Immortalibus Bella

by SL Figuhr

  I watched from the darkness as a middle-aged man with a limp, holding a bow and arrow half nocked, glided past me on the creaking wooden floor, smooth even with his impediment. Twenty years we’ve held this mansion, scaring those who we were able, killing those who wouldn’t leave willingly. Who is inside, and how, without being noticed or heard?

  I let him pass, ambushing him. His instincts good, he managed to get a shot off before my fangs sank in. The arrow thwacked into the wall, chunks of rotting, loose plaster crashing down. His blood sprayed into my mouth in a gush, tasting of hot metal. I drank down several mouthfuls as he struggled futilely in my grasp, reaching with my powers into his mind.

  The man before me was young and healthy, clad in bright armor over which hung a surcoat with his lord’s badge upon it. He was bellowing orders to his fellow guards as the alarm bell rang out. Men in dull metal plate armor forced their way inside the many buildings, as the clash of steel upon steel rang out over the screams of the dying. “Yield! Yield to the king and he will show mercy!”

  “Like the same mercy he showed the great heart oak? I’ll send you all back to the dead lands with him!” the lord of the manor roared out as he met the invaders in nothing but nightclothes and sword.

  The lord hacked and slashed, bringing down a number of knights until an arrow pierced his shoulder. He let out a roar of pain, but didn’t stop fighting. The man took another arrow, this time to his side, and he crashed to one knee. A knight took the opportunity to come up from behind, slamming his sword down on the back of the lord’s head.

  The young man lay on the courtyard stones. He could feel his life slowly running out of him. He looked up defiantly at the ring of hooves on stone. Lord Nicky stopped, staring at the remaining men and women of the mansion coldly. “Lord Fishton, you have been condemned for treason. You shall hang on the morrow.”

  “Fuck you! You evil pissant! I don’t know what magic you worked, but I’ll take you with me, even if I have to come back from the dead to do it.”

  The younger version of Nicky sneered, “You should be begging me for mercy, for you or for your family, unless you care not they share your traitor’s fate.”

  “You will not touch the likes of them. Already they are beyond your reach.” The lord laughed at the flash of hate and irritation on Nicky’s face until he was clubbed unconscious.

  The young man woke in darkness, the sound of a woman crooning as she fed him broth. He was in pain, but she nursed him back to health, hidden in the remains of the once-elegant mansion. They stayed that way, he half-lamed. He made every person who tried to inhabit the mansion believe it haunted by the ghost of Lord Fishton and his murdered family. If they refused to leave, he slowly poisoned them with the help of the woman who had once been Lord Fishton’s daughter, and who had healed him. Years passed, and soon no one came anymore to claim it—none but the most foolish, and they were quickly dealt with.

  I let the body fall to the floor, nourished and warmed by his blood even as a voice behind me screamed in fury, footsteps pounding my way. I turned eyes shining with a sulfurous amber honey glow to see a prematurely aged woman charging me with a sharpened stake. She moved swiftly, but I was swifter. I caught her arm, squeezing, heard fragile bones grind together as she shrieked now in pain, the wood falling to the floor. My other hand, I wrapped around her throat, drawing her close as I sunk my fangs in.

  Unnatural creature! Crueler than the man who loved me once, her mind shouted. A man so gorgeous he put all others to shame. He had the most abundant head of wavy black hair, eyes green enough to make a cat envious or an emerald pale in shame. His silky cold lips and skin which would warm when he kissed me. I thought I could make him stay, but his heart belonged to another. He called himself Philippe. The advisor's slave did something to him. He turned feral, driven from the land.

  I did not like what her mind told me. There was nothing on this earth I knew of which could cause such a thing to happen to us. If something had, it did not bode well for me. Her body joined those of her companions on the floor, their blood warming me. My burned skin pricked slightly as my body began to heal the damage the sun had inflicted from yesterday morning.

  It would not do for the corpses to lie out and rot; the scent alone would bring people looking for its cause. The nobles’ street is the cleanest and best-smelling of the entire town. That, and it would be bad manners to scare my small household with the discovery of corpses. I was a bit peeved I was unable to get more information out of the lady on Philippe. I had not seen my mate since before my long sleep, and if his mind had been twisted by an unknown being in this town, I would have to take care. Dawn was not far off as I carried the bodies to the cliff edge after searching them. There was little of value on the corpses except the bow and arrows, a small, ornate lady’s dagger, and two short swords which I shoved under moldering hay in the tumbling-down wooden stables. The remains I dropped over the cliff, hearing the dull splashes as they landed in the river far below while I used the last of the shadows to hide my return to the Silver Thorn.

  I woke from my brief nap feeling better, sending for Susafan and a bath. She arrived first, clucking and shaking her head over the discarded, ruined garments.

  My head tilted to one side, assessing her like a bird of prey. “You are not going to blackmail me? Or speak to the advisor or authorities on what you have seen?” A small, cruel smile curved my lips up. “Surely by now you must know how my garments came to be the way they are. You are a smart woman, and rumors and gossip fly fast.”

  Her throat moved as she swallowed, hands involuntarily tightening on the gown. Her bosom rose as she sucked a deep breath in. “I reckon if you wanted me dead, I would be so.”

  She nodded slowly, eyes never leaving my face, afraid if she looked away it would be her undoing. “There are monsters, my lady, and then there are monsters. The earl I once served? His daughter had an affair with one she thought she kept secret from her family. He did me no harm as long as I wished him none. I have not lived this long by being stupid. You are more powerful than he.”

  I evaluated her response, deciding it was sincere. “A wise choice. I shall have to reward you with more than your life, but do not let it make you over-greedy. I despise grasping, over-greedy servants.”

  A knock on the door heralded the tub. I released her gaze. Susafan hurriedly thrust the offending garments into the small stove, where they caught fire. It showed great nerve and internal fortitude as she had to walk close past me. The inn’s footmen carried the heavy wooden tub inside, followed by maids with pails of steaming water. They all gave quick, curious sidelong glances as they left. Rolf was the last to enter. His hands bulged with folded papers he offered up to me.

  I took them. He dashed out to go join the children to whom the innkeeper’s wife taught the rudiments of reading and writing. Once in the tub with my back and hair being washed, I opened the missives. The king had yet to assign me a patron and tutor. There was various notes from merchants welcoming me, begging to be allowed to be of service, or inviting me to stop and view their wares.

  “Tell me, which nobles are considered the most powerful?” I idly questioned as I dried off and applied scent. Susafan brushed my hair dry, pinning it in another elaborate style.

  “The Sydneys, the Marquis Jenabram, Viscount Nicky, who is also the king’s advisor. I would not offend Lady Sydney. She can make life difficult for you, sway the other nobles to either accept or condemn you. I would advise having some dresses made up which will meet with her approval.”

  “Noooo,” she drawled out, “but you are foreign, unmarried, wealthy, and good-looking. She will see you as competition with her daughters, even with the king’s refusal to uphold your right to your familial title.”

  We finished my dressing as a tap on the door brought an inn slave with a message that the sheriff was downstairs asking for me. It worried Susafan.

  When I descended the stairs, I saw a tall, fat, unkempt man, disgruntled in appearance, sitting
at the bar, drinking. Nathan, the inn keep, caught my eye, tilting his head toward the man. So this was the sheriff. I made my way over to the men, saying:

  The king had the town crier announce my status and name. I was not allowed use of my title; however, word had already spread of it. Those hoping to curry favor with me still addressed me as if I were nobility, while others ignored it according to decree.

  I swept into the room, pleased to see a fire burning merrily behind the flower-painted screen. It was a cozy room, with bleached muslin curtains embroidered with silver thorns, hanging over the diamond window panes. The sand-scrubbed, pine floor had a large oval braided rag rug covering it. A wooden table for four stood against one wall with chairs pushed underneath. Two silver candlesticks with unlit, new candles on top. A small fireplace opposite the table, another rag rug before it. Two carved wooden chairs with bright green cushions faced each other with small side tables. The stone hearth had been scrubbed clean. Another pair of candle sticks sat on the mantel. The weather in this hemisphere varied. It was fall now, with cool mornings and evenings; the days did not become very warm. I seated myself regally before the flames, observing the man who stomped in after me. He was large, at least six feet, muscular, but covered with a layer of fat as evidenced by his gut straining his tailored, lace-up white blouse, and hanging below his leather breast plate.

  A knock on the open door heralded the arrival of a serving slave with a tray of food and drink. I motioned for her to enter and set the offerings down, which she did before pouring a cup of wine for the slovenly man. I dismissed her with a wave.

  His face became more peevish. “Yeah, somethin’ ’bout some slave.” He leaned forward, big beefy hands on his knees as he tried to take control. “Let’s get somethin’ straight: I be th’ sheriff, an peoples respects me. They don’t question me word or me methods. ’Specially not some disgraced noblewoman what ain’t allowed to use her title and ain’t got nothing and nobody.”

  “You will get used to it,” I calmly replied, ignoring the rest of his statement as his face purpled even more. "I want to know what your excuse is in regards to the claims against you.”

  “Youse should be minding yer own bizness, and not listening to lies. ’Specially from rebel slaves that’s suppose ter hang fer trying ter escape and not being sold again. I don’t hafs to explain meself to the likes of youse. ’Sides, I heard youse a foreigner whose only gots temporary citizenship.”

  “When it comes to my slaves, accusations of corruption and misadministration of justice, I demand answers.” So I know whose minds I need to control.

  He stood, looming over me, sneering, “He weren’t youse slave when he gots inta trouble. If’n youse knows what’s good fer youse, youse’ll ferget ’bout him, and remember it’s me and me men who protects youse. A lotta harm can come to a single, foreign woman alone in a strange country, ’specially if’n she don’t know nobody.”

  “I will overlook your poor attempts at a threat, treating them as the courteous warning you mean them to be. It does, however, make me wonder why such simple questions provoke such a strong reaction.”

  “Lissin here, youse uppity bitch, no one blames me for nothing. I can goes to the king and lets him know youse being a troublemaker, and youse should be thrown outta town.”

  “There were no accusations made by me, sheriff, only a request seeking answers. As you have pointed out, a rebel slave was sold to me who by law ought not to have been. I wish to know exactly what caused the problem between the man, his friend and you, so I may determine what I want to do with him. In the short while I have owned him, he has shown no rebellious tendencies or otherwise indicated he is willing to create the types of disturbances which are said to have resulted in his current condition.”

  A reasonable request easily explained away.“Please,” I gestured to the food and his seat, “is the meal and wine not to your liking? Shall I ask for something different? I had hoped we could have a civilized conversation.”

  The man glared at me; clearly temper control was not his strong suit. Slowly he sat as I waited calmly. “The only thing youse needs to know ’bout the slave is he broke a law, and tried escaping when me men tried bringing him to justice. If he ran into slavers after, ain’t none of it me’s fault.” He crammed food into his mouth, swilling it down with gulps of wine.

  “Very well. Thank you for the time you have taken to come and speak with me on the subject.” I rose, offhandedly remarking, “I trust I will not have to worry about you or your men trying to cause harm to my slaves as they go about their duties. Enjoy your meal, sheriff.”

  He shot out of his chair, moving to block my path as his eyes crawled over my body while a nasty sneer grew on his face. He thrust a hand out, attempting to grab my arm. I blocked, twisted and squeezed. He dropped to his knees, yelping, tears of pain welling in his eyes.

  “Are all your moves so ill thought out? I am not without resources, sheriff. I trust you will remember to treat me with respect should we meet again.”

  I bent down, so we were eye to eye and allowed a bit of the monster to peek out. “A bit hard to do when one is dead, isn’t it?” I replied, lowvoiced. “All I need do is claim self-defense, and they will believe me.” I calmly remarked, “Remember, I will be keeping an eye on you and your treatment of my slaves.”

  Chapter Ten

  C olin and Mica sat grumpily in The Bloody Knuckles. Their search was not going well. “I fear we may have to ask the nobles after all. I can’t discover a merchant who will admit to hiring the boy.”

  Mica grunted in response, listening dourly to the rain pounding overhead. It had started pouring yesterday, showing no signs of letting up. He and his brother had been forced to abandon their camp in the woods and stay at the inn again. The only good thing about the turn of events was it gave them a solid alibi for the mass murder and burning of the undesirables’ quarter. The sheriff was forced to retrace their steps through every dockside inn they asked at for lodging before ending back at the tavern. Mica glowered across the room into the fireplace. The fire popped and sizzled from water making its way down the chimney. Despite the wet, Mica wanted to be out doing something, anything, to find the little boy. “Let’s go back to the priest’s house. It’s the most reliable lead we’ve had so far.”

  “I don’t think it’s been three days yet.” Colin frowned as he took another sip of ale, glancing about the room. He was still worried about Eron. The man had gone to extreme measures to see his friend get free and lead the posse on a chase.

  “In this downpour? Where else do you think he’d be? He’s only got one church. At least we can stop off at the sheriff’s office, remind him of what he promised to look into for us.” Mica downed the last of his watery ale.

  His mind elsewhere, Colin could have sworn he heard slavers mentioned when he was hiding, waiting for a chance to sneak away. “But we’ve asked the merchants ourselves, at least half of them, and gotten nowhere," he pointed out after realizing he had been asked a question. “Do you really want to go there and risk the sheriff being in? Let’s give Saizar the week he asked for first.” He finished his own ale, grabbing his pack as Mica stood.

  “Haven’t you noticed how paranoid and suspicious everyone here is? It’s more than we’ve usually run into. Something is wrong with the town.”

  Mica glanced over at the bar, shouldering his pack while moving toward the door. Both men drew the hoods of their cloaks far forward over their faces as they stepped outside. The rain came slashing down. Bending heads, they sloshed out into the mud. The rain seemed to be keeping all but the most determined of townspeople inside. The two brothers could see those were people well off enough to have an animal or vehicle to ride in or on, keeping out of the filth and muck. The streets were a quagmire sucking at the feet. The brothers saw some slaves out, soaked to the skin, lower bodies coated in mud. The farther the two men walked to their destination, the deeper the mud became. Soon they were struggling to pull their feet from the calf-deep
mess. Still Mica wouldn’t give up and by Colin’s reckoning, three hours later, they arrived in front of Father John’s little church, soaked and coated in reeking mud. The street was empty, all the dwellings shuttered. The houses were close together, leaning into the lane, making it very gloomy. Mica pushed on the door to Father John’s dwelling and entered. It was just as dark inside as the last time, but Mica had come prepared. He took out a taper and Colin got it lit. They dripped onto the dirt floor, which showed the remains of mud clumps and feet prints.

  “The boy would have been about twelve. He may have claimed he was an orphan. In actuality, he is our sister’s son. It is a sad tale, if the priest will consent to hear it. He might be able to help us.” Mica spread his hands wide in an effort to look non-threatening. “I would give you a name, but I’m afraid he might not be using it,” he added a smile.

  Mica turned to Colin as his brother shrugged. They heard the faint sound of a knock, muffled voices. “He doesn’t eschew wooden doors altogether,” Colin whispered, jerking his chin upwards.

  “The bed we saw behind the cloth must have been Brother Thomas’s,” Mica whispered back while a growing unease curled in his belly.

  They heard feet clomping down the stairs. Brother Thomas entered again while Priester John carried a wooden chair crudely pegged together, strips of bark flaking off, which he set down before lowering himself into it with a small sigh. Brother Thomas stood off to his right side, holding a lantern. The priest stared at the two men, taking in the measure of them. Colin and Mica studied the man in turn. His small, close-set brown eyes peered suspiciously under bushy brows in a heavily lined face. He had a large bulbous nose, chapped red lips and hands. The rough, homespun robe of nut-brown, crackled stiffly from dirt, dried sweat, and old meals, belted with rope, drooped around his thin form. His feet were hidden in wooden clogs. The stench of unwashed flesh filled the room; he apparently didn’t know or care of the benefits to using soap and water, much less a comb or scissors.