The Righteous Whisper of Allsaints (The White Blood Chronicles Book 2) Page 2

  Campion returned his gaze to the digging Talvace. He watched in silence as he shovelled the earth, creating a shallow trench in front of the tree, roughly a couple of hands deep.

  “ Nothing so far,” announced Talvace standing and stretching his back for a moment.

  “ Yes Gregory, I can see that,” said Campion with a degree of irritation. The priest waved a gloved hand at the glistening earth.

  “ Well, carry on man.”

  Talvace obeyed and resumed his steady digging of the plot. The spade’s head biting into the earth as he made his way back across the strip of earth, going deeper. Campion opened the book once again and turned the pages before alighting on the appropriate page. He checked the manuscript and gave a nod to himself, certain he had interpreted it correctly and had found the relevant place. It had taken him a considerable time to appropriate the book that he held. His gloved fingers traced the cover of the book, running over the embossed letters, which read ‘The Fall of the Mainveres’. Numerous sacrifices had been made in purloining it from the Great Library in Cityport Deepfax and even more in bringing it to Aftlain, but he had little doubt that the cost so far would be far, far outweighed by the value of the acquisition once Talvace dug it up. The gravedigger had gone back on himself, digging down and still nothing had appeared. He turned and commenced a third pass of the strip, flinging the soil aside, his pace not slowing.

  Only the spade’s head showed from time to time to expel the earth into an ever-growing mound to the side of the hole, which Talvace had now dug. He was stooped inside it as Campion waited silent and motionless. Doubt tried to creep into Campion’s mind but he knew he had followed the book correctly and had located the precise location; it was now surely a question of depth. The digging halted.

  “What is it Gregory, have you found something?” asked Campion moving forward to the edge of the hole. He looked down and could see Talvace bent over, pulling at something. He gave a grunt and then straightened up. In his dirty hands, he held a long bone, most likely a leg bone.

  “ This seems promising,” said Talvace waving the bone about.

  “Good, good,” replied Campion, “ try at that end,” he pointed behind the gravedigger. Talvace placed the bone back on the floor of the hole and turned to where Campion had indicated. Taking up the spade once more, he picked a spot and placed his foot on the spade head, ready to drive it into the earth. As he did so, there was a clunk and he lifted off his foot, as if he had trodden on a spike. He turned and looked up at Campion who waved him on. Talvace put the spade to one side and pulled a trowel from his tunic.

  “Pass me the lantern, father,” asked Talvace. Campion obliged and the gravedigger took it, placing it in the hole ahead of him. He knelt on the cold, damp earth and began tentatively digging around the incision he had made with the spade. From above, Campion peered down as the trowel darted to and fro, scraping and prodding the soil. As the dark earth was moved, Campion glimpsed a small patch of bone, which grew in size as Talvace cleared away the earth covering it. This time, the bone was not of a limb, but was wider and Campion knew that this had to be a skull. Judging by the extent that Talvace had exposed the bone, it was the back of the skull, which he had uncovered. He located the base of the skull and then the sides, slowly and meticulously uncovering it as he moved upwards. The edge of the trowel dislodged a chunk of earth and there was a glint of something metallic in the lantern light. Talvace put down the trowel and now used his hands to pull away the earth, revealing more and more of the metal.

  Campion mouthed a prayer to Selne as he watched the gravedigger dig down underneath and to the side of the skull, using the trowel once more. He thrust it into the ground beside him as if satisfied with his digging and reached around the skull with his bare hands. He pulled and then pulled again. The skull broke free of its earthen grave, granules of soil falling from it as he stood up.

  “Got it,” he announced and holding the skull in one hand, thrust it up towards Campion. Campion placed the book on the ground and took hold of the skull with both his hands, holding it out in front of him. Talvace raised the lantern, allowing its light to reflect off the metal crown, which adorned the skull. Even with earth streaking the metal, it gleamed and shone. The dirt-specked emeralds set into it, reflected the lantern light.

  “At last I have you,” said Campion. He lifted the crown from off the skull, surprised at its weight and tossed the skull back down to the gravedigger who neatly caught it.

  “ Put that back, he will need it later,” ordered Campion. He rubbed some dirt away off the crown, the gold metal seeming to absorb the lantern light and take on an inner glow. Still staring at his newly acquired treasure, Campion leaned down and scooped up the book. He stood over the corpse of the woman.

  “May Selne watch over you as reward for the sacrifice you have made for our lord to further the good of our sacred village,” said the priest. He lowered himself and placed his hand on her forehead.

  “By the blood of Selne, let your soul be channelled for the furtherance of his works and the greater glory of his growing kingdom. By his piercing lance,” he nodded and rose.

  “By his piercing lance, “ repeated Talvace.

  “ Hurry now Gregory put her in the hole and fill it. ”

  Talvace hauled himself out of the hole and he effortlessly lifted the dead woman. He returned to the hole and jumped into it before carefully placing her in it. The gravedigger clambered back out of the hole and began returning the earth to its original place. Campion stood waiting nearby, seemingly entranced by the crown, which he now held. He ran a thumb over an emerald and admired the markings, which surrounded each of the gemstones set into it.

  Panting from his exertion, Gregory retrieved the lantern and spade and joined Campion who was still regarding the crown.

  “ Very impressive,” commented the gravedigger.

  “Wait until you see what it can do,” replied Campion. He tucked the crown under his robes and set off across the field, back to Aftlain.

  “ Come, Gregory,” said Campion over his shoulder, “ this is when matters began to take shape.”

  Talvace gave a shrug and set off after the priest, following in his footsteps, leaving behind the disturbed grave with its long dead, regal occupant and its recent acquisition.

  Chapter Two

  Thaindire and Kathryn descended the staircase at the Last One Inn. The noise of animated conversation punctuated by the occasional shout could be heard.

  “Come on Benny, just let me go and see Kathryn,” demanded a voice.

  “I’ve told you. Nobody is going up these stairs. That’s the end of it, Aindrew,” replied the firm tone of Benjamin Dromgoole.

  Kathryn placed her hand on Thaindire’s forearm as they neared the bottom of the staircase, causing the witch hunter to halt.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “We may face some trouble but I have to do this. Are you prepared?” she asked looking intently into his blue eyes.

  “I am ready,” Thaindire confirmed as his hand rested on the hilt of his longsword.

  “I will make it worth your while, I just need to speak with her,” pressed the voice again.

  “Nobody is coming past me.”

  Kathryn continued to walk down the stairs until they twisted at the bottom and she appeared before the throng that was gathered in the main bar at the Last One Inn.

  “There she is,” cried a voice. Every face in the crowded room looked up at Kathryn as Thaindire joined her, stood just behind her. Benjamin Dromgoole was stood at the base of the staircase. He twisted his neck looking over his shoulder as his daughter appeared. The landlord held a large hammer in his meaty hands and Kathryn could see a figure slumped on the floor beneath her father.

  At Kathryn’s appearance the crowd began to shout, calling out to her. Purses were held up as the bearer demanded to be allowed to make a purchase from her. The villagers jostled one another, pushing forward as they attempted to get closer to Kathryn.

&
nbsp; “Get back, get back,” roared Benjamin Dromgoole and he thrust the head of the large hammer at the villagers in front of him seeking to dissuade them from breaching his defence of the staircase. The clamour continued and Kathryn surveyed the upturned faces, the thrusting hands and listened to the shouts of protest as the villagers battled to secure her attention. Her father continued to push at the nearest villagers and she saw him land a punch on one, sending the man backwards into the crowd, only to be replaced by another eager person.

  “Enough!” shouted Kathryn and she raised both her hands.

  “I said enough!” she shouted again. Those nearest her father ceased their pushing and the large landlord remained in situ, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. The noise from the assembled villagers faded. Kathryn waited until the din had stopped before she lowered her hands.

  “Give us the white blood,” shouted Petre Wheelams from next to the bar.

  “Aye, give us the white blood, it is to be shared. For the good of the village,” added Devid Bootlure from next to the front door of the inn. There was a murmur of assent to these suggestions.

  “The white blood is mine. I alone have captured him and he belongs to me now,” said Kathryn. Thaindire stood still, staring out over the villagers with an impassive expression on his face.

  “That may be so Kathryn, but you know what Father Thomas has said,” declared Dena Sentenal from her position by the fireplace.

  “I do not see him here,” answered Kathryn sweeping her defiant gaze about the room.

  “It is I who has brought the white blood under control and me alone and thus it is for me and for me alone to decide what is to be done with him,” she continued.

  “You ought to be doing what is for the good of the village, “ challenged Whilom Siker from the row of villagers at the foot of the stairs.

  “And who says I am not?” answered Kathryn. A few villagers exchanged glances with one another.

  “Then what do you intend to do with the white blood?” demanded Bootlure.

  “You will see.”

  “Tell us,” shouted Mary Lanett.

  “Aye tell us,” added Robert Landless.

  “I said that you will see. Now, move aside, I have something to attend to.”

  The villagers stood their ground.

  “Make way,” growled Benjamin Dromgoole as he hefted the hammer. The villagers shuffled to one side and a thoroughfare opened up.

  “Samael, this way,” said Kathryn as she stepped past her father.

  “Do you know what you are doing?” he asked as she drew level with him.

  “Yes father, I am sending out a signal.”

  Thaindire stepped down off the stairs and as Kathryn made her way through the crowd, the white blood kept pace with her, scanning the villagers for any sign of threatening behaviour. Murmurs of discontent occasionally emitted from the Aftlainers as Kathryn walked to the front door. Devid Bootlure stood in her way, his tall frame blocking her progress. He stared at Kathryn as she halted.

  “Excuse me Devid, “ she said politely. The scabbard maker looked over her shoulder at Thaindire. The witch hunter pulled his longsword, the steel scraping against the edge of his scabbard. Bootlure moved to one side.

  Kathryn opened the door and walked into the square. As Thaindire crossed the threshold of the tavern a voice yelled “Get him!” Out of the crowd, Isiah Lock, a young man launched himself at Thaindire and grabbed him by the shoulders.

  “No!” shouted Kathryn from outside. As Lock pulled at Thaindire, the witch hunter drew his sword as Michael Potts made to grab him also.

  “Get off him,” cried Kathryn as she pulled a dagger from her dress. She slashed at Lock’s arm which was around Thaindire’s neck and caused the younger man to cry out and release his hold. This enabled Thaindire to spin around causing Potts to stumble. Thaindire took two steps backwards into the square, his longsword raised and ready as Potts and Lock regained their composure. The three men stood eyeing one another before the Hopeland brothers, Barre and Stefan walked out of the tavern. The two brothers had broadswords drawn.

  “Just hand him over Kathryn and nobody will be hurt,” said Barre.

  “Go back inside Barre, you are drunk again,” answered Kathryn.

  “Get him,” said Barre and he advanced at Thaindire. He thrust his broadsword but the witch hunter was quicker. He avoided the blow and slammed his sword into Barre’s side. He gave a wail and stumbled over. His brother yelled and swung his sword at Thaindire. The witch hunter parried and stepped smartly to one side, causing Stefan Hopeland to over reach. Thaindire brought his blade around and chopped into the man’s leg, causing him to howl and crash to the ground. Lock scooped up the dropped broadsword from Barre as Potts drew his own blade. Thaindire kicked the groaning Stefan Hopeland and snatched his sword away from him, hurling it to one side, the steel clattering against the square’s cobbles.

  “Now, let’s make the white blood share,” said Lock. He chopped at Thaindire twice and the witch hunter easily deflected the blows. Potts attacked from the right as Thaindire hopped back and turned away his strike. Lock made to attack again and lunged but Thaindire was too quick for him. The witch hunter evaded the blow and drove his long sword into the stomach of Lock, the tip bursting from the back. Blood spurted from Lock’s mouth as Thaindire moved around, seeking to avoid Potts. Thaindire wrenched his sword free as Potts hacked at him. He ducked his blow and jumped to one side, causing the shepherd to pass him. As he stood up, Thaindire brought his sword around in a neat arc and promptly decapitated Potts. His body keeled over and hit the ground as his head rolled to one side. The other villagers who had begun to exit the tavern to watch the fight halted at the swift dispatching of four of their number.

  Thaindire stood unharmed, his bloodied blade held out in front of him. The villagers made no move. Faces pressed against the glass of the windows and peered over the shoulders of those in the doorway. Kathryn stepped forward and plucked up Potts’ head, blood dripping from the severed neck. Gripping his hair, she thrust the head into the air.

  “The white blood is mine. This is what happens to those who now cross me,” she said defiantly. There was no reaction from the villagers. Kathryn stood glaring at them, but there was no response.

  “This way Samael,” she ordered. Still brandishing his sword Thaindire followed Kathryn as she began to walk around the square, still holding up Potts’ severed head. She walked quickly, striding towards the road, which led to the bridge.

  “Hear me people of Aftlain,” she shouted, her voice echoing across the square. Light spilled from various houses creating a shadow behind her. Thaindire kept pace with her, his eyes scanning the houses as they walked past them.

  “I am the possessor of the white blood,” continued Kathryn, “ I am the sole decider of his fate. Any attempt to take what is mine by right will be met in the same way that you have just witnessed.” She thrust the head upwards again as if by way of emphasis. Silhouetted figures stood in windows and some doors had opened to listen to Kathryn as she continued around the square, passing Captain Reznik’s residence and then crossing the road, which led to Tallow Bridge.

  “I have the witch hunter. He is mine and by the rules of our engagement he is not be taken from me.” Her voice drifted across the cold night air. A huddle of figures remained watching from the doorway of the Last One Inn.

  “Defy me and you will be dealt with swiftly and without mercy.”

  An arrow shot from the shadowed alleyway besides the smithy and raced towards Thaindire. The arrow struck his shoulder but merely glanced off the cloak that covered it. The witch hunter ran forward and darted into the alleyway that lay between the smithy and the wainwright’s.

  “He cannot be defeated so long as he remains my servant and I will crush any who dares to impede my plans,” said Kathryn as she walked in front of the stalls, now all closed up for the evening. Thaindire re-appeared at her side after a few moments.

  “Did you see who fired the
arrow?” she asked quietly.

  “No, they ran away towards the Lanes,” answered Thaindire. Kathryn gave a nod and maintained her procession of the square with Potts’ head still held high. Having reached the carpenter’s house she looked along the path towards the house of Ilberd Grimoult but there was no sign of light or life from the imposing structure where the alchemist lived.

  “I have the white blood. I am his mistress. You have seen his prowess with the blade and mark my words, I will use him against you if you continue to defy me,” she cried out as she continued her march around the square.

  Metylda Meverel stood at the window in the living room on the first floor of the home that she shared with Melissent Priestcote. Her cousin was sat by the fire reading a book as Metylda watched Kathryn parade about the square.

  “Now the contest will really begin,” remarked the older cousin with a sigh. She reached up and touched her hair which was held in its customary bun.

  “What was that?” asked Melissent as she looked up from her book.

  “I said that the contest will really begin, now that Kathryn has enchanted Thaindire. Can you hear her declaring her success to the entire village?”

  Melissent nodded.

  “Whenever a white blood falls to this village I have this inherent fear it will bring about the return of the Alesti and that means great consequences,” continued Metylda.

  “How do you reach that conclusion cousin?” asked Melissent as she closed her book.

  “Well Thaindire is the third witch hunter to fall and that must surely mean there is now sufficient white blood in the village to satisfy the requirement.”

  “You suppose that those who hold the white blood would use it to bring about the return of the Alesti and more importantly that someone has the instrument that is needed to unleash them in their possession,” added Melissent.

  “Why not? Would you not do so if you had the white blood and the means to free them?”

  “Cousin, you know as a Gualtian that I would not hesitate to release the Alesti from their bondage. Freedom is all. It would be something both of us would want to achieve although we lack the means to do so and, if I may emphasise, so does anybody else. You fears are unfounded. The Alesti will never be freed.”