Wergild

by Boris L Slocum

  “The trip is more than a day, so we may need to find shelter along the road. But that’s no problem. Inns are plentiful and reasonable, and this has always been a peaceful land.”

  For the Gheets, Deirdre nearly said aloud. But she tempered her words. There was no use correcting the Fiend. He knew what the two of them were truly about. At least he did — Deirdre still wasn’t certain. The road rolled by, and sometime in midmorning Lady Isabel was snoozing easily in the hay. Deirdre took that opportunity to feed her curiosity.

  “Is any of what you said the other day true?” she asked the Fiend.

  “What’s that, Tuppence?”

  “You know what I mean.” She took a painful swallow and hesitated a moment. “Is there really a Walking God?”

  It was the first earnest surprise she’d seen on any of the Fiend’s faces. “Of course, there is … after a fashion.”

  “Nooo …,” she howled in a tiny voice. “Be honest for once.”

  “I am being honest,” he replied. “Such a being does exist. But it’s no god. At least not in the sense you think of one.”

  “But … if he … it isn’t a god?”

  The Fiend actually took a long look around and even peeked at Isabel to make sure she truly slept. None could hear them. “There are a great many things those in power don’t want the people to know. This is one. Once, great ages ago, this world of yours was a battlefield. Two grand tribes — godly tribes if you want to call them that, beings of unimaginable power — each claimed this world as their own. They fought over it for a very long time, until both sides realized that should that fight continue, they surely would destroy this world that each so greatly admired.”

  “This world? Our world?” she interjected.

  “Oh, yes. It’s a lovely and pristine world in which you live. The people aren’t perfect, but where isn’t that true? … But I digress. In short, the two warring parties both agreed to depart this world, but to ensure the peace, each left a guardian … a warden of sorts, whose job it is to make sure the other side doesn’t transgress the treaty and seize this world for themselves.”

  “And that’s the Walking God?”

  “Yes. But the rest is just a charade. This being of which you speak plays no role in your world. It’s part of the agreement between the two warring sides. Neither guardian is allowed to interfere directly in human affairs. It would violate the treaty if they did. This ‘Walking God’ is just a fiction drummed up by those who supported one side of the war, and they tarred the guardian from the other side with an uglier brush. Truth is, neither of them really does much, but waits and watches. The people in this lovely world could get to blazes for all this alleged Walking God cares.”

  “There are no forces of good and evil in our world … like they say in scripture?” Her words weren’t truly a question. It was more something she’d already sensed.

  “No, Deirdre. There are good and bad beings. You see them every day in the world in which you live.”

  “Us … people, I mean?”

  “Yes,” he nodded.

  “And fiends?”

  “Oh, yes. There are all manner of beings — fiends, bogies, ogres, trolls, and many more — all left behind by the two tribes when they left this world. Some tend more toward brutal and cruel ways than others, but the worst such creatures, fiends included, are no eviler than the worst men and women.”

  “I believe that.” She nodded and beamed a great smile. He’d called her Deirdre. “How do you know all of that, the bit about the gods? Oh, wait. It’s the wind, isn’t it?”

  He smiled. “Partly the wind, but I also read. There are many things a body can learn from reading books.”

  It was true. Books. The Fiend’s cottage had been awash with them. “I should have read some of those,” she grumbled.

  “It’s never too late, Tuppence. A book is a friend that doesn’t judge us for our neglect and that always greets us warmly when we return.”

  They passed most of the remains of the day in silence, talking only of minor things when they felt the need, and the three ended up taking a room at the Wayfarer Inn some miles short of Gatsby. There appeared to be some sort of tournament farther west, and the reverend claimed they would have a difficult time finding a room inside the city walls. The place was near enough that they’d still make the town early the next morning.

  No sooner did the reverend see the young women ensconced in their small but comfortable room at the Wayfarer than he excused himself to “look in on the penitent and weary.” Isabel gave an amiable smile, but Deirdre knew something was afoot. The scallywag was up to something, and she intended to know what.

  After a short delay, she excused herself to Lady Isabel, who stayed to bathe and rest, and followed the hallway to the stairs and down to the common room. Not ten minutes had passed since Moorcroft Ainsley had left them, but he was nowhere to be seen in the great room, which already held fifty or more patrons, eating, drinking, and gaming. Clearly, the Fiend was again about his antics and had shed one face for yet another.

  She just needed to find that face.

  There were several false starts as she espied patrons who she thought were the Fiend only to realize as a hand rested on an unwelcome part of her body that the man in question thought her an eager serving girl or a local sporting lady. One such episode ended with her leaping in the air with a high-pitched squeak.

  Hanging about the common rooms of inns and watching games of chance was scarcely a lady-like endeavor, but before she could embarrass herself further, she heard a loud and sharp voice from a table farthest from the door. The sound came from a slight but energetic man of about forty years. His back was to the wall, and he was in the midst of some type of card game with five other men. He called out again.

  “Miss, I’ll give you a tuppence, if you fetch me an ale.”

  It was a pittance for a human soul, but a hefty sum for fetching a drink. The Fiend’s sense of humor had not left him, and she went to the bar, recovered an ale, and took it to the man. Before she could say or do anything further, the man pointed to a chair behind him.

  “You’re my lucky token now, missy.” He smiled. “I’ll call you Tuppence if you don’t mind.”

  She took her pennies and her seat and began to watch.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Chance Medley was a reprobate and a gambler, and over the next several hours, the man smoked, drank, cursed, and emptied the purses of at least six other men, six very angry and ugly Gheets. Though pleasant and affable, Chance didn’t even pretend at humility. As the evening drew to a close, he made a great show of counting his winnings, laughing up his good fortune, and pointing out that he would be taking the High Road east to his camp, alone, on a night following at least three vicious and gory murders.

  “Ha!” Chance barked. “I’ve got a sharp knife and a fleet foot for a man my age. Does anyone seriously believe the magistrate and the others were killed by anyone but highwaymen or some sour Surrey rebel? If anyone wants to rob me, they can kiss my ass. I absolutely refuse to spit up a penny of my money ... you gentlemen’s money,” he grinned wickedly, “to some thug just ’cause he’s got a pig sticker.” Chance then laughed like a man thrice his size and levered himself from the chair in which he sat. He swayed gently, as a man well into his cups might.

  Deirdre was mortified. The Fiend was taunting these men to follow him out and … and there were five of them. No, six. But he was a fiend, wasn’t he? What could even six grown men do against a fiend? She was beset by indecision. She worried for the Fiend. He was her ally, the only one she had. But none of these men had given her offense. True, each had the cocky demeanor and condescending voice typical of a filthy Gheet — any one of them could have been among those who’d so callously, but ... but....

  A battle raged within her. There was a core decency and goodness within Deirdre that desperately was at odds with the fury and anger that of late had guided her every thought and action. She wanted blood and vengeance and
had bristled at the Fiend’s earlier inaction, but part of her was horrified at the campaign of culinary carnage the creature now carried out.

  What had these men done? She hoped her friend had a plan, but didn’t know, not really. Even if he taunted these men for a good purpose, how many things might go wrong? He was just one fiend. What if…? What if…?

  By that time, Chance Medley had pulled on his jaunty blue coat and made his unsteady way to the exit, turning only once to give her a quick wink and a roll of the eyebrows. And then he was out the door.

  The men who’d gamed with him were at first silent, and then the swearing began, low and angry. Deirdre made herself absent, taking up a seat beyond the bar on the far side of the room. But as she watched and strained to listen, the anger and fury of the men grew slowly in volume before dropping suddenly into conspiratorial whispers. It took the men some time, but after more cursing and no few ales, they rose as one and headed for the door. They now were silent, save for the portly fiftyish man who appeared to be their leader — the evening boded ill for that one — who ordered one man, the oldest and frailest among them, to stay behind.

  Deirdre counted to fifty before she followed the men out the door. It was full dark by that time, and the echo of the men’s voices and the scant light of their lantern was still clear along the road to the east. She tarried only a moment to allow her eyes to adjust and then tore off after them at a run.

  Fortunately, the land along that stretch of the High Road was clear but for some low brush and brambles. Deirdre was able to make her way around the men, who proceeded at a steady walk, and soon was racing along a cow path parallel with the road. It took far longer than she wanted, but she soon spied a figure in the murk who could only be Chance Medley, the Fiend. Another few minutes passed as she picked her way through a patch of bushes and reached his side. By that time, she was too winded to speak.

  “Tuppence,” said the gambler with a smile, “what a pleasant surprise. What brings you out on such an evening?”

  She raised her hand as if to speak but instead leaned forward on her knees to catch her breath.

  “It took our friends long enough to find their courage,” he continued. “I’m assuming that’s why you’re here…?”

  “Five of them,” she finally was able to huff out. “Five of them….”

  The Fiend leapt in the air and promptly began to cut a jig near the base of a large oak beside the High Road. He giggled hysterically. “I’d expected two or maybe three … but five! … Woohoo!”

  Her breath finally came to her. “You’re not worried? They have knives and cudgels.”

  The Fiend calmed himself and gave her an indulgent smile. “Tuppence, you are a delight … hold on.” He turned his head as if to listen. “Up in the tree with you. Quick.”

  She felt herself suddenly weightless, and the lower branch of the great oak was even with her face. The Fiend’s strong hands lifted her farther, and she grabbed on and scampered into the tree.

  “A little higher,” he whispered. “And don’t make a sound.”

  By that time, the noisy and bellicose speech of the approaching men was clear even to Deirdre’s hearing. The Gheet were loud, loud in that way only frightened men felt the need to be, and it was some minutes before they came fully into view.

  “Chance Medley,” called out their leader, as if in surprise. It seemed they intended to make a game of it. “What is the chance we’d find you here?”

  Only two of the man’s drunken lackeys laughed at his pitiful attempt at humor, probably because the others either were too nervous or too stupid to understand the silly jape.

  Chance swayed up to the men amiably, as if still under the influence of too much ale. “Why, hello … what was your name again?”

  That was too much for the seething bully, and he drew back and struck Chance hard in the face. Two others rushed in and tackled the gambler and began pummeling him mercilessly. A fourth stepped up and kicked the now prostrate man hard in the ribs after which he took a cudgel to his lower back. Throughout, their victim made hardly a noise, but he did manage to wriggle free, spring to his feet, and face the five men, fists raised as if ready to box.

  But the men began to circle him warily, smiling and laughing all the while. Now that they’d landed their first cowardly blows, their fear appeared to have dissipated. Only one, the youngest of the bunch, lagged behind.

  “What about you?” Chance called out to the young man. “Your pappy here holding your balls for you?”

  The younger man did indeed favor the ringleader, and he stepped forward now, his face ashen but bellicose. The youth wasn’t too many years older than Deirdre, and for just the barest of moments, her resolve abandoned her.

  “Don’t do it!” she cried out in a voice so emotional it came out as barely a peep. “He’s a fiend!”

  All eyes went to where Deirdre was concealed in the tree, and after the briefest silence, one of the attackers spoke up.

  “Well, damn, Marcus, I guess you’re popping both your cherries tonight!”

  The scoundrels broke into a sick laughter, but the Fiend cast another hidden wink and affectionate smile to Deirdre in her perch. A moment later, having found his courage, Marcus threw a haymaker at Chance’s face.

  The young fool’s fist landed inside the Fiend’s now gaping maw, and after the briefest of moments to let the terror sink home, the Fiend bore down with his fangs and whipped his head three times, ripping off the youngster’s arm at the shoulder. The erstwhile prey then shot like a bolt for the soft flesh beneath the leader’s belly and, after lifting that man from the ground as he once had the magistrate, repeated the furious agitation that moments before had disarmed the son.

  For the next ten minutes, chaos reigned as the Fiend ran amok like a weasel in a henhouse, slashing, ripping, chewing, and dismembering the five men. Only one attempted to flee and was stopped when the Fiend, his fangs still deep in the belly of another ruffian, snatched up a dagger and made a lazy underhand toss into the fleeing man’s lower back, dropping the fugitive in a heap.

  It simply was dreadful, but Deirdre was unable to avert her gaze. Her heart was torn between glee and terror, and she found herself shaking, not from the brutal violence without, but from her own deep conflict within.

  The Fiend made short work of the men, and the havoc was over as quickly as it had begun. By that time, Deirdre already was making her shaky descent from the great tree, and it took her several tries before she toppled out awkwardly into a nearby bush. A now smiling and perfectly composed Chance fished her out.

  “You really shouldn’t have come,” he said in a quiet tone as he picked leaves and twigs from her hair.

  “I … you….” She let out a growl. “I wanted to know what you were up to. And … and … those don’t count toward my seven,” she said, making a perfunctory gesture to the unsightly patch of disarticulated ruffians beside the High Road. She wasn’t feeling feverish as she had after the first night’s carnage, but now a great weakness rushed over her. Without thinking, she leaned against Chance, who swept her up into his arms and began to saunter back in the general direction of the Wayfarer Inn.

  “I’m sorry I cried out like I did,” she whispered against the top of his shoulder.

  “It was no bother.”

  “They never really had a chance, did they?”

  He began to laugh quietly. “They took a Chance, but it didn’t turn out the way they wanted.”

  It wasn’t very funny, so she didn’t laugh. She asked a question instead. “Why?”

  “You mean, why those men?”

  She nodded in his arms.

  “They were Gheets. Hasn’t that always been enough for you?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered after several false starts.

  “I’m still working on my plan, Tuppence, refining the rougher edges. I promise to tell you the minute I’ve worked out the kinks. Until then, your concern for your fellow humans does you great credit, even if they
were five murderous lowlifes.”

  His final words left her feeling oddly satisfied. She still was too weak to walk on her own, and when they returned to the inn some minutes later, the Fiend — once again sporting the guise of Moorcroft Ainsley — took her to the now unoccupied public baths. He fetched some lukewarm water to cool her body, and while she bathed, he sat with his back to her and carefully picked the burrs and thistles from her dress and britches. Afterward, he turned slightly and helped her with her hair, averting his gaze all the while and speaking only to speculate whether some warm buttermilk might not settle a sudden case of indigestion.

  It was late when she returned to her room, and creeping inside she found Isabel fast asleep. Deirdre didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. It was all such a jumble and a mess. But it likely would entail someone getting eaten, an eventuality that she now decided she could accept.

  Wrath

  “Every man sees his own anger as being perfectly justified. That’s the bait which makes wrath the trickiest and most seductive of all the sins.”

  —Brother Constance

  Isabel awoke early the next morning to the sound of voices, singing voices raised in praise. It was delightful, but coming as it did before dawn’s first light, the timing might have been better. Twice more before she finally lifted her blankets and began her day, the honeyed and precious sound of hymns and the cultured lilt of Reverend Ainsley’s preaching left her feeling a little peevish for lack of proper sleep.

  It wasn’t until she ventured downstairs that she discovered the cause of the early-morning sermonizing. The local prosecutor — a man of unquestioned decency and probity — along with the prosecutor’s son and three others, had been murdered and dismembered by a lycanthrope not one mile from the inn, and the local populace was near panic. It was ghastly, simply horrible.