XXVI - The Werewolf Hunter's Folly
The afternoon brought with it another light snowfall. Vlad and Sybil, joined by the gently floating flakes, continued with their training until the cold began to sap them of their vitality even through their warm winter clothes. They decided to take a much-needed respite from their regiment and made their way into the forge, where they found Avice hard at work and heavy with sweat despite the chill that permeated the outside world. When she saw them, she too decided to break from her work, and the three of them went inside and joined Finnian where they all gathered around the counter and enjoyed a late luncheon of venison, bread and cider provided graciously by their blacksmith host. It was the most delicious and satisfying meal that Vlad had enjoyed in some time, and he was certain that his apprentice felt the same way.
It was a shame, then, that such an enjoyable interlude had to be interrupted by such dire news.
“Some fine handiwork on those new quarrels of yours, wouldn’t you say, Night Owl?” Avice offered between bites of bread.
Sybil nodded as she drank from her cider mug. “Perhaps the finest that I have ever practiced with.”
“Well, until you are certain of that fact, I will have to continue to hone my craftsmanship, will I not? I confess that it is not often that I get to craft quarrels made of silver. Most Plague doctors prefer to use the traditional bow over a crossbow; it is more agile and quicker to use than your weapon of choice.”
Sybil suddenly looked uncomfortable, as if she felt she was being challenged by the blacksmith. “A crossbow is simply what I know. It’s what my father taught me.”
“And he has clearly taught you well,” Avice said. “You may only have a chance to fire a single quarrel in a battle with a strigoi, but with your level of skill, a single shot will be all that you need.” She paused. “Still, I worry about you finding yourself in a situation where you face more than one vampyre by yourself. Should you slay one with your crossbow, you will then have only your dagger to fend off any remaining foes. Would you not like a sword to supplement your current arms?”
“I hesitated to request that you forge her a new blade on top of all that I have already asked of you,” Vlad admitted.
“Well, that is no reason to leave her without proper means of defending herself, is it?”
“It is not,” he agreed, “which is why I intend to bestow my whip upon Night Owl. I had planned on telling her as much after we had left Fenwick behind.”
“Your whip?” Sybil frowned. “But will you not need it?”
Vlad shook his head. “I believe that it will be better served in your hands, my apprentice, once you have learned how to properly use it.”
“Well, alright,” she said. “If you believe that is best, Mr. Albescu.”
Sybil seemed willing to allow the point to rest, but Vlad saw Avice deliver him a glance that told of her skepticism. You offer her the whip because you fear that the day draws near when you will no longer possess the dexterity to wield such a weapon, he could hear her say, and it pained him to silently admit that she was correct.
“Hello, Miss Cook,” Finnian said.
His voice prompted the rest of them to look in the direction of the front door, through which Amabel Cook was currently entering. She approached the counter, behind which the youth stood. “Afternoon, Finn.”
“Amabel Cook?” Avice said. “I did not expect to see you so far from The Dusty Pumpkin, especially with supper time only a few short hours away.”
“Business is looking somewhat poor lately,” Amabel said, “so I reasoned I could slip away for a spell without any issue.”
“Well, I’m honored you chose to pay this old place a visit, then,” the older woman said. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m in the market for a weapon,” Amabel said, “and I thought you would be the most proper person to see about that. I want something light and easy to handle, but that will be more useful than a kitchen knife, if you’ve got anything that fits the bill.”
“Of course,” Avice said, “although I never much took you for the type to carry arms. And I get the sense that this has nothing to do with certain less-than-desirable patrons who you’d like to keep in check with a length of iron.”
Amabel smiled a melancholy, worried smile. “Times change, I suppose. In truth, Randolph’s death, apart from being a terrible shock, has me feeling quite nervous. I think I would feel a bit better with something sharp in my hands, though I doubt what good it would do against a werewolf—especially one that was fierce enough to best a man like him.”
“A werewolf?” Vlad crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Do not tell me that you’ve let Mr. Dupont’s fantastical tales whip you up into a hysteria, Miss Cook.”
“Half of Fenwick is already frantic with talk of werewolves and monsters,” Amabel said. “It would be difficult for anybody to not be afraid with the goings on of late.” She shook her head. “I suppose all we can do is hope that Mr. Dupont and his companions are able to actually slay the beast tonight and put all of our minds at ease.”
Vlad looked askance at the young woman. “He intends to slay this werewolf of his tonight?”
She nodded. “Aye. He says that they need to act quickly if they want to prevent more death, especially considering that the Celestial Curtain has already begun.”
“The Celestial Curtain. Is it that time again already?”
“Apprently so,” she said. “I intend to lock myself inside my quarters and wait out the night while praying to the Goddess that he succeeds. Others seem rather inspired—dare I say rallied—by his fervor, though. I would not be surprised if plenty of folk turned up to watch his battle with the beast in the village square tonight.”
“And what does Sir Godwin have to say about all of this?” Vlad asked. “Certainly he will not allow such a spectacle to occur under his watch.”
“On the contrary, it appears to have his approval, from what Mr. Dupont says.”
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Vlad was stunned. He was almost unable to form any words. “His what?”
“He may at the very least be hesitant to deny the man,” Amabel explained. “I think Randolph’s death has shaken him something fierce. I believe he may be at wit’s end, and is so desperate to see an end to this bloodshed that he is willing to do damn near anything—even condone Mr. Dupont’s little performance tonight.” She paused. “I think we all are, to be frank—at wit’s end, I mean.”
“Well, I suppose further speculation will not do us any good,” Avice said. She looked around behind the counter before producing a steel stiletto and presenting it to Amabel. “Will this do? I will even give you its sheath for free.”
“It certainly will,” Amabel said. “Thank you, Avice. I knew I could depend on you.”
She produced the necessary silver and handed it to the blacksmith, then left with little else to say besides the exchanging of farewells. When she was gone, Avice addressed her three companions in the room. “It sounds to me as if this Gaston Dupont has a death wish that he hopes to achieve this evening. What do you intend to do about that, Ibis of Alcroft?”
“Mr. Dupont and his companions’ intentions to throw their lives away are no concern of mine,” the Plague doctor said, “but I cannot sit idly by and watch them endanger anybody else. If Miss Cook is correct, then there could be a sizable audience there tonight—and they are all going to be in the lycanthrope’s path. For that reason, I intend to put an end to that band’s foolhardy charade.” His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword. “By whatever means necessary.”
___
Evening arrived, and with it came the sunset, which wrapped the tired firmament in its loving embrace. Night was not far off.
The time of the lycanthrope was almost at hand.
The snow had stopped falling several hours earlier, and existed now as only a thin sheet that rested on top of the earlier fallen layers. The quickly arriving night crept across the village in the form of long, dark shadows that slid over that thickening blanket of snow and slithered along every surface and structure of Fenwick. Vlad and Sybil made their way through the village, both of them ever-aware of the rapidly approaching moon. They knew that whatever they did to prevent the coming onslaught needed to be accomplished soon, while they still had the advantage of the fading sun on their side.
Because once it was gone, and the bright, bold moon was risen, the world would fall into the domain of the werewolf. Nobody would be safe—not until the coming of the next dawn, which felt so very far away.
They turned a corner and the village square came into view. They could hear the forming crowd before they saw it; bodies crammed in the space surrounding the square, along the walls of the buildings and in front of the looming church that stood sentinel over the gathering space, everybody leaving room in the center of the plaza for Gaston Dupont and his gang to enact their performance. The swashbuckler and two of his companions—the gunslinger Fiora and the brute Arne—as well as their dog Poniard all stood in the center of the plaza, the three humans deep into a discussion that Sybil could not hear over the buzzing crowd. Where the bowman Piers had gotten off to was anybody’s guess, and Sybil was discomforted by his absence.
Vlad looked around as they stepped into the square. “Something is wrong. Where is Sir Godwin? Where are the village guards? If they are not trying to stop this, then they should at the very least be present for it.”
“I do not know,” Sybil said, even though she was certain that his question had expected no answer from her. She looked up into the sky as they walked. The sunset had taken more territory in its conquest over the sky above. Soon it would claim its inevitable victory. Nightfall was not far off.
Sybil heard chatter nearby as they approached the center of the plaza. One man asked if his companion thought that Mr. Dupont and his companions would be able to slay the beast; his companion’s response was that she was not even certain that there was a beast to begin with. Another person in another conversation said they wanted to be present for when the werewolf hunters killed the beast, and that if anybody were capable of doing so, it would be Gaston Dupont and his allies. Yet another bystander said that he thought Dupont and his lot were a group of charlatans, but he was choosing to watch the upcoming charade just so he could witness the mustachioed swashbuckler humiliate himself.
The man clearly did not understand the deadly consequences of such a humiliation.
The Plague doctors came to a stop a handful of meters away from where the werewolf hunters stood conversing. None of them paid Vlad or Sybil any mind, nor did they turn to look in their direction until Vlad finally spoke. “Mr. Dupont.”
Gaston, surprised by the sudden interruption, frowned for the briefest of moments before offering them a wide smile. “Ah, you are the Plague doctor and his young apprentice that I met recently, are you not? To what do I owe the pleasure of your company on this fine evening? Come to witness our slaying of that nasty werewolf, perhaps?”
Vlad shook his head. “Quite the opposite, I am afraid. We have in fact come here, Mr. Dupont, to put an end to this farce of yours. Foolishly throw away your own life if you so wish, but do so without creating a spectacle where more innocent lives can be lost for the sake of feeding your damnable pride.”
Gaston’s frown briefly returned before he switched it back to a wide, almost mocking smile. “Oh, how your lack of confidence in my talents wounds me, sir. While I can understand your misgivings, I can assure you that you have nothing to fear. My compatriots and I intend to slay the beast with much haste. There will hardly be time for misfortune to fall upon any of our excited onlookers.”
“I cannot tell you the number of times I have heard similar words spoken mere moments ere the coming of a terrible disaster,” Vlad said. “And speaking of your companions, where is that archer of yours? It is rather odd—perhaps even convenient—that he would be absent when your battle with the werewolf draws so near.”
This time Gaston’s frown was there to stay, even going so far as to contort into a sneer. “I dislike your implication, sir.”
“As do I, Mr. Dupont, but surely for different reasons than you might.”
A murmur broke through the crowd as they came to understand the meaning behind Vlad’s words. Fiora and Arne joined their leader in his angry sneer, while Poniard stood on edge, suppressing a low growl.
“Strange how you, who denied the existence of the werewolf until this very moment, should suddenly make such despicable accusations at the expense of a man who is not even present to defend himself,” Gaston said. He took a few steps toward Vlad and Sybil, leaving his companions behind. “And why should I inform you of Piers’ whereabouts, Mr. Plague doctor? You imply that my stalwart companion could be more than he appears to be, but so far as I am concerned, it could be you or your apprentice who is harboring a dark secret. In fact, I would not be surprised if one of you were preparing to transform just as soon as the moon finds its way into the sky, at which time you will proceed to tear these poor townspeople into smithereens.”
The werewolf hunter’s reprisal sent the onlookers into a distressed clamor. Sybil heard several people immediately casting their own doubts toward the intentions of the Plague doctors. She even heard one of them suggest that they should all move on Vlad and Sybil now, before one of them had a chance to expose themself as the werewolf. Sybil kept her eyes shifting back and forth, dancing between the various bystanders, her hand instinctively hovering over the hilt of her dagger. Vlad, on the other hand, paid these chidings no mind; his focus remained solely on the man who stood defiantly in front of him.
Sybil, on edge and enraged by Gaston’s words, could not prevent an outburst. “How dare you try to baselessly accuse us of—”
“Very well, Mr. Dupont,” Vlad said. Sybil, suddenly silenced by her mentor’s words, turned to look at him now. “I see that you are not one to come to your senses so easily—assuming any sense yet remains in that grandiose mind of yours.” He paused briefly, watching as the scowl on Gaston’s face transformed once again, this time into an angry smirk. It seemed he knew Vlad’s next sentence before the man even spoke it; Sybil thought she did too, and she did not like what she suspected came next. “And if I cannot persuade you to give up your foolhardy pursuits with words…”
Vlad’s hand went to the hilt of his sword and relieved the weapon of its scabbard in one quick, fluid, practiced motion. He took the sword into both hands and held it out before him, its silvery blade glistening with the expiring sunlight. “... then I must persuade you with force.”
