by James Duvall
A rookie would have been nervous, walking down the street with stolen goods in plain sight. Brumm strode down the middle of the street with one keg on his shoulder and another under his arm. Confidence was his ally. Run and be chased; smile and wave and be ignored. Everything had gone off without a hitch and he was on his way home to sample his ill-gotten gains. Confidence was a curse.
***
Since as old as sin itself, thieves had learned to live in the night, but the night was never truly theirs. Thieves lived in the dark, but werewolves were of the night itself. The shadows that concealed Gorren Brumm's crimes from prying eyes had already been turned against him. With her hood pulled up no one could see Kaidira's muzzled face unless she looked them dead in the eye. Her long, flowing cloak concealed her bushy tail. Even in the pale moonlight no one would take notice of the fur on her hands, or the inhuman stride in her hybrid gait. She was too careful to let anyone study her long enough to decipher the little oddities that might betray her. Few would balk at killing a werewolf, cursed as she was. For Kaidira, tonight was a rare gift. Tonight she would reveal her true nature to Gorren Brumm. Tonight she would not have to hide.
Witchcraft had a certain stench to it; an acrid, biting odor of burnt flesh and bone. A creature as Kaidira found it with ease. The wicked and the naïve alike carried it with them. Kaidira could smell it clinging faintly to their clothes. It led her back to this place, an unassuming alleyway in an oft-overlooked part of town. It had been a simple matter of patience to lurk outside until she found the warlock's lackey. Since dusk, Kaidira had been tracking him.
Brumm found his way home, unaware of his coming fate. To his belief he was safe behind that locked door, but he was unaware of what lie waiting just outside. A broken down cart in the alley proved the perfect hiding place for the patient huntress. With her robes gathered up around her, no one would give her a second glance. She became just another drifter sleeping in Camden's dark alleys. Only a fool would stir her and risk a knife or the savagery of the touched and bereft. There she waited, calm and disciplined, watching the candlelight flicker in Brumm's window.
As the priestess reflected on what she was about to do she felt her fist tightening in anger. She reminded herself that her proof was not yet absolute, but she knew it was him that had killed the boy. Gorren Brumm had committed a murder and provided the bones of the saints to a warlock. She would enter, he would confess, and she would find justice for the slain. She reached into her cloak and took hold of the silver cross resting against her chest. It soothed her to feel the familiar shape between her fingers. She closed her eyes and prayed for discernment and a swift hand. When she opened them, the candle had been snuffed out. She waited a short while longer and then slipped through the front door, unseen and unheard. Gorren Brumm was not the only one that knew how to pick a lock.
Blood. Kaidira could smell it as soon as the door swung open and drew the warmth out into the cool night. She easily found the dagger, carelessly left sitting on a beat up old table. Brumm had cleaned the blade, but neglected the sheath, and it reeked of the murdered boy's lifeblood. No doubt Brumm had sheathed his blade only seconds after opening the boy's throat. Rage boiled as she held the murder weapon in her hands. Her lips pulled back to reveal teeth that looked even more unforgiving than the dagger. She willed away a soft growl rising into the back of her throat before it could begin.
Be calm, be patient. Her father's words echoed in her mind.
“What do you think you're doin'?” Brumm asked, sneering. He had appeared in the doorway to the bedroom. The cherry of his pipe glowed soft orange with a thin column of smoke rising off of it. Kaidira held up the dagger, pointing it at him.
“You murdered an altar boy at St. Penathor's with this.”
Brumm's scowl deepened. He took another puff of his pipe and growled. Kaidira's calm seemed only to incense him further.
“Yeah? And what are you going to do about it, little girl?” he asked, blowing a puff of smoke her way. “Why don't you run along while I'm in a good mood. I don't like killing women.”
Kaidira reached up and pulled back her hood so that he could better see her face. “There is a teaching in the church that that light that shines in the dark is the light that shines brightest. It is a tenet of the faith that I hold close to my heart, for I cannot show my face in the day. I serve as I can...”
Brumm's voice caught in his throat. “What... what do you want from me?”
Kaidira could see doubt in the ralian's eyes. His scowl faded with his confidence as he realized how dire his situation had become. The werewolf's burning sapphire gaze glared back at him unflinching.
“I have come for the warlock.” Teeth bared, she started toward him. “Who is he? I will have this name.”
Kaidira heard the crackle of fire erupting behind her just in time to evade the brunt of the warlock's spell. The fireball singed the edge of her cloak as she twisted violently out of the way, pulling the dagger from its sheath as she turned. Fire pooled in the warlock's hands.
“So Ilsador's church has turned to the dogs for its servants. How fitting.”
Kaidira backed toward the window, eyes darting back and forth between the warlock and the murderer. “Repent and I will spare you both.”
“Repent?” The warlock laughed and raised a burning hand. “Down, girl.”
Kaidira held up her silver cross, focusing her strength into it. Light flashed as the fireball slammed into her shield and burst like a great red flower blooming all around her. The force of it carried her off her feet and slammed her into the wall, shaking her to the bones. Despite the pain she scrambled to stand as Brumm's hazy outline barreled toward her. He caught her as she turned to run. He grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the wall, threatening to crush the breath out of her. Held tight in Kaidira's hand, Brumm's own dagger flashed in the moonlight. It was the only warning of the severity of his mistake before the struggling woman drove it deep into the soft flesh of his neck. He went rigid for an instant and Kaidira yanked the weapon out, bringing a rush of warm, sticky blood with it.
Brumm clutched his wound, but it would not be enough to slow the bleeding. His wound was too dire, too deep. His lifeblood was seeping out through his fingertips, and with it, his strength. His prey slipped lithely from the weakened grip.
Again Brumm lunged for her throat, but Kaidira leaped back and he settled for the cross around her neck, yanking her toward him. Kaidira yelped in pain as the leather cord snapped taut. Then mercifully the cord broke, sending her tumbling back away. Free of Brumm, another blast of the warlock's magic detonated against the wall just above her head, showering her with debris. Kaidira lunged through the window with animal ferocity and came crashing down with the broken shutters.
Out on the street she was exposed. Covered in blood, her cloak was more a hindrance than a tool. She shed it in the alleyway and scrambled up the wall onto the neighboring building's roof. A sharp pain in her thigh protested the effort. A quick glance at the bloodied leg told her she had been cut by debris. She grimaced at the sight of it. Already she could feel it slowing her down and she wished she had not yet seen it. In the street below she could see the warlock, he was following her as she limped along the rooftops. She would not outpace him, but she had one more trick up her sleeve, an act of wild desperation.
***
The cooking fire had faded to a gentle smolder, providing just enough heat to keep the evening chill at bay. Thomas prodded it idly with a stick that was well-charred at one end and had been a good foot and a half longer at the beginning of his watch. On the table was an hourglass, steadily draining its sand away. The bottom was almost completely filled with fine white grains. When it had finally run its course, Graham turned it over, setting the sands on their way again.
“Next watch is up in an hour,” he announced on his way back to the window. He slouched against it, looking out over the empty square.
“The men will be thrilled,” Thomas muttered with
disinterest. It would be another four turns beyond that before the two paladins were to be relieved.
“What are the numbers?” Graham asked, ignoring his colleague's grumbling.
“A fistful o' drunks, a dead whore, and a couple break-ins over in the merchant district. Two arrests. Is this really worth our time?” Thomas asked, tossing the ledger onto the table.
“You had better plans?” Graham asked, raising his brow as he turned to face the belligerent knight. Before Thomas could retort, a howl carried through the window. Graham's eyes lit up and he looked back out over the city streets. Another mournful wail broke the eerie still of night. To Graham's knowledge there was only one creature in Camden that made such a sound, and she would not do so idly.
“Whose turn is it?” Thomas asked.
“I'll take this one,” Graham said, already headed for the stairs. “Wake the next watch early.”
“For one mangy werewolf?” Thabe called after.
“Get it done!”
Graham found his way to a grisly scene on the east end of town. A house had been badly burned and a man lay freshly dead in the streets. His blood was still spreading in little rivulets down the gaps in the cobblestone road. Graham's men thronged about him, all vying for attention as they tried to report what they had seen and heard. He did his best to maintain order, but the excitement of the werewolf had gotten to the younger watchmen.
Order finally came in the form of an angry ralian man, shouldering his way through Graham's men and shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Stand aside! Stand aside! I will speak!” the ralian bellowed, silenced only when he found himself face-to-face with the paladin.
“You have something to say?” Graham asked, arching a brow. Confronted with a well-dressed ralian in the Camden slums in the middle of the night, the paladin could not help but wonder if this was the warlock, and Kaidira's wail, the hunter's horn.
The ralian's eyes narrowed in recognition, burning with the contempt of the hunted toward its hunter. In a brief moment of silence the two considered each other with all the mental maneuvering of two lions circling, ready to fight for their pride, waiting for a fatal heartbeat of weakness to show in the other.
“You must be Anthony Graham, the paladin.” the ralian said, spitting the word 'paladin' out like a curse word.
“I see you were warned about me,” Graham answered, his face mirror the ralian's displeasure.
“Of course,” the ralian said bitterly. “I am Warrick Mulgim, brother of Khaebus Mulgim. I have been attacked by a werewolf in your city. Is this the best hospitality Arcamyn has to offer? What are you going to do about this?”
“Why would a werewolf choose you, of all people?” Graham asked, making no effort to hide his displeasure. He studied the ralian's face, looking for some sort of indication as to Kaidira's motives, all the while wondering if this was the warlock that had stolen Father Marcy's bones. There was no way to be certain by looking at him; the ralian's face betrayed nothing but hatred.
“Perhaps she was set loose,” Warrick hissed. “Like a trained dog. You should be familiar with the arrangement, paladin.”
“Why are you here, Warrick?” Graham demanded. He straightened his back, rising up to full height as he looked down at the belligerent ralian.
“My brother-” Warrick began.
“-is not here,” Graham interrupted. “Why are you here. Out in the slums in the middle of the night. You criticize the protection the Crown affords you, but you are not in the safety of the palace grounds. You wander in an area plagued with thievery and murder. I have to question your judgment, if not your motives.”
“I am the victim, paladin,” Warrick spat. “Not the criminal!”
“So why does an innocent man live with criminals, and bring the wrath of a werewolf upon himself?” asked Graham. He did not, in fact, know of Gorren Brumm, but given the area, it was as safe a bet as the sun rising in the morning.
“My business is my own,” Warrick said coldly. Graham could tell he had exhausted the man's patience. He would get no more information tonight. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a few of his men gathered in a huddle. Talking in hushed voices they stole furtive glances at the ralian dignitary. They weren't buying his story either. Good men.
“You four, come here,” he said, waving them over. “This is ambassador Mulgim's brother. See to it that he is safely returned to the palace at once.”
***
Early in the morning, before the sun had begun to rise, Anthony scaled the steps of St. Penathor's. Dozens of his men had given chase to the werewolf earlier in the night; none had laid eyes on her. They did not have their commander's insights and would never have dreamed that the church would protect such a maligned creature as Kaidira. Graham knew otherwise, and so he followed the thin trail of blood up the moonlit marble steps, past towering columns and soaring arches. At the top of the steps, a man detached from the shadows and stood between him and the vestibule.
“This is a house of mercy,” the man said in a faltering voice. “I beg you; do not do this.”
Anthony stepped forward and placed his hand Father Harig's shoulder. The older man looked up at him miserably, clutching the mop handle like a sword.
“Father Harig, what are you going to do with that mop?” Graham asked, chuckling to himself.
“I was washing the steps...”
“Relax, father, I am not here to harm your priestess. Surely she must have known that I would come. Half the city is looking for her. Take me to her, I have questions before she vanishes again.”
Harig heaved a sigh of relief and wobbled on his feet. For a moment it seemed that the elderly clergyman might collapse, but he gathered himself and led the paladin into the church. Kaidira was hidden away in his office, lost in a dreamless sleep. An empty phial lay loose on her chest, barely graced by the tips of her dark-furred fingers. Blood had already soaked through many of her bandages.
“She's a tough breed,” Graham said, kneeling to inspect the wound. “Made it all the way here.”
“She was well motivated,” Harig offered. “I found her collapsed in the vestibule. She was making a horrible sound. I gave her something for the pain. She's been like this for the past hour or so.”
“How bad is it?” Graham asked, looking the priest in the eye.
“She will survive, so long as no one sees fit to have her hanged,” Harig added darkly. Kneeling at the injured priestess's side, he began the delicate task of unwrapping the grisly wound. He heaped the bloodied gauze into a bowl of clean water, and swished it around until the murky cloud had permeated it wholly.
“Keep her out of sight,” Graham said. “She must leave Camden as soon as she's able, for her own safety. Everyone will be far more vigilant in the coming days. Do you have anyone you can trust to carry a message?”
“I'm not sure I should trust you, even,” Harig said, rubbing his temples. With trembling hands he set to work wrapping fresh gauze around Kaidira's leg. The last time Graham had seen a man so pale, forty thousand ralian soldiers were battering the eastern gate.
“Tonight Kaidira attacked a man called Gorren Brumm and a ralian dignitary, Warrick Mulgim. I need to know why. She was hunting the warlock that desecrated Father Marcy's grave. If Warrick did this, I will make him answer for his crimes. I will see him hanged and the bones returned.”
“I understand,” the clergyman said. “I will ask her your questions when she wakes.”
Chapter 20
Solomon's Watch
Ashcrest, Colorado
While appearing to be of otherwise sound mind and body, the patient clings to his fantasy that a werewolf once visited him in his home on Morris Avenue. The patient exhibits no symptoms of paranoia following any commonly expected patterns. It is his desire to investigate where the werewolf has come from, and claims that the werewolf is from another world. Today, the patient brought a coin to his therapy, claiming the werewolf paid him for his hospitality with it, after
the patient found the werewolf sleeping in his tool shed. The coin is only vaguely round and has a man's face imprinted on one side. The patient is eager to have it back, but has urged me to investigate its origin. The source will of course be an amateur mint, and it resembles no modern currency.
From the file of Officer Tucker, 1823, London
Joshua locked up the library door and stuffed the keys into his pocket. Headlights turned into the parking lot but he was in no mood to deal with a student and hurried for the corner, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“In a hurry?” Amanda called, halting him in his tracks. He grimaced and turned around, failing to hide his displeasure.
“I just want to get home,” he answered. “Tracy will be back at 8 tomorrow to open.”
Amanda put her car in park and hurried out after him. “Well hey it's good to see you too. Wanna tell me what's going on?”
“I'm fine. I can handle it,” Joshua said. His answers did little to placate the deputy.
“If something is wrong, I need to hear about it. I shouldn't be getting calls from Brian Ketch about someone leaving iron dragons on your door.”
“He told you about that?!” Joshua demanded, feeling betrayed
“Of course he did! I'm responsible for following up on your welfare while you reintegrate. I can see you're upset. I have a few theories on who is leaving them. I should have it stopped by the end of the week.”
“Stop! Just... stop. Those are a mild nuisance at best. No, this... this...” Joshua slammed his bag down on the hood of her car and yanked the zipper open, tossing aside notebooks as he dug out the old leather-bound volume with the silhouette of a Slayer scorched into the front. “I found this in the back room reference section. There are three books on dragons back there and this one, let me read you the section on Seekers.”