No Man's Land [An Avayevnon Tale]

[Seraph]

No Man's Land

Prologue
   The lantern light threw sultry shadows on the cobblestones of Holder Street.  The streets reverberated with silence.  No one would be walking about town tonight. They didn't dare.  The shadows looked on at the empty streets and the silence listened with bated breath.  The patrols would be coming soon.  This was a confrontation that had been years in the making.  The Guild had challenged the Guard for rule of the streets since Cade first arrived.  For seven years both sides had bled, exchanging death and vengeance in a ritual of mutual sacrifice, but no longer.  The moment of reckoning was at hand.

   A click of a clack stabbed into the quiet street, then another and another, clapping a steady rhythm on the cobblestone.  Out from the black a figure emerged.  His stride was long, but uneven, and he stepped with a limp in his left leg, leaning on a long cane to compensate.  His doublet was broad-shouldered, with a triangular waist, and buckled, not in the center as was the fashion, but across his chest at his left side and shoulder.  A foreigner.  

   His face was hidden in the shadow of a broad-brimmed hat adorned with a plume of craven feathers'"recognizable by the redness of their quill and the gradual darkening into an iridescent black at the edges.  His boots were of strap leather up to his knees, and his legs were long and lanky.  His frame was slight, and the broad shoulders of his doublet only served to accentuate the slenderness of his torso.  The whole effect served to give him the appearance of a stretched fragility.  As he rose on his right foot and fell on his left, the stranger swayed with a subtle serpentine undulation.

   'Even, good master.'

   A figure emerged from the shadows.  A grimy scab of a man he was, with pockmarked skin and a left eye blemished by an abundance of scar-tissue.  He wore close about him a coat of cracked leather.  He gave the stranger a toothy smile and tucked his thumbs into his belt.  The middle and index fingers on his right hand were missing at the second knuckle.

   'Good even, sirrah' spoke the tallish stranger.  

   'You hear, Boyd?' The scab addressed an unseen accomplice.  'The tart dandy thinks he's better '˜an me.'

   ' '˜Tis no great matter to transcend a petty cutpurse.'  
The stranger lifted his head slightly, so that the light illuminated an angular nose.
   
'A cutpurse?  Is that what I am?'

   'I've no power to render you other than you are.'

   'Ha!  I likeyou.  For all your cheek.'

   'And it gives me no pause to say that I hold thee in the least contempt.  Now begone with thee.  I've just finished negotiating a price on a lovely piece of property outside the city walls, and I've no more words to spend on dirt.'
   The stranger strode forward, finished, but the scab cuts him off, grabbing the right shoulder of his doublet.

   'You know,' said the scab, as three, then four other shadowy figures came into view, 'that's twice now you've insulted me.  Now we
be them that's in charge '˜round here, and the Guild don't easily suffer insults.'

   'Thou dost deceive thyself;' spoke the stranger, as he shifted his cane to his right hand, 'thou hast received them readily.'
   His thumb slid down the shaft of the cane, caressing a band of silver filigree .

   'A man so free of tongue best have a care of the Guild, or else he's like to see that tongue of his cut out.'

   CRACK!  Before the scab could even react, the cane collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.  The man called Boyd rushed to attack the mysterious assailant, but the man swung his cane toward the charging foe, sending its shaft directly into Boyd's face, breaking his nose and revealing the slender sword that had been housed within.

   The third man lunged toward the stranger, brandishing a long dirk.  The stranger parried low, diverting the man's energy off to the right.  The man staggered as directed, and the stranger swiveled on his heel, to catch the man from behind around the neck.  As the forth attacker lunged forward, the stranger dragged his prisoner about, placing him between himself and the oncoming blade.  The attacker tried to stop, tried to pull back, but it was too late.  He watched in horror as he pierced his own comrade through the chest.  

   The Stranger threw back his head, and his hat fell, revealing his face.  He was gaunt and pale, but it did not damage his features'"it enhanced them.  His hair was long and dark, and his eyes had an empty quality to them, as if they would pull you in, absorb your very being, and not be any fuller than before.  They were eyes that drew you in, that entranced you, that consumed you.  He could taste the blood around him, pouring from the chest of the unfortunate man who, in his last moments alive, was being held in the arms of his unhappy killer.   He slid his tongue over his teeth in anticipation of ecstasy.  His eyes fell on the scab, stirring on the ground, struggling to find his feet, and he laughed.

   'You wretched fool.'

   He sprung from his place and landed face to face with the cowering scab.  He crouched, spiderlike over his prey, on long  spindly limbs.  

   'I believe you spoke of the cutting out of tongues?'

   'Oh God!'
   He tried to scramble back, but the stranger only drew closer.

   'God can't help you now.'

The stranger grabbed hold of his victim, wrapping him in a mortal embrace.
'Oh God, Please!  Don't do this!'

'Oh I love it when the struggle and beg!'

'What kind of man are you?'

'I am no man.'


A harrowing shriek rent the night, and the pile of blubber and  bones that was once a man hit the ground, lifeless.
''¦Not anymore.'

[Ghostman]

Awesome, thrilling start. The language is evocative and the pace of the writing is fast - but not too fast. I'm wanting to learn more about the deadly stranger.

[Seraph]

By the way, critique is welcomed, if anyone should feel so inclined.

More on the way.

[Seraph]

Chapter 1
   
The town Guard was, as much as anything, a militia; not a standing army, but a trained and combat ready reserve.  Out here in the border lands of the empire, dangers were many, and a simple constabulary was not sufficient for defense of the imperial realms from potential threats.  While trained and able at fighting off marauders and the stray monster or two, the Guard was not equipped nor prepared to combat the gossip over the night before.  It had circulated like lightning that the much dreaded and anticipated war for control of the streets of Rosemead had been forestalled.  The watch was baffled: someone, or something, had beaten them to the punch.  They had expected to meet with The Guild'"a criminal organization that had long subverted Guard authority and terrorized the populace.  The long running standoff had come to a head with the murders of several Guild members by unscrupulous Guardsmen, and the Guild had issued a formal challenge to settle the conflict once and for all.  

The Holder Street Massacre, as it came to be called, was not what anyone had expected.  Two guardsmen, Carus and Brant, had meant to get the upper hand on the Guild by arriving early, but what they discovered when they arrived was the remnants of, not a battle, but a slaughter.  The life essence of eight and a half suspected Guild members clotted the town's main artery, and the bodies of the deceased, minus the head and legs of a man who could not be identified were nailed to, tied to, or hung from shop doors, signs, and street lanterns.  Their pallid flesh was absent of color, as if all hue and pigment had washed away with the tide of blood.  And if this were not enough to steal the stomachs of the two guardsmen, several heads had been severed from their bodies, swapped around, and nailed crudely to one another.  The unblinking gape of the victims' revealed the bloody stumps in their mouths that once hosted vibrant red tongues.  The tongues themselves were not discovered until the morning sun and little Adina found them nailed to the door of the Haven Street Bethist Temple of Light and Peace.  She hasn't dared approach that temple ever since.

Most of the cadavers had been removed from the street before being subject to the eye of the public, but it would take days to completely remove the blood, much of which had stubbornly congealed on the stone walls of buildings, stained the wood of shop signs a carnal rouge, and built a crimson network of the cracks in the cobblestone.  The light from one particular lamp post would forever bear a faint rusty red discoloration.  Coagulate gore, even in the absence of its body of origin, still has an uncanny quality to unnerve, and a fact that was universally acknowledged was that no matter what side they were on, no one wanted to cross the path of the Holder Street Slasher.  

The street itself achieved a certain stigma.  For weeks after, no one dared set foot on the street if they didn't live or work there, and those that did went their way with hurried footsteps, and never at night.  Even those who lived there wouldn't set foot in the street after sundown.  Anyone caught out of doors at dusk either lodged with an acquaintance or found an inn.  It became commonplace to hear the phrase 'Better a week on the Ashen Plain than a night in Holder Street.'  Some feared the street was haunted by the spirits of the slasher's victims.  Many were afraid that the killer would strike again.  Some simply felt that, danger or not, something about that street had been permanently tainted by what transpired there.  They felt it as a prickle on the neck, or an intangible sense of foreboding.

Rumors and speculations abounded as to the identity of the killer.  Some suggested it was a vigilante exacting brutal 'justice.' Others claimed it was a disgruntled member of the Guild itself, or someone with a grudge against the Guild or these members in particular.  Some said it was a rogue Guardsman, or that it was the mayor.  Some claimed it was some avenging spirit, or an angel.  Some said it was a monster'"some vicious creature of the night.  Whoever it was, he had the whole town shaking out of their skins and looking over their shoulders.

'People are scared.  They are hardly willing to set foot in the streets.'

'The best thing for the situation is to let it all blow over.  In a few weeks, they will forget all about the incident.'

'I think it hardly fitting to call the butchering of nine good men an '˜incident.''

For the first time in over a decade, the assembled authorities of Rosemead sat together around a single table.  Mayor Brisbane had privately ruled that the situation required city-wide solidarity, and had summoned all those he saw as pertinent to join him in his manor.  Assembled at his cherry-wood table was Captain Harding of the Guard; Father Slidell, chaplain of the Bethist temple on Haven Street; Lord Tusick of the Rushbrook, owning lands immediately north of the city; Lady Gregory of Lindincrest, widow of Gregory, Duke of Lindincrest from the West; Doctor Havrin, the local expert on salves, ointments, and humors; even Cade of the Guild was present.  The assembled powers-that-be now conferred on the state of Rosemead's safety.  

'Cade,' said Brisbane, 'We can all appreciate the closeness of the situation to you, personally and professionally, but there is only so much we can do.'

'I say Harding here starts with tracking down whatever bleeding poxer did this!'

'And so we mean to, Cade' said Harding, 'but evidence is scarce.  It isn't easy finding killers this long after the fact.  We've had almost no leads, and the ones we've had have been dead ends.'

'Well isn't that bleeding convenient.'

Cade's lip curled as he bit the words .

'Do you imply that we are being less than thorough?'

'I'm not implying anything.  I'm saying.'

Harding's fists slammed the table as he shot up from his seat, upsetting the chair in the process.

'Calm yourself Harding!' Lord Tussick shouted with alarm.  'Let's not be hasty.'

'Lord Rushbrook, I do not lightly suffer injuries from dogs, nor will I take the assault this villain lays on me!'

'Oh, so I'm a villain am I?'  

Cade rose from the table and began circling it in a slow amble.

'Let's not forget,' he said, 'that Harding and I had a little score to settle that night, and I'm the one who came out worse.'

'You dare accuse me?'

'I merely point out that you would have a motive for not finding the killer.  Enemy of my enemy and all.'

'Cade, our own enmity notwithstanding, when you are so wronged, it is my duty to make amends for your misfortune as best I can.  My station is no plaything.  My personal feelings must be mortified in the presence of necessity, duty, and honor.'

'A lovely little speech, but then, where is the killer?  What good has your honor done in avenging my wrong?'

'Silence you fools!  Both of you!'

Lady Gregory looked sharply at the feuding men.

'You are behaving like children.  We have been called here to present Rosemead with a united front, not to squabble amongst ourselves.  It is likely that you are playing into the killer's game.  If we set into one another, the chaos will rip the city apart.'

'The solution must be to apprehend the criminal.' Harding stated matter-of-factly.

'And seeing the job you've been doing so far, how do you propose we go about it?'

'We could send word to Issachar,' proposed Lord Tussick.  'The Issach has been known to intervene in crises.  I understand his Exarchs are very shrewd and efficient.  I am certain that such an exarch would be able to uncover the killer.'
Mayor Brisbane flinched at the thought.

'I fear the consequences of an exarch.  I do not want my city under martial law.  We may find the killer, but it would come at the cost of our autonomy.'

'Tempests in teapots' announced Lady Gregory.  'We hardly need go to extremes.    People are fickle.  They merely need a distraction.  Give them a cause for celebration and they will forget all about it.'

'I highly doubt that poor little Adina will be easily distracted,' said Havrin.  

'Trauma like that can be damaging for a child.  Knowing such horrors so early in life tips the humors out of balance.  Very difficult to cure.'

'The case of a single girl, tragic though it may be, is not my concern, doctor.  I am thinking of the good of the whole city.'

'Very well, what kind of celebration did you have in mind?'

'Perhaps a carnival might be appropriate.  Something to do with an itinerant troupe out of Crimnsea.'

'Carnivals breed vice and immorality,' said Father Slidell.  

'Then you will have plenty of business in the confessional,' retorted Cade.

'I cannot give my consent to debauchery.'

'Then perhaps a wedding would be more to your taste?'

'A wedding?  Whose wedding?'

'Mine.'  Lady Gregory grinned at the assembled company.  She enjoyed the stunned and bewildered looks on the faces of her companions.  She had established a reputation as an independent woman.  She had turned down more suitors than she cared to remember, choosing instead to handle the upkeep of her property alone.  She was proud of her success, of her independence, and of the power she had as a widow to accept or deny a suitor's proposition.  She had enjoyed holding their futures and fortunes in her hand.  No one, least of all Lady Gregory, had expected her to be swept up in a romance.  But there was something different about her dark-haired stranger.  From his sly, strange grace, to his money and style of dress, to the chiseled shadow of his cheek bones, to the way she could look into his eyes for miles.  She could dissolve into his gaze.  He mesmerized her her.  

'Well,' Brisbane finally managed to spurt out.  'Well, who-who is it?'

'His name is Marcilius Travian. He hails from a banking family out of Rovenia.  He is given to traveling, and has a marvelous grasp of high culture.  He has danced in some of the most exquisite court masques, and knows the works of great sculptors and painters of the Old World.  He has studied philosophy, and'"'

'Oh yes,' said Brisbane.  'I partly know the man.  He purchased a fair acreage east of here, on the edge of the Ashen Plain.  I moderated the agreement myself.'

'Yes, his land here adjoins with mine by the lake.'

'That will be convenient for the merger of the estates.'

'Certainly it will.'

'I take it he will be moving into Charote with you?' asked Lord Tussick, giving

Lady Gregory a significant look.

'And what of that, Tussick of the Rushbrook?'

'I would merely hate to see you living in that old ruin of a castle your betrothed purchased.'

'Marcilius finds charm in the art and architecture of times past.'

'Yes, indeed, charm is the lure of the past,' nodded Father Slidell.  'It draws you in, and you ignore the dangers.'

'But Father,' Lady Gregory countered, 'we have benefitted from the past.  If not for the excavations in Lykorae, we might never have achieved half of the advances we have made in the past fifty years.  Without our airships, how many might have died after the crusades to the Sickness which lay about the ground among the plague-ridden corpses of Heretics and their victims.  Without the antikythera mechanism to plan our plantings and our harvests, we might not have been able to recover enough to feed the peasantry.'

'That is all very well,' said the priest, 'But do we truly understand what the ultimate consequences of these '˜discoveries' will be?  Who knows what horrors from the past lie in our future?'