf.
Standing, Dennis turned his head to the entrance as he heard two men enter.
“Sergeant Guardian Dransfield,” one of the men said.
“Guardian Spear,” acknowledged Dransfield.
“We are here to remove our fallen comrade.”
“Please continue,” replied Dennis, standing to one side. “How many have we lost?”
“Including Port, we have lost three men and two others are wounded.”
“A heavy price.”
“But one we give gladly to protect the good people of this region from the spawn of the evil one.”
“Well said, Guardian Spear,” replied Dransfield before turning to the other Guardian and giving a slight nod. “Guardian Ending.”
Guardian Ending bowed his head in reply.
“Right, I shall leave you to your task.” With that, Dennis hefted the axe and made his way out of the cave.
“Right, my mute friend, let us see to our departed colleague,” said Guardian Spear.
Guardian Ending solemnly nodded.
Both men walked to the corpse and knelt down.
Guardian Ending started going through the deceased’s pockets.
“Lord Guardian Paul Port fought hard and died in your service. Guide him home, Lord. Let him lay down his burden and be at peace by your side. Guide him home, Lord. Guide him home,” intoned Guardian Spear as he watched Guardian Ending work.
Guarding Ending’s fleet fingers soon found what he was looking for – a folded letter in the trouser pocket.
“Ah, the trouser pocket. Paul was a wise soldier,” commented Spear as he took the letter that Ending had found. Opening it, he read silently for a moment. “It is to his mother in a village called Little Elton. It is the standard ‘goodbye’ letter – glad that he gave his life to protect the innocent, he now has a place at our Lord’s side, and has earned a place for his mother, etc, etc...” Guardian Spear looked down at Paul. “We will make sure she receives it, Paul.”
Standing, Guardian Spear tapped his side, as he always did at times like this, making sure his own letter was securely in place. “Ok, my mute friend.”
Guardian Ending rolled his eyes and sighed.
“Well, you are, so stop rolling your eyes at me.”
Guardian Ending gave Spear a hard stare.
“Anyway, let’s remove our comrade from this place.”
Nodding, Guardian Ending grasped one of Paul’s arms and stood up.
***
Sergeant Guardian Luke Black leaned on a tree, watching from the periphery the circle of townsmen and women who were hanging on Brother Warsmith’s every word. Luke’s eyes constantly searched for trouble, or something or someone out of place. It was an automatic response after twenty-two years as a Guardian and had saved his life more than once.
Spotting Dennis Dransfield, a tight ball of anger grew in the pit of Luke’s stomach and he clenched his fists tight. Unclenching his right fist, he ran his hand over his chin and right cheek, running his thumb up and down the scars that marked him...
... the scars that Dennis’s grandfather had given him all those many, many years ago. Everyone at the time had agreed that Dennis had rushed to his side and saved him from the werewolf, from Dennis’s thrice-cursed grandfather. It was only years later, when Sergeant Guardian Aaron Braken had talked to him in private, that the suggestion that Dennis had in fact arrived, not in the nick of time to save him, but rather, too late to save him from being scarred for life.
Over the years, he and Dennis had saved each other’s lives more times than he could count. They had fought together, bled together, and been promoted together. As time went past, he had tried to dismiss Braken’s words, but they had always remained as a nagging doubt in the background. Then two months ago, during an attack by a foul necromancer, Dennis had been late again – only by a fraction – and Luke had been badly wounded... again.
The anger pulsed in Luke’s gut. Because of his injury, it was Luke who had been presented with the hand crossbow and twenty specially treated silver bolts – not him. Everyone knew that he was a better shot than Dennis, but because of his injury, because of Dennis being late in helping him, Dennis had gotten the weapon.
Luke felt the anger and rage build inside him at the injustice, and the conversation between himself and Sergeant Guardian Braken all those years ago rose unbidden in the back of Luke’s mind.
“If he had been faster, you may not have been… so visibly wounded,” said Braken.
“Dennis has saved me numerous times.” A hint of anger had entered Black’s voice.
“I am sure he has.”
“Brother Warsmith, himself, brought Dennis into the fold.”
“And why did he do that?”
“Because he is a good man.”
“That may be, but does our Lord not say – ‘Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer still’?”
“He does, but…”
“Is Dransfield not tainted by his shape-shifting grandfather?”
“Yes, but...”
“Have you ever wondered why your friend was so slow that day? Or why his grandfather did not attack him? Or how Dennis managed to fight off a werewolf all by himself?”
“Those impure thoughts have crossed my mind in the darkest of night.”
“Those thoughts are not impure, Luke. As our Lord says – ‘When it comes to the tainted and deviant, question, question, question, and question again’.”
Luke’s lip curled into snarl as he gazed with hate at his old friend. “Why are you always late when it counts, my friend?” he said, quietly. “How much of your grandfather’s taint runs in your blood?”
***
“And so we give praise unto our Lord and cast this foul creature into the pits of fiery damnation!” With that, Brother Warsmith tossed the head of the werewolf into the blazing bonfire to his right. A huge roar erupted from the crowd of fifty or so villagers.
“Your village is safe now! You may sleep safely in your beds!” boomed out Warsmith. There was another roar of approval from the crowd.
“Now go about your peaceful and lawful business, good people of Ashbeach Down!” Bruce Warsmith leaned heavily on his staff as he watched the crowd slowly dissipate through the trees and return to their homes.
“Are you well, Brother Warsmith?” a concerned voice asked.
Turning, Warsmith saw a very young Guardian. “I am still full of vigour, Guardian!” he said, sternly.
“Of course, Brother Warsmith,” the young man quickly agreed.
“Now let us make our way back to the camp so that we can celebrate the lives of our fallen.” With that, Brother Warsmith strode away.
As he made his way to the Guardian’s camp, Brother Warsmith concentrated hard on allowing neither his troubled mind nor, indeed, his deep weariness show. The battle with the werewolf had taken more out him than he would like or care to admit. His flesh was not as young or supple as it used to be, but with God’s will, it was still strong enough to smite the evil in this world.
No, his flesh and bone still served him well. It was his mind that was truly troubling him. He had always prided himself on his razor-sharp memory and ability to recall the most obscure bit of information, yet he could not remember the name of the young Guardian he had just talked to, no matter how hard he trie
d, and this was not the first time it had happened. “Please, Lord,” Bruce Warsmith silently prayed, “I pray to thee, spare my mind from the ravages of age, so that I may serve you better.”
***
Later that night at the Craktoneon camp
Having sent all his attendants away, Bruce Warsmith sat alone at a table in his large tent, reading the Holy Book of Crakton by the light of two candles as he drank red wine. He was silently reading from the Book of Miracles, trying to find solace in the Tale of the Lost Man. It was a tale about an old man whose mind had left him, hence, had been abandoned by his family to roam the wilderness, alone and afraid. He had been sheltering under a weeping willow from a momentous downpour when the Lord God had come to him and said…
“Knock, knock,”
Warsmith looked up.
“Sorry to disturb you, Brother Warsmith,” said Guardian Spear. “Boy is back and he has news.”
“Send him in.”
“At once, Brother Warsmith,” said Guardian Spear as he stepped aside to allow a tall broad-shouldered man into the tent.
“Sergeant Guardian Power, welcome.”
Sergeant Guardian Aaron Power, formally known as Boy, entered the tent. “Evening, Brother Warsmith.”
“Wine?”
“Please.”
Warsmith stood and made his way to a small desk on which sat a bottle of wine and three glasses. “Report, Aaron,” said Warsmith as he poured the wine into a glass.
“There has been an attempt on the Queen’s life.”
Warsmith stopped pouring, before asking, “Was she hurt?”
“No, her hell-spawned bodyguard saved her.”
After pouring the wine, Warsmith made his way to Aaron Power and handed him the full glass. “Mmm, this is important news. We must assemble our senior men.” Moving to face the entrance to the tent, Warsmith shouted, “GUARDIAN SPEAR!”
“You called, Brother Warsmith?”
“Yes, Spear. Call all our senior men to a meeting in my tent. They must attend within the half hour.”
“As you command, Brother Warsmith,” replied Spear before turning to the man standing next to him. “Guardian Ending, you continue guarding the tent whilst I attend to Brother Warsmith’s command.”
Guardian Ending nodded his understanding and took out his whistle, which he placed between his lips.
“That’s right, my mute friend, and don’t forget to blow hard and long on your whistle, if you come under attack. Do you understand?”
Guardian Ending nodded again.
“Good. Right, I will be back shortly.”
Guardian Ending rolled his eyes and gave a two-finger salute to the retreating Guardian Spear. “What the hell I have done to deserve him?” he thought for the hundredth time.
“I saw that!” called Guardian Spear as he vanished from sight.
Guardian Ending sighed heavily. “I must have been very, very bad. I just hoped I enjoyed every minute of it, as I’m paying for it now.”
***
Half an hour later
Bruce Warsmith watched as the last of his senior men entered his tent. “Brother Kirsop, please take your place at the table.”
“Thank you, Brother Warsmith,” replied Brother Kirsop as he made his way to the only vacant seat. Sitting at the table already was Brother Warsmith, Brother Bowller, Brother Widden, Guardian Sergeant Black, Guardian Sergeant Dransfield, Guardian Sergeant Mley, and Boy. The Boy – Kirsop could not help think how inappropriate that name was now. Boy had grown into a man and a very deadly one, at that.
The interior of Brother Warsmith’s tent had changed dramatically in the last half-hour. His table had been expanded to allow eight people to be seated; extra chairs had been brought in, as well as additional candles, cups, and bottles of wine. Attendants were standing in the four corners of the tent, ready to carry out any task asked of them.
“Now that Kirsop has arrived, we can begin,” stated Brother Warsmith. “Guardian Sergeant Aaron Power has brought us some urgent news. Guardian Sergeant Power, you have the floor.”
“Thank you, Brother Warsmith. I shall keep my report short and to the point. There has been an attack on her Majesty, the Queen, which she has survived, unharmed. The person behind the attack was apparently the Lady Farah Sharpe.”
“Sorry,” interrupted Brother Kirsop, “did you say – the Lady Farah Sharpe?”
“Yes, Brother Kirsop.”
“Interesting. Thank you.” Brother Kirsop indicated with his hand for Aaron to continue.
“I say apparently because, when forces arrived at her estate, she and all her staff had been killed during a macabre and debased orgy. The words ‘He Cometh Again’ where found written in blood behind some bushes.
“This phrase, as we all know, is associated with the Brethren of the Night and the creature known as the Midnight Man. It was four years ago when I personally interrogated the late Brother Guardian Gordon Bowl, after his escape from the clutches of the Brethren. Alas, he was too far gone and I was forced to kill him, but only after he prophesied the return of the Midnight Man.”
“What has this got to do with the assassination attempt on the King?” asked Brother Warsmith. Those around the table stared at Brother Warsmith.
“What?”
“Em, you said ‘King’, Brother Warsmith,” said Sergeant Guardian Dransfield.
“No, I did not.”
“Yes, you did,” confirmed Brother Widden.
“Well, I meant Queen. Continue, Rupert.”
“Yes,” said Aaron, slowly, as he gave a concerned look to Brother Warsmith. Ignoring that he had gotten his name wrong, Aaron continued, “As I was saying, words that are generally associated with the Brethren were written on the wall.”
“Anyone could have written those words,” said Guardian Sergeant Black.
“But not everyone could have arranged that macabre and debased orgy,” countered Aaron. “I believe it is the work of the Brethren.”
“Then that is indeed troubling news,” Brother Bowller said. “With the increase in werewolf and shapeshifter attacks, our resources are spread thin.”
“Why doesn’t that dog-loving Queen open the treasury and hire more soldiers to protect her people?” demanded an angry Brother Widden.
“We believe that she is still paying the demons that helped her at the so-called Battle of Light,” replied Brother Bowller.
“That is a disgrace; she should put her own people first,” growled Brother Widden.
“We know that there are no depths to which she is willing to plummet to please her deprived masters!” spat Brother Bowller.
“ORDER!” Brother Warsmith brought his hand down hard on the wooden table. The room went quiet. “Thank you. We must not get sidetracked from the main issue, which is – Queen Rebecca Rothgal was the target of an assassination attempt by the Brethren of the Night, who conveniently left two very large clues in the shapes of a deprived orgy and the statement ‘He Cometh Again’. “
Brother Warsmith stood. “Brothers, we must ask ourselves three questions: one – why the assassination attempt now? Two – why does the Brethren so readily claim it? And finally, three – How does this all fit in with the increase in attacks by the thrice-damned werewolves? This is what we need to discuss with clear minds and our God’s guidance.”
“Agreed,” stated Guardian Sergeant Mley. “We are thankful to have you to guide us, Brother Warsmith.” A murmur of agreement went round the tent.
“I am but a humble servant of our Lord, but I do His work with the heart of an ox, the strength of a bear, and the unwavering devotion of a true believer. Evil and wickedness cannot stand before me or the One True Church. Let us pray for guidance before we begin.”
“Brother Warsmith?” interrupted Aaron Power.
“Yes.”
“I am weary from my long ride and, as you know, our Lord has gifted me skills in the field of battle, not in the field of planning. I humbly beg of you to allow me to retire and re
gain my strength, so that I may better serve our Lord with the skills he has granted me.”
Brother Warsmith looked at the young man before him for a moment before replying, “Sleep well, and may our Lord look over you.”
Aaron bowed his head. “And may He guide you to the correct conclusions.” With that, Power turned on his heel and marched out.
Ignoring Guardians Spear and Ending as they snapped to attention, Power strode out of the tent and into the cool night air. Moving through the camp, Aaron made his way towards where his horse was tethered at the edge of camp.
A young Guardian sprang up as Aaron approached. “Good evening, sir.”
“Evening.”
“I have fed, watered, and groomed your horse, sir.”
“He does look well taken care of.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Aaron moved to stroke the head of his horse. “You have been pampered, Midnight, haven’t you?” Midnight snorted.
“Sir?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you call him Midnight, when he is chestnut brown?”
“The name came to me in a dream.”
“Oh.”
“Thank you for your help, Guardian, and may our Lord look over you tonight.”
“And you, Guardian Sergeant Power.” With that, the young man left.
Aaron quickly scanned the ground before him. It was fairly flat and dry, so he moved to his bedroll, which was next to his saddle, and unrolled it. Aaron removed his sword belt and laid his sheathed sword down by his bedroll, before removing his chainmail shirt, along with the padded undershirt. Swinging both his arms, whilst rolling his neck and stretching, Aaron tried to loosen the knots in his muscles. The cold air felt good against his skin. He scratched his chest where the outline of a cross had been branded on him all those years ago. Walking towards his saddlebags, he removed an object wrapped in velvet and returned to lay down on his bedroll.