The Witch Watch

by Shamus Young

  Their duties were simple and to Gilbert’s liking. Two men stood watch inside the front doors and another at the back door. Another walked the grounds. Four more stood along the path leading up to the main entrance. Gilbert noticed that his experience on the path was not unique. Everyone who came to the front door ignored these guards as if they did not exist. If one of the men stirred or made a noise it would startle and unsettle the visitor who had mistaken them for statues. Was it their grey uniforms? A trick of the light? Did the foreboding appearance of the house distract them? It was impossible to tell, but it was uncanny how visitors would be confused by the illusion. The men usually made a point to cough or greet a visitor once they passed, just to see them jump.

  Headmaster Graves rarely took interest in what went on at the barracks, which everyone still called stables. He was a grotesque man, fond of cruel jokes and cutting remarks. The misery of others was the only thing that could make him reveal his twisted smile of slate-colored teeth. The men called him “tatters” when he wasn’t around, after the condition of his once-fine clothing.

  Gilbert briefly considered going back to Rothersby, but he wasn’t fond of giving up and was even less fond of what Mother would say when he explained the ridiculous circumstance of his new job. He couldn’t help but think that this really could be the position he’d dreamed of, if only they had a proper leader to whip the men into shape. They had more than enough manpower to fix everything that was wrong with the place. They just needed leadership.

  This planted the seed of an idea in his mind. Perhaps he could be that leader. Headmaster hated dealing with the men and had other, more mysterious concerns that dominated his attention. Perhaps Gilbert could take command of the men? It should be a simple matter to make his case. He only needed to distinguish himself in the eyes of the viscount.

  The carts rumbled up the lane towards the Mordaunt estate - or whatever it was called now. A mist hung over the land and their lanterns were barely able to penetrate the darkness around them. All of the members of The Ministry of Ethereal Affairs were here, save for Lord Moxley and Jack. The captain rode in the lead cart, along with Alice and Gilbert. The rest of the men rode in the rear cart.

  Gilbert was left unchained when they departed Grayhouse earlier in the day. Gilbert was still their prisoner and proper protocol demanded that he be restrained in transit, no matter how pliant he seemed. At the same time, the captain did not like the idea of leading a chained man out of the house in front of the eyes of the public. It would only renew the speculation they had attempted to bury the day before. After some debate, they decided the danger of scrutiny was greater than the danger of having Gilbert run wild.

  Gilbert had kept to himself for the journey. If everything went according to plan, they would recover the missing princess and he would return to the grave so that she could leave it. He should be feeling like a man on the way to his own execution, but he was strangely at peace with the idea. He hadn’t felt truly alive since he was awakened so it didn’t really feel like he was facing death now. The idea of someone taking off his head and leaving him helpless terrified him far more than thoughts of returning to death.

  The captain called the company to a halt.

  “Remember our purpose,” he said to the group. “First and foremost, we’re here looking for signs of Princess Sophie. Barring that, we’d like to collect a few of the malefactors who might know where she is.”

  The men seemed content with this. A few patted their rifles, eager to put them to use.

  “But this house is now owned by a Member of Parliament. We can’t simply storm the manor and expect to walk away unscathed. The place might be guarded. In any case, if we do harm to the property or the inhabitants without finding evidence of witchcraft, it will be to our ruin. We need to use our heads. Keep your rifles down and your mouths shut unless I say otherwise.”

  The men nodded reluctantly at this.

  “Miss White, keep an eye on your device.”

  “I’ve put both eyes to the task already,” she said without looking up.

  “Proceed,” the captain said. The carts moved forward.

  Galloping was heard on the road. The men braced themselves, and would have drawn their weapons if the captain hadn’t steadied them. Riders could be seen in the shapeless dark ahead. There was a rush of sound as they passed, and for a moment they were revealed in the lamplight. Gilbert saw three men on horseback. The leader smiled at him, revealing two rows of blackened teeth as he clutched his tattered top hat to his head. They passed in a cloud of dust and vapor, and the road fell quiet again.

  The carts turned up the lane and approached the manor.

  “Stop!” Alice commanded.

  “Spellcraft?” Captain Turpin asked guardedly.

  “Perhaps,” she said slowly at she regarded the contraption on her forearm. “It’s difficult to say. The movement is very slight. It’s coming from...” she turned her body, orienting herself according to the gauge on her arm, “...there!” She pointed directly at the tomb where Gilbert had found himself three nights earlier.

  “Could this be leftover from the necromancy?” the Captain asked.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I must investigate.” She jumped out of the cart.

  “Archer,” the captain said, nodding towards Alice.

  “Why me?” he protested. He looked longingly at the house, perhaps thinking of the promise of action. He tried to say more, but his fellows lifted him up and dropped him out of the cart. They watched as Alice and Private Archer crossed the shrouded field to the tomb, and vanished from sight. The group was down to only a few now. The captain rode in the lead cart along with the driver and Gilbert. Two men remained in the rear cart.

  “I wish Lieutenant Jack hadn’t turned on us like this,” the Captain muttered to himself.

  The carts moved forward more slowly this time. The eyes of the men strained to see the road ahead. It was not a particularly dark night, and the fog was not especially thick, but together these frustrated their vision. Even when they were close enough and there was enough light that they ought to be able to see plainly, objects seemed to refuse to take shape. The men looked at each other nervously, but said nothing.

  Figures loomed on either side of the path. Gilbert saw statues flanking them, carved in the shape of military men. Memories stirred in his mind. He struggled with them, as if trying to remember a dream. A sense of unease gripped him. He knew this place. He’d stood here himself, once. Beside these statues? No. Near them? Why couldn’t he make sense of this memory?

  Realization gripped him and he sat upright, “Stop!” he screamed. “Don’t go between the statues!”

  The men took their eyes off the mists around them and turned towards Gilbert. Suddenly the illusion was shattered. The gray-clad guards had already drawn their rifles and taken aim. The men cried out, confused to find themselves suddenly surrounded. There was a roar of gunfire, and Gilbert found he was the only person in either cart who was still upright.

  The captain lay on his back, bleeding from a grievous wound along his collar. Gilbert reached down and grasped the man’s sword. The captain clenched the hilt and looked at Gilbert in dismay.

  “Betrayal?” he asked.

  “Doing my duty,” Gilbert replied.

  Then the captain understood that Gilbert wasn’t turning on him, but defending him. Their eyes met for a moment. The captain nodded, and relinquished the weapon.

  Gilbert drew out the sword as another volley of gunfire rang out. The four guards had surrounded the carts, and their rifles were intent on finishing off the members of the Witch Watch. Nobody had taken aim at him. He jumped down, landing on one of the attackers. He swatted the rifle away and gripped the man’s neck in his left hand. With his right, he drew back his sword to run him through.

  “Gilbert!” a voice cried out.

  Gilbert held, and turned to the voice. Simon stood on the front steps of the manor, holding a candle. “Gilbert,” he s
aid again. “Don’t do it. You’ll only make things worse for yourself.”

  Gilbert stared at Simon in disbelief, unsure of what to do next. He wasn’t sure how Simon had come here, or what his purpose was. He wasn’t even sure if Simon’s statement was a threat or a warning.

  The man beneath him was flailing around, trying to free his neck from Gilbert’s vice. Gilbert struck him in the forehead to stun him, and then stilled him with a blow to the side of the head. The other guards had gathered around him and were threatening him with their rifles. He ignored them and spoke to the boy. “What are you doing here, Simon?”

  Simon’s voice shook as he spoke. “Lord Mordaunt, Viscount of Ravenstead, demands your presence.” He opened the door, beckoning Gilbert to come inside.

  Gilbert looked in the cart, trying to see if the captain was still breathing. “I’m going to see to my companions,” he growled.

  A rifle sounded. One of the guards had shot Captain Turpin again as Gilbert approached him. They began snickering.

  “Stop that!” Simon said to the guards. “This one isn’t under command of the master, and if you provoke it you’ll have to deal with the consequences yourself.” Their laughter was silenced, but they continued smirking like mischievous schoolboys.

  “Please Gilbert,” Simon begged, “Your companions are gone, you can’t help them. Don’t keep the master waiting, and he might be merciful. At least hear what he has to say before you do anything rash.”

  Gilbert weighed things in his mind. Was the viscount revived? If he took revenge on these guards, the viscount might run off before he could be brought to justice. If these men were foolish enough to let him in to see their master, then Gilbert decided that it would be more sensible to start at the top and work his way down. These guards weren’t likely to go anywhere anytime soon. If they did leave, Gilbert thought he could remember where the barracks was. Wasn’t it near the stables? No, it was the stables! It was coming back to him, slowly.

  “Lead on,” he said to Simon.

  “Leave your sword,” one of the guards barked.

  “Only if you plan to keep it in your guts,” Gilbert said, waving the tip at the man’s midsection. They stood aside, and Gilbert followed Simon into the house.

  They entered a grand room with an imposing Imperial staircase. Candles flickered in the corners, struggling hopelessly to illuminate the vast space. Gilbert looked up at the balcony overhead and a sudden deluge of recollection washed over him. He saw the room in daylight. He was standing on the second floor, looking down on a commotion of some sort. He was dressed in white. Everything seemed to be moving slowly. Someone was standing at the center of the room below. Who was it?

  “Gilbert? This way,” Simon said, leading him through a broad archway. They passed through a hall of statues. Gilbert smacked one of them with the side of his blade to make sure they were truly made of stone. It rang with the blow. It was actually bronze.

  Simon spun around in terror at the sound, and then laughed nervously when he saw what it was. “You scared me half to death!” he gasped.

  “What are you doing here?” Gilbert asked again. “I threw myself into the arms of the Witch Watch to give you the opportunity to escape. Why did you come back here to this evil place?”

  Simon’s shoulders fell, and he seemed to tremble a bit. “I am so sorry. I didn’t want to come back here, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve been a prisoner of the viscount for almost as long as I can remember. I don’t know my way around the outside world. I was all alone, lost, chased by the Witch Watch, with an empty belly.”

  “You might have begged for food,” Gilbert said.

  “And I might have been turned over to the Witch Watch and executed for my trouble. Please understand. I hate this life. And I hate disappointing you, especially after all you tried to do for me. But this is all I know.”

  “You just need a bit of courage,” Gilbert suggested. “Turn on him. He might bite, but you’ll see his teeth aren’t as sharp as they seem. And if they are? What value is there in a life of jumping at shadows and doing evil for some monster? You don’t have much to lose, and everything to gain.”

  Simon shook his head. “You’ll see when you meet the viscount. He is a nightmare, and not to be underestimated.”

  “Get on with it, then,” Gilbert said. “Let’s see if his teeth are sharp enough to hurt the dead.”

  Simon brought him into the drawing room. On the far wall was a great painting, a portrait of Barrington Oswald Mordaunt. Gilbert recognized him when he saw it, although the picture looked perhaps more vigorous and had more hair than the man hiding in Gilbert’s memories. Beneath the painting was a roaring fireplace, washing the room in angry orange light. Chalk symbols had been scrawled onto the floor all around this.

  The room was nearly empty. There were no couches, no chairs, no rugs, no other art hung on the walls. There was a small pedestal in front of the fire, on top of which had been set a large silver bowl. Beside the pedestal was an old man - another one of Mordaunt’s craven servants. He had narrow eyes and a pale, yellowing complexion, like spoiled milk. He had long twisted fingers, and held a knife in one hand. Gilbert could vaguely remember that the man was called “Steward”, but he couldn’t recall if that was his name, or position.

  “You don’t offer your guest a chair? Seems rather rude, don’t you think?” Gilbert said to the man.

  “You are not permitted to sit in the presence of Lord Mordaunt,” Steward replied. He spoke in a long, rolling manner that suggested the listener was witless and slow. “You must either stand out of respect... or kneel.”

  “I will stand in disrespect. Let’s see if he can tell the difference.”

  The man stooped and lifted a large pitcher from beside the fireplace. He used this to fill the silver bowl. He took a vial out of his pocket and sprinkled some powder into the water, which began to hiss as he muttered something incomprehensible. Then he lifted his knife. Thinking the man was planning violence, Gilbert lifted his sword. For a moment the two men faced each other - the tall and imposing Gilbert with his sword, the withered Steward with his kitchen knife.

  Steward held up his opposing hand, and slashed it across the palm. He clenched the wounded hand into a fist, and squeezed the blood into the bowl. The fire was suddenly invigorated, and the waves of heat rolled outward. The room turned red. The surface of the water bubbled and churned as if it was boiling. Out of the sound came a vibration that became a voice.

  “Mister Hiltman,” chided the voice. “You have caused me a great deal of trouble.” Although he was sure he had only heard it a few times in his life, Gilbert knew that this was unmistakably the voice of the viscount.

  “Purely by accident,” Gilbert replied. “Although rest assured that any trouble I cause from now on will be deliberate.”

  “Full of swagger, aren’t you? Mister Hiltman, your insolence is childish and counter-productive.”

  Gilbert addressed the painting. He didn’t like looking up at the viscount towering over them, but it felt more natural than conversing with a bowl. “What can I do for your Lordship?” he asked mockingly.

  “You have something that belongs to me,” Mordaunt replied in a threatening voice.

  “The cloak?” Gilbert held up a corner of his ragged, half-burned garb. “I only borrowed it out of necessity. After I put your degenerate guards to the sword and burn down your house, I’ll be happy to return it by adding it to the fire.”

  “The vigor!” Mordaunt said impatiently. “It’s mine.”

  “Actually, if the gossip is true then it belongs to Sophie, and I plan to give it back to her, right after I take revenge on your household.”

  “Please Gilbert!” Simon pleaded softly. “Do not provoke him.”

  “I did not give you leave to speak, mouse,” the viscount said. “You haven’t yet been punished for your part in this foolishness.”

  Simon bowed his head and kept quiet.

  “Mr. Hiltman. I did not bring
one of my own employees into my house in order to haggle for my own property. You are interfering with a plan set in motion before you were born. Your obstinacy works to the disadvantage of Great Britain herself.”

  “Employee? I remember working for you, but I don't remember being paid. In which case I am not your employee, but a man you have robbed.”

  “Surrender the vigor.”

  “Shall we fight over it? I see you’ve forgotten to bring a sword. And arms to hold one.” Gilbert assumed a fencing stance, “You may begin when ready.”

  Mordaunt spoke again, but his voice sounded far weaker and more distant, “Why is the bowl running low? Do I need to send one of the guards to help?”

  “No master!” cried Steward fearfully. He slashed himself again, renewing the flow. He squeezed the wound furiously, pouring fresh blood into the bowl.

  Mordaunt’s voice returned. “Now Mr. Hiltman. Be reasonable. This is not your business. Your life is ended. If you continue to run around in the wide world as an abomination, sooner or later you will be caught and destroyed. Sophie’s sacrifice will go to waste. Only I have the knowledge and opportunity to make use of the vigor. Surrender it, and your body will be laid to rest with proper respect, as a man who has been faithful in his duties.”

  “Your Lordship. The only thing I have for you is the end of my sword,” He moved towards Steward.

  “Master! Help!” Steward said in fear.

  Gilbert felt his body go numb. The room spun, and as he headed for the floor the last thing he saw was the sorcery circle into which he had stepped. There were many strange shapes drawn on the floor, and the circle had been camouflaged amongst the ugly scrawlings. There was a clatter as he landed, although he couldn’t feel the impact.

  “Turn him over, mouse,” said the viscount. “I want him looking up in respect when I pronounce his sentence.”