by Mark G Heath
Lancaster frowned. He took another drink of wine, waiting for the captain to elaborate.
“ There are three white bloods in the village,” he said keeping his voice low and looking about to see if anyone was listening to them.
“ Three?” said Lancaster loudly in surprise.
“ Hush man, do you want them all after our prize again?”
“ Sorry. Three, you say. Where about?”
“ Yes, three,” said Reznik motioning with his hand for Lancaster to draw closer to him.
“ Have more arrived in the village? I thought they would, albeit not this soon.”
“ No, no additional witch hunters have turned up, although as you say, more are likely.”
“ I must confess, that prospect causes me concern. Should they arrive in numbers, rather than each time arriving as a solitary witch hunter so far, we will have a problem. Perhaps they will be out strode by the arrival of the snow and be unable to journey here?”
“ Something tells me that their type would not be dissuaded by snow and ice. You know how dogged they are. I share your apprehension Cyon. If they dispatch a cadre or even a larger contingent we will have significant problems in Aftlain. Significant problems indeed. I doubt I could tackle a cadre alone.”
“ You would need to turn to the rest of the village for assistance, Eustace. Cast aside any pride at being the village’s sole guardian, the threat posed by the arrival of many of these witch hunters, far outweighs your reputation.”
Reznik nodded and rubbed his stubbled chin.
“ You are probably right, thus we must act with due expedience. That is why I thought you would be interested in my news of there being three white bloods at large in the village. Three we can contain and moreover, extract their precious white blood.”
“ Absolutely,” said Lancaster encouraged. “ So, enlighten me. If no further witch hunters have arrived and you are not referring to Thaindire alone, who are these three?”
“ There’s Thaindire,” said Reznik.
“ Already discounted him,” said Lancaster with a sigh and a dismissive wave of his hand.
“ And two others.”
“ Who are they then Reznik, don’t be coy.”
“ One called Sanctus,” said Reznik.
“ I thought you killed him?”
“No, that was the ruse to keep the others from detecting him and trying to extract an oath for their own benefit. Alyssia held him captive, but he appears to have escaped. He doesn’t look well though, he had to be carried by the third white blood.”
“ Who is the third?”
“ Vindicta.”
“ Vindicta. The one you let get away?”
“ I didn’t let him get away,” said Reznik through clenched teeth, “ he managed to escape.”
“ If you insist. So, where did you see this pair of white bloods then?”
“ At the top lanes.”
“ When?”
“ Today, this afternoon.”
“ Do you know where they are now?” asked Lancaster.
“ Well, I’d assume they have stayed in the same place given the state of Sanctus. There is no way he is fit to travel far at all. He looked like a corpse.”
“ Which is where?”
“ Grizel’s house,” announced Reznik with a smile.
“ The rascal,” commented Lancaster. “ He’ll be after them for himself, still, two in the same place,” he smiled rubbing his hands together.
“ What do you propose?” asked Reznik.
Lancaster looked square into Reznik’s face and paused, regarding the mercenary for a moment. Reznik held his gaze, wondering what he would propose. Neither man spoke.
“ You capture them both. Not only will we make a lot of coin from the enterprise, you can silence your critics who gossip that you messed up and lost Vindicta.”
“ I will silence those critics with my blade if they keep up such lies,” muttered Reznik clearly irritated by the suggestion he was incompetent.
“ You are capable of capturing a sole witch hunter and, from what you describe, his ailing companion aren’t you?” pressed Lancaster.
“ Of course I am,” said Reznik in irritation. “ That’s not what concerns me.”
“ Then what does?”
“ The Grizel.”
“Pah, a charlatan. A recluse who peddles nonsense and passes it off as wisdom.”
“ I told you before, don't dismiss him, just because you don’t understand him,” warned Reznik.
“ Nonsense. I don’t understand him because he spouts claptrap. By the high heavens, I could brush that fraud aside.”
“ Really? Be my guest.”
“ What do you mean?”
“ Help me. You handle the Grizel and I will capture the white bloods if you are so confident.”
“ Ah well now, I am not one for bearing arms, I leave that to those who are skilled in such ways. I have my other talents.”
Reznik let a sneer form on his face.
“ No, no,” protested Lancaster, “ it is you who has come to me with this knowledge, evidently for sale and I am more than content to engage your services to our mutual benefit, but the execution of this task rests with you.”
“ I’m not crossing the Grizel,” said Reznik firmly.” I came to you with this information in the expectancy that you would put it to use to achieve your aims. Not to have me dragged into confronting the Grizel within his domain.”
“ Why not, I don’t understand.”
“ Precisely. I know him and he is unassailable ensconced in his residence. I am no fool, Cyon.”
“ Yes, yes I know that. Then we must lure the white bloods out and then you can take them.”
“ It’s a possibility, but we don’t know how long that might take and we do not wish to risk delay, not with the prospect of a dozen witch hunters or more bearing down on our village. Do you have some specific method of ensuring they leave the Grizel?”
Lancaster hesitated.
“ I would have to think on that. I had hoped that you would be sufficiently girded to challenge the two of them on any ground,” Reznik made to interrupt, “ but I see that is not the case.”
“ Then if you have no plan to prise the two white bloods away from the Grizel, then Thaindire becomes the obvious target,” suggested Reznik.
“ What? Interfere with one who is sworn to another?”
“Why not. Look about you,” invited Reznik, “ do you not think that any of these fair neighbours of ours is remaining at the tavern for the taste of Ben’s ale? No, no, no. They are lingering in the hope of information or moreover, the opportunity to take Thaindire away from Miss Kathryn. Each of them will have hatched a plan to acquire the white blood. ”
Lancaster looked around the room for a few moments and noticed that Reznik was right. The other patrons kept throwing occasional glances towards the staircase, as if expecting Thaindire to loom large on the bottom stair.
“ You see?” said Reznik. Lancaster nodded.
“ They all wait for that chance to snatch him away. Beyond these walls the others will be plotting their own devices for laying their hands on Thaindire and his white blood. So, why not us?” said Reznik.
“ There is force in what you say Eustace, I will concede that.”
“ Then?”
“ I am not encouraged by trying to capture one who is enchanted, leaving aside the convention of not interfering once a white blood has been brought within the sway of the village.”
“ He is one and one alone and his mistress can easily be overcome.”
Lancaster looked pained.
“ I am not persuaded. I still think the other two are a better prospect.”
Reznik chewed his lower lip and considered his companion.
“ I sense no progress shall be made this night. I shall leave my proposition of capturing Thaindire away from Miss Kathryn with you. Let us speak on the morrow for now I must be about other matters,” said Reznik.
“ Very well Captain, but may you take your leave and consider my proposition of capturing the two white bloods, either at the residence of the Grizel or luring them away and then securing their bondage.”
Reznik rose and nodded. He looked to the bar and saw that Ellen remained at her stool.
“ Good night, Cyon.”
“ Good night, captain.” Lancaster drained the last of the bottle as Reznik walked away from the table and over to the bar.
“ Three white bloods,” said Lancaster softly as he smiled. He had Haspengoun about to dispatch Thaindire, all he needed now was to find someone, if not Reznik, to capture the other two. The lure of his wealth and perhaps the promise of a vial or two of white blood would easily ensure someone would be willing to act on his instructions. Lancaster consumed the last of his wine and rose, ready to retire to his room and reflect on whom would assist him in his designs.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Redway shivered as he made his way downstairs. Darkness still encompassed the village yet he had chosen to rise; weary of the lost battle he fought in trying to return to sleep after the spirits had attended on him. His weariness was second to the sickening fear, which engulfed him, a sensation of needing to vomit, which caused him to walk tentatively. He had looked in on his two children. They lay sleeping, oblivious to the danger that had lurked nearby. Beneath the bedclothes, their small chests rose and fell with the gentle breathing of their slumber. Redway had wanted to touch them and hold them, but feared the clamminess of his hands and the shaking of his arms would unnerve the children. Instead, he stood in the doorway, candle held out before him, watching his precious offspring sleep.
Now he entered the parlour and set about stoking the fire in order to spread some warmth and banish the chill that hung in the air. As the flames took hold once more in the hearth, he looked from the window into the darkness seeing and hearing nothing. He spread his hands before the gathering flames and whilst he sensed the heat against his palms it did little to warm him. He wanted to go to Grimoult and seek his advices following the visit, but he knew that there would be no rousing the alchemist this early; the old man was notorious for being a late riser. The fire grew; spreading its orange light about the parlour and Redway busied himself preparing a pot of oats for when the rest of the household awoke. Slowly, he stirred the oats, staring into the pot, hoping that some reassurance would form in his mind and ease the dread that surrounded him. He glanced about the well-appointed parlour, the nearby pantry well stocked. His family often gathered in this parlour, enjoying the comfort of the fire and the meals prepared by his wife. He had done well, the consequence of his unrivalled skill as a smithy. He could beat the metal faster than any other; fold it repeatedly to create significant strength in the most delicate looking of objects and work intricately and carefully to manufacture the most elegant creations. He knew he had a natural aptitude for this work; his father was a smith as was his before him and he recalled assisting his own father from a young age. Initially, what he lacked in power, he made up for in delicate skill and whilst his father held extremely high standards when it came to his craft, he could tell that he was impressed with what Redway could achieve. Such was his potential, that at the age of fifteen, his father took him to the city of High Palatinate and enrolled him in the Guild of Smiths. He could still see his father trundling away down the street, in the city, smoke rising from his pipe as he returned to their home, leaving Redway at the guild, one arm-raised in a farewell salute. The master of the guild, Master Banfure placed a protective arm around his shoulders and steered him into the grand interior of the guild, which remained his home for four years. He was a diligent apprentice and never let his natural gift usurp his measured application. He soon headed his class and began to receive commissions, something that was unheard of as an apprentice. Master Banfure remained his ward and guide ensuring that his skill was stretched and expanded. As his body began to reach manhood and at last enable him to deliver power to his works, he was far beyond any of his peers. His distinguished ability caused Master Banfure to lead him down the road towards pledging his allegiance to his master in return for heightened crafting skills. Allied with his innate gift, Redway was beyond compare.
He continued to stir the oats, watching the spoon slowly glide through the thick mixture. That first time he met his master, he had never known such fear, yet Master Banfure had ushered him forward to kneel and declare his oath. He remembered lifting his bowed head and looking up at that….
A movement by the window pulled him from his memories and he looked across, seeing something that looked like a cloak disappear from view. The darkness was fading and the half-light of dawn, supported by the layer of snow outside afforded some vision. Redway rose from the stool and was about to move to the window when he heard a knocking sound coming from the smithy. Frowning, he scooped up his candle once again and made his way down the short passage and slid back the bolts on the door that separated home from business. The aroma of endeavour rose as he entered the smithy, the furnace still glowing and casting a low light about the interior, the various breastplates, scythes, blades and other metal products gleaming. The metallic scent dominated the room, combining with beeswax and charcoal. The knocking came again from the main door into the smithy. Redway moved his vast frame past his anvil and the rack holding his hammers and tongs until he reached the door. He unbolted the door, at both top and bottom and then selected a key from the several on the ring, which hung from his belt. The large iron key slid into the lock and he twisted it to the right, the lock obediently turning within the door. Redway took hold of the handle and pulled the door open. He let out a shocked breath and took two steps away from the door, his candle held high in front of him.
“ No, no, not you,” he muttered. “ I have barely had chance,” his voice failed him and he made several strangulated sounds as he shook his head and shrunk away from the small figure stood in the doorway. It reached up with one spindly hand and pulled back the hood attached to the grey cloak and revealed an old, lined face. A surprising amount of white hair lay lank on her head, dropping either side of a thin face. Two hooded-eyes blinked, the eyes cloudy as if afflicted with blindness, yet the black pupils fixed intently on Redway.
“ Good morning Ansell,” croaked the figure, the thin-lipped mouth parting as she spoke. She shuffled forward into the smithy; slender frame draped in a long grey dress, which brushed along the floor, the hem dirty and stained.
“ No, please, don’t take them,” pleaded Ansell. He recoiled from the old woman, his muscular stature seeming to shrink. His left hand reached out, groping for one of the nearby hammers.
“ Oh stop your squawking blacksmith, I haven’t come for them just yet,” said the woman contemptuously.
“ What do you want then?” Redway’s hand curled around the haft of a large hammer.
The old woman observed his bearing of arms and her mouth twisted into a grin, revealing yellowed-teeth, although several were missing.
“ That’s not going to help. Put it down.”
Redway hesitated, weighing up the woman who was easily less than two thirds of his weight and height.
“ Put it down,” ordered the woman, her frail voice suddenly summoning strength.
Redway jumped at the harshly barked command and lowered the hammer to a nearby table.
“ What do you want?” he asked quietly.
“ I had business in the village, see?” replied the woman. She opened up her cloak and revealed a basket beneath, which looked rather too large for her to be able to carry.
“ Come, take a look,” she beckoned Redway forward. The smith edged forward as she brought the basket into the light of the furnace. The woman lifted a small bottle from the basket and held it in front of Redway. He could see it full of a clear liquid, like water.
“ What’s that?” asked the smith.
“ The joyful tears of a new mother. Little does she realise that now I have them, she will be barren and neve
r shed such tears again. See this?” The woman lifted a pot out of the basket. It was a dull red colour and Redway could not see what it contained.
“ A little boy’s laughter. Gone forever all because his father did not do as he agreed.”
“ You wicked crone,” muttered Redway.
The woman laughed off his insult.
“ Oh I have better yet, come closer smith and look into this basket.”
Redway peered inside and there, well wrapped in blankets lay a baby, no more than a few weeks old. The child slept, delicate features reposed in slumber.
“ Whose child is that?” asked Redway.
“ Never you mind,” snapped the crone and whisked the basket back within the confines of her cloak.
“ Have you, er taken it?”
“ Of course. My master must always have his payment. You see the baby has such a beautiful soul, unblemished, pure. “
Redway stood staring at the woman.
“ I just thought that whilst I came down the village to collect this little one, that I might pay you a visit. Reinforce my master’s message to you, if you will.”
“Believe me, it needs no reinforcement.”
“ That is good. My master will be most pleased.”
“ How long have I got?”
“ Well, it seems foolish for me to have to go all the way home only to come back to you again in such a space of time doesn’t it? Moreover, I have further business before you. It seems that you villagers think it is permissible to accept my master’s patronage and then renege on their part of the bargain. Such a shame to deprive the village of the sound of children’s laughter, but if people, won’t do as they promised, what can they expect? I think I might spend a day in the village, maybe two, who knows?”
“ You torment me Mistress Keeper.”
“ You knew the arrangement with my master, it is too late to whine of torment,” replied the woman as she jabbed a gnarled finger at Redway, a long nail protruding from the end of her finger.
“ But it is not my fault, I am reliant on Master Grimoult,” began Redway.