by Campbell, John L; Palumbo, Sergio; Betzer, Albert; Dawson, Zak
We both sat for a few moments to assure the attacker had no intention to return. Alice pulled the mattress off the bed and propped it over the open space. I saved my thoughts on the futility of her action.
“I’m so sorry,” she wept and said repeatedly, returning to picking my head up from the floor.
I knew why she said it, but I wasn’t the sort to hold it against her.
“The baby ok?” I asked.
“I think so.”
“You think you could do me a favor, sweetie?”
“Yeah, what?” she asked, mid sniffle.
“Could you call 911 for me?”
She stopped for a second to let out a chuckle. It wasn’t a joke, but still, it made me happy to know she was ok enough to laugh. She left me alone for a bit to fetch the phone, and I started to drift out of consciousness. I’d done well enough to stay awake as long as I had, and the room spinning around my head was making it difficult. My wife came back, seeing me slip, slapped me and shoved some aspirin in my mouth.
The slap helped a bit, though it made me angry. It couldn’t keep me from drifting off for long. I spit the aspirin into my hand when she wasn’t looking, remembering hearing something on aspirin’s blood-thinning properties. I saw a menagerie of lights and faces appearing in unintelligible flashes leading up to the hospital. I felt Alice’s hand comforting mine, and I distinctly made out the sound of her crying amidst the wall of noise. Much more than that though, I couldn’t filter out.
I came to briefly in the back of the ambulance, and observed a rather distressed scene. The paramedics were scrambling about in the cramped space, trying to stave off the loss of blood. It seemed it wasn’t going well. Alice sat there tapping my wrist, trying to keep me awake. I saw one of the workers returning the defibrillator to its nook, with blood still dripping from the pads. I knew I was hurt, but seeing that, as well as the blood that mired portions of the wall, made it all that much more real to me.
Then something caught my eye. A figure, sitting motionless amidst the chaos. He was something of a black hole in the ambulance, as if light itself bent and gave way to his presence. I looked at Alice, my anchor, to see if she too saw the black figure sitting in our midst. She was more preoccupied with me and the window, alternating glances betwixt the two. I began to stammer in place, restrained by the confines of the stretcher, attempting to draw her attention to the figure I saw plain as day.
My attempts were met with me coughing blood into the respirator and the paramedics who worked to restrain my motions. “Look behind you!” I tried to mutter, which came out with a gurgling popping noise.
It was no use. The paramedics turned up the morphine and I soon wafted away, back to my subconscious.
CONTINUES NEXT WEEK
STRANGLEHOLD by Albert Betzer
Part Two
You shall not permit the Forbidden to live. That single commandment from the Book of Origins resonates with me like no other. It is my motto, my sole reason for being. I never question it and I never will. And with good reason.
Magic can trace its origins back to the Fall when Lasifarus, the Peacock Angel, rebelled against the All-Father. He was charged with protecting man and preserving his state of grace. Instead he rebelled, and with two hundred of his fellow angels, came down from Heaven to mate with human women and corrupt mankind.
Their offspring were called the Maleficarum, the forbidden, and their evil was so great the All-Father sent the Great Flood to eradicate them.
Most people today think that’s a myth. It’s not. Some of the Maleficarum survived to pass their demonic taint on to subsequent generations. Those of the bloodline are born with an innate talent for magic and disposition towards evil. It’s in their blood and they can’t hide it.
That’s what brought me to The Humble Pie. Inns are great sources of information. The locals usually like to congregate, gossip, and throw back a few before heading home. They also feel more inclined to say and do things they normally wouldn’t in front of strangers.
I sat at a table set deep in the shadows enjoying the smells of mince pie and roast pork. Tipping back an ale, I let my eyes drift over the crowd taking in names, events, and faces. Faces were most important. The Maleficarum of old were said to be vaguely reptilian in appearance, with shining faces, stark white skin, and fiery green eyes. They were also said to be very tall and very strong. Even after thousands of generations the blood taint may still be visible in one’s features. I admit it’s rare, but it does happen. Unfortunately, nobody here seemed to exhibit any of those traits.
“Would it please me lord for another drink?”
I looked up to see a skinny teenage barmaid with strawberry blond hair and freckles standing over me with a pitcher. “Aye, but I am no man’s lord,” I said. “At least, not any more. What’s your name, lass?”
“Bethanee, but me friends call me Beth.” She poured me another drink. “How come you ain’t no lord anymore?”
“My family was disgraced,” I said defensively. “Tell me, Beth, did you know the old crone who died?”
“Aggy? Aye, right as rain she was. Always be helping us young lasses with love potions, charms and stuff. Once, Samantha Draper pleaded with her to charm young Ser Jeremy Riiker into asking her to the Autumn Dance even though she is only a peasant girl!” Her eyes suddenly went wide and she put her hand over her mouth. “Oh! I shouldn’t have been saying that,” she said, her voice becoming fearful. “You won’t tell Ser Jeremy will you?”
“Mum’s the word, I promise. Did Aggy have any enemies?”
“Just that gypsy woman,” she said with disdain. “They be at each other’s throats since I was a wee bit babe. The feud was endless.”
“What about?”
“Business mostly. Aishe would be coming periodically to the village to do readings and stealing customers from poor old Aggy. Hated it she did. They were always hexing and cursing each other.”
“Did you ever go see Aishe?”
Bethanee blushed. “Well, she is a fortune teller you know. What young girl doesn’t want to know who she’ll be marrying?”
“How did she do it? Tarot cards or palms?”
“She used a gate board. Creepy thing, it was. The pointer moved by itself!”
“Quit flirting, ya lazy girl!” a deep voice growled from behind the bar. “We be having other customers you know!”
“Owner?” I asked.
“Father,” smiled Bethanee. “I’d best be getting back.” I gave her a silver denarius for her time and she curtsied to me as if I were the Emperor himself.
I took another sip of ale and pondered what she had told me. Gate boards were bad news. They had been outlawed by the Church centuries ago and with good reason. They were portals into the spirit world. Although limited in power, fortunetellers used them to entice demons into doing their bidding. As if fallen angels had nothing better to do than answer idiotic questions about poor deceased Uncle Harry. Demons, on the other hand, used them as a means of entering our world. They were always trying to enter our world. They longed to reclaim their supremacy over the human race and the physical bodies the Avatar denied them a millennia ago. If Aishe was possessed…
I pushed that pleasant thought from my mind, downed the rest of my ale, and made for my room. Lighting a candle, I opened up an account ledger I took from the apothecary. There were a number of names on the list. Most of the activity was mundane in nature: cures for infertility, colicky babies, and whatnot. Other entries were far more malevolent: curses on the manhood of unfaithful husbands, hexes on business rivals, and so on. It was unclear to me whether Aggy was a maleficar or an apostate, someone who didn’t have the taint but stepped outside Church law to learn magic anyway. To be honest, I didn’t know which was worse: being born with the taint or wishing you had.
I found it interesting to note that two names didn’t have any reasons listed for their visit. A girl named Clara Banks and Aishe. I didn’t know Clara Banks but I found it disturbing that Aishe
visited the apothecary the day Aggy died. Was she possessed? Had she trapped a demon into doing her bidding? I shuddered to think of the ramifications.
My thoughts also turned to the Sheriff. If his mother was a witch then it’s conceivable he might have the taint. Warlocks were just as common as witches and probably more dangerous. If Aggy discovered his secret it would give him a motive for murder. I would have to look into that.
Yawning, I stripped into my small clothes, crawled into the soft feather down bed and blew out the candle. In no time at all I had drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
***
“John! Wake up! John!” I opened my eyes to a pounding at my door. It was Bainard. He was nearly hysterical. “For god’s sake, man, open the bloody door!”
I cleared the sleepers out of my eyes, forced myself out of bed, and opened the door just as Bainard was about to knock again. He did it so forcefully he stumbled through the doorway and fell down. Arse. “What the hell is going on?” I asked, helping him to his feet. Outside a crowd began to gather and stare. And me in my small clothes. Great.
He shut the door and began ringing his hands. His face was deathly pale. “There’s been another murder,” he said. “Some gypsy woman named Aishe. She…she died in the same manner as Aggy.”
My blood ran cold. Had the demon escaped and killed her? Or was it someone else? “Where is the Sheriff?”
“At the gypsy camp. It’s a half day’s travel from here.” He nodded to my clothes. “We’d best get moving.”
I threw on my breeches, boots, and shirt. I grabbed my katana, Mercy, and strapped it to my left side, edge up. Within minutes I was ready to go. By then the crowd in the hall had thankfully dispersed and Beth was waiting for me downstairs with a loaf of rye, a wedge of cheddar, and orange juice.
“I be squeezing it early this morning just for you!” she said with a wink. I guess a denarius goes a long way in the north. I thanked her kindly, grabbed the pack and made haste for the gypsy camp.
The Mayor was a good judge of distance. By the time we arrived, half the day was indeed gone. The horses were lathered white and breathing hard. We had ridden them almost to the brink of exhaustion. To be honest I was surprised they made it as far as they did without rebelling. That all changed as we approached the camp. They began stamping their hooves and whickering nervously. They refused to budge no matter how sweetly we coaxed them. The Mayor and I glanced at each other, faces taut. Evil was in the air and the horses knew it.
Giving up, we dismounted, tethered them to a nearby tree, and found our way into camp. My purity seal identified me as a witch-hunter almost immediately. Many of the gypsy children stuck their tongues out me and made faces while the adults made the sign of the horns to ward off my apparent evil. What they didn’t realize was the horned one, Cernunnos, was a fallen angel, a demon who set himself up as a god and tutored the first generation of witches in the use of magic after the Fall. Not that I think they cared much. Most gypsy families were roaming nomads that lived outside of Church law. They worshipped demons in the guise of gods and many made their living through fortunetelling. The head of the family was usually the matriarch, a maleficar or apostate of great power. Although banned by the Church, gypsies freely roamed the Empire with impunity. Fortunately, clans were few and far between and the ones that did exist stuck mostly to the north where the barbarian tribes still worshipped pagan religions.
I followed the Mayor into the center of camp. At its heart lay the great yurt, home to the family matriarch. This one was immense, a testament to Aishe’s ability as a fortuneteller. Embroidered into the felt on each side of the entrance were characters written in the Old Language.
“Those are some wicked looking pictographs,” observed the Mayor.
“They represent the five elements. Apparently Aishe excelled at this kind of sorcery.” I grabbed Bainard by the shoulder and yanked him backwards just as he was about to enter the yurt. “Aishe was afraid of something,” I said pointing towards the ground.
“What is that?” Bainard asked.
“Salt.” I knelt down and tasted some to be sure. “The whole yurt is surrounded by it.”
“I say, why would she do that?”
“Salt is a symbol of purity,” I said. “Demons and spirits won’t cross it.” I circled the yurt looking for any breaks in the circle. There were none. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”
I’ve never been inside a yurt before. To be honest I was expecting a shithole but I must admit I was pleasantly surprised at how large and elegant it was. The frame was an outstanding piece of engineering consisting of several expanding lattice wall sections, a doorway, roof poles, and a crown. Surrounding the crown were several ornate columns and in between the columns were hanging braziers that kept the yurt warm and cozy.
The smell of jasmine permeated the air. I found this irritating as it would impede my investigation. Incense burned on several candleholders scattered throughout the room. I was tempted to extinguish them but didn’t for fear of offending the gypsies. I wasn’t sure if it was part of some mourning ritual or not. Behind the braziers were a pile of silk cushions and a small lacquer table where Aishe did her readings. Unfortunately the gate board was nowhere to be seen.
The Sheriff and another man were standing towards the back of the yurt gesturing towards the body and speaking in hushed tones. The Sheriff looked up when he heard us approach.
“About time you arrived,” he snapped at me. “Where were you? Desecrating more bodies?”
“Actually I was doing your job – investigating a murder. What have you found out?”
“Not much. She appears to have been murdered exactly like Aggy. However, I did receive a communiqué from the Imperial Guard last night. It appears three more such murders occurred along the Emperor’s Highway in the last week. All the victims were astrologers, herbalists, and fortune tellers.”
That was telling. It meant the killer had just arrived in town and harbored extreme hatred for witches. That should narrow down the suspect pool a bit. But who could it be? A rogue witch-hunter? An apostate on a holy mission? They were both interesting concepts.
I glanced at the man beside the Sheriff. He was short and squat with a barrel chest and bandy legs. He wore bright red trousers cut off at the knees, a silk white shirt with red ribbons intricately looped around the collar, and a red floral patterned vest. His black moustache glistened with scented oils and his hair was slicked back and tied in a short ponytail. A gold-hooped earring dangled from his left lobe. Classic gypsy. He appeared agitated and kept repeating the word “mágia, mágia!” over and over again through pursed lips.
“What’s he on about?” I asked.
“Mágia is the gypsy word for magic,” said the Mayor. “Apparently he thinks Aishe was killed by magic.”
“I would have to agree with him,” I said, removing a pair of spectacles from a cloth bag. I peered through the lenses before handing them to the Mayor.
“Three dimensional writing on the walls,” exclaimed Bainard. “They’re glowing! How wonderful! What are they?”
“Glyphs,” I said. “They ward off evil magic.”
“Doesn’t look like they worked too well,” said the Sheriff. “She’s still dead.”
I nodded in agreement. “She was clearly attacked from the outside,” I said. “There are no binding circles or traces of sulfur, although I can’t smell anything with all this damned incense in the air. That, and the unbroken circle of salt outside rules out demonic attack.” I turned to the gypsy man. “Can you tell me anything about the days leading up to the murder?”
His words came out in such a rush that poor Bainard had difficulty translating. “A few days ago Aishe began suffering from terrible nightmares,” he said. “Each night they got worse. Eventually Aishe stopped sleeping all together.
“Did she ever confide to you the nature of these nightmares?”