XXIII - Night Comes to Fenwick

  Night approached Fenwick once again. It brought with it the promise of more snowfall, as well as the rising of a bright, beautiful moon. The setting sun cast the village in a vast shadow that would have once felt like a comforting blanket on a long winter night, but now seemed more akin to a dark burial shroud that trapped them beneath its crushing, dominating weight.

  The village now feared the coming of darkness. The recent attacks had them all terrified to the point that very few of them wanted to risk stepping outside after sundown, even if their very lives depended on it. Most of them were content to spend their evenings locked away in their homes, where they would pray to the Mother that anything lurking outside in the blustering cold and deep darkness would pass them by for another night.

  Randolph Barnham was not among this number.

  He had spent much of his life in the village guard, and while some of his fellow watchmen had allowed themselves to fall into the routines of laziness and complacency that the task of defending a village like Fenwick encouraged, he had not; he had trained near daily for his entire life, even after stepping away from the guard, and he had no fear of any person who might have thought to blindside him in the night. And he was certain that a person was the only thing he had to fear. He did not even for a moment believe that any sort of beast stalked the streets of Fenwick at night. Any foe that would attempt to ambush him would be human, and any coward who would think to attack him from the darkness would quickly learn what his decades of training would earn them.

  Which was why Randolph did not think twice about stepping out into the evening cold, even as nightfall quickly approached.

  He sat trying to enjoy his evening meal over a tankard of ale in his usual seat at The Dusty Pumpkin, which was becoming increasingly harder to do as Gaston Dupont and his band continued to indulge in their merriment on the other side of the tavern. The place was far less busy at that time of day than it usually would have been, with only a handful of the most persistent regular faces present besides the rowdy bunch in the corner. Word had gotten around that the previous night’s victims had left the tavern immediately before they were killed, and it was now evident that nobody in the village was looking to repeat that chapter of very recent history.

  Randolph stole an annoyed glance at Gaston and his companions as he took a sip of his ale. In a way he was impressed by how long they had been able to maintain the level of energy that they seemed to so effortlessly exude, but he desperately wished that they would take their exuberance to some other very far away tavern, in some other very far away village, and he had half a mind to tell them as much. He would have given them an earful by now were it not for Amaebel; the group, while quickly becoming obstreperous, were at the very least content in their revelry, and he did not want to do anything that might sour their collective mood and thus spell a more difficult evening for their hostess, who would have to endure them for much longer than Randolph would that night. And so, for her sake, he bit his tongue.

  Randolph looked at the young woman who was in the middle of refilling two tankards of ale for the rowdy band. “Those fools are in the same spot as they were when I left this morning. Have they truly been there all damn day?”

  “They left for a short while in the afternoon,” she said, “but they returned well before supper, and have been here ever since.”

  He scoffed. “Tiring work, that werewolf hunting.”

  She finished filling the second tankard and looked at him. “You truly don’t believe there is any merit to their claims?”

  “Not a lick of it, Amabel,” the old man said. “I’d trust a sip from one of that Plague doctor’s elixirs over the word of that foolhardy ensemble. They’re nothing but a gaggle of charlatans looking to make a quick silver off the fears of our neighbors. They’ll move on just as soon as they realize that they won’t be seeing much profit in Fenwick.” He smirked. “Why do you ask? Surely you’re not suddenly afraid of some mangy dog-man breaking its way in here and tearing you to shreds while you sleep.”

  Amabel rolled her eyes, but Randolph could see that she was slightly flushed. “Of course not.”

  “Good. You would do well not to get caught up in their nonsense.” Randolph downed the last of his ale and stood. His short sword wobbled slightly at his hip as he rose. “Well, in any case, I had better be off. We’ve a long, cold night ahead of us with this snow rolling in, and I’d best go get the hearth warmed up at home.”

  “Alright,” Amabel said. “Just be safe out there.”

  Randolph grinned, only half-drunkenly. “Worry not, dear Amabel. There is hardly a thing alive in this village that can get the better of ol’ Randolph Barnham. Hell, I’m sure this old man could even give Sir Godwin a proper run for his silver.” He made his way to the door. “See you tomorrow, then. And try not to drop any egg shells into my breakfast, eh?”

  She crossed her arms as she watched him go. “Keep complaining and I just might give you nothing but shells.”

  He hardly heard her as he opened the tavern door and stepped out into the cold. The nighttime air immediately stung his nose and sapped the heat from him despite the warm concoction of alcohol and food that sat in his belly. Randolph stood in the winter chill for a few moments, assessing its nastiness, before he sighed. “A long, cold night ahead indeed.”

  ___

  The dull thud of a quarrel striking wood rang through the evening air and found its way into Avice’s forge. There was a brief silence as Sybil reloaded her crossbow, then the sound came again, indicating that she had once more landed a blow against the waiting dummy. Vlad knew that she would continue to fire upon her mark until her quiver was empty, at which point there would be a brief pause in the commotion while she gathered up her spent quarrels, before she started the cycle anew. She would never miss a single shot.

  At least not on the dummies.

  Vlad stood with Avice in the forge. Elpis, who was free from her harness, was inside with them, standing in a corner of the space and enjoying a supper of dried oats that Vlad had placed there for her. A bucket of water rested near her trough, which she would eagerly gulp down once the oats had set to work drying out her hungry mouth. Vlad and Sybil’s bedrolls lay on the ground near the furnace, which was now gently burning with little urgency compared to how energized it was earlier in the day. It possessed a calm, reddish glow that was soothing on the eyes and the soul.

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  “It is far from the most glamorous of accommodations,” Avice said, gesturing to the space, “but you should certainly have more than enough space in here. We will keep the furnace burning all night so you can at the very least remain warm, if not entirely comfortable.”

  “It is perfect,” Vlad said. “Far better than anywhere we have slept in several weeks.”

  “Then I pity you for what you’ve endured recently,” she said. “But I pity that girl most of all. She is not used to such a way of living; not like how you are.”

  “She is adjusting well enough,” he said as he heard the sound of another quarrel burying into its target. “Your generosity is much appreciated, Avice. You have been very accommodating.”

  Avice frowned. “Were that we could block that open wall and close off the forge completely. I hate to leave you exposed with a werewolf skulking about.”

  “We will be alright,” he assured her. “We’ll keep our eyes and ears open, and if our own senses fail us, we’ve got Elpis here to save the day. Not much gets past the old girl, and she is quite sensitive to any present dangers. I also doubt that the lycanthrope will wander out this far, as isolated as this part of the village is. But if the creature does decide to come by, we will certainly extend it a warm welcome.”

  The blacksmith raised an eyebrow at this. “Does this mean that you intend to slay the beast?”

  “Only if the beast intends to slay us first,” Vlad said. “Sir Godwin has asked that I not interfere with his affairs, and I intend to honor his request.”

  “I get the sense that if you do not, you shall find yourself slapped in a pair of irons before your visit to Fenwick is through.”

  Vlad nodded. “Your sense would be correct.” It was his turn to raise a skeptical eyebrow. “But I am sure I need not remind you that he has made no such request of you.”

  Her face shifted. “And I need not remind you that I am finished with anything and everything that involves werewolves, Ibis. I have other priorities now.” She paused. “And besides, it is unbecoming of you to attempt to rally me to a task that you will not complete yourself.”

  “Which is why I will not ask such a thing of you. But I will remind you again that you have always been the superior slayer of lycanthropes between the two of us.”

  Avice smirked at this despite her mild annoyance. “Among other things, as I am sure you remember.” Her smile dropped. “Now leave the subject be, Vlad Albescu, or you will find yourself sleeping in the cold tonight.”

  He offered his own weak smile. “Come, now. You’d do that to my poor apprentice?”

  “Not her,” Avice clarified. “Just you.”

  He nodded his understanding. “Ah. Well, I’ve spent plenty of nights cold and on my own, but seeing as one in warmth and shelter and with company is vastly preferable, I will do as you ask and let the matter rest.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Now, I shall leave you to your devices for the evening. If you yet live in the morning, I may even be so kind as to prepare you breakfast.”

  “As good a reason as any to survive until dawn, I suppose,” he said with a fresh, friendly smile. “Good night, Raven of Westwake.”

  “You know that I no longer go by that moniker,” Avice said sternly, then allowed her tone to soften again. “Goodnight, Ibis of Alcroft.” She began to turn away, then stopped. “I am glad to see you, despite what you may believe, and also despite what you may believe, I do hope to see you unharmed in the morning.”

  She turned and left, leaving Vlad alone in the forge with nothing but his thoughts and his horse to keep him company.

  It did not take long for the smile on his face to vanish on a fresh gust of winter wind.

  ___

  Sybil’s final quarrel connected with the head of the deeply gouged dummy. She stood staring at the projectile-riddled shape of wood for a few moments before she approached it and began pulling the shafts free, depositing them back into her quiver. When she was finished, she returned to her firing position several meters away, loaded her crossbow, and prepared to begin again.

  “Did Mr. Albescu teach you how to do that?”

  She hesitated at the sound of Finn’s voice. Sybil turned to see him approaching her, coming from the direction of the forge. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

  “No,” Sybil said. “Mr. Albescu has taught me how to fight at close range, but it was actually my father who taught me how to shoot. He was a huntsman, and he passed on everything I know about how to use a crossbow.” She paused until Finn finished his approach and came to a stop in front of her. “But the ability to fire a crossbow is evidently quite different from being able to kill with a crossbow, and Mr. Albescu has been attempting to teach me how to do the latter—with little success.”

  “Whether or not you can kill,” Finn said, “you’re still a far superior arbalist than I could ever hope to be.”

  “That isn’t true,” she said. “You would be surprised by how quickly you can learn your way around a weapon.”

  “Perhaps you could teach me if Mr. Albescu allows me to come with you.”

  Sybil nodded. “Of course. Would you like to start now?”

  He shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I am actually about to retire, and was just coming to say goodnight. My head is beginning to ache something terrible, and the only remedy when it gets this way is sleep.”

  “Are you alright?” Sybil said with a frown.

  “I will be, come morning.” Finn’s eye winced slightly as if to demonstrate his pain. “This has become common for me, unfortunately. Ever since my parents died, my head has started to ache and throb when I get tired. Madam Avice says it is my mind’s way of dealing with the tragedy. It has been so terribly taxed of late that it now regularly manifests this strain, and the only way that I can rid myself of the ache is to sleep.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “And I understand how you feel. My own mind does something similar. I’ve been having horrible nightmares almost every night since my parents died. Naturally, this means that for me, sleeping is the opposite of a remedy.” She paused. “I hope they will come to an end once we’ve finally slain Three-Fang, but I cannot say for certain if they will ever truly stop.”

  It was Finn’s turn to frown, seemingly as much from Sybil’s plight as from his own worsening ache. “I hope they do as well, Sybil.”

  “Thank you, Finn. I hope your own pain also ceases soon. Perhaps if you join us, we will find a way to ease our torment together.”

  He smiled despite the pain that he very clearly endured. “I would like that very much.” They both allowed a pause before he spoke again. “Well, I suppose I should get to bed before this gets any worse. Goodnight, Sybil.”

  “Pleasant dreams,” she said. “See you in the morning.”

  With their exchange finished, Finn turned and went back inside. When she was alone once more, Sybil returned her attention to the waiting dummy and raised her crossbow in its direction. She stared down the shaft of the loaded quarrel, where she saw the many knicks and gouges in the dummy where her countless shots had struck true.

  She slowly lowered the crossbow and sighed, knowing that she could hit the target as many times as she wanted, but to do so would never make a lick of difference.