XXXI - A Much-Needed Respite
As it would turn out, the Plague doctor was correct in his assessment. Three days passed with no sightings of the lycanthrope. And so, for three brief, savored nights, the people of Fenwick were able to rest without the persistent threat of death swooping in to claim a fresh victim; the terror of the werewolf almost seemed to exist as a distant memory, or else as a largely forgotten adolescent nightmare.
A nightmare that would all too eagerly return to the sleep-drenched mind.
The Plague doctors spent most of the first day at rest. They lounged about Avice’s forge while they recovered from the previous night’s perils, giving their bodies the time they so desperately needed to mend the aches and pains that had come with the battles of the past. In the evening, Finn watched Sybil train with her dagger while Avice worked in her forge and Vlad took a quiet stroll through the village, pondering whatever it was that the Plague doctor pondered when he found himself in moments of solitude.
And so that first night of peace arrived. It came and went with little fanfare; in the morning, most of the villagers were surprised to find that nobody had been torn asunder during those long hours of icy darkness.
Sybil walked with Finn early that morning, delivering repaired or freshly-crafted metalworks to waiting customers. She was certain that she could feel the slight beginnings of hope bubbling up in the populace in spite of the recent massacre. Folks seemed happier, more friendly, and more appreciative of the life that they had all somehow managed to hold on to during that long, dark, frigid winter night. Upon returning to Avice’s forge in the midmorning, they found that Vlad had situated the three training dummies so that they made a tight triangle, with only a few feet of room between any one dummy and the center of the arrangement. When he saw Sybil and Finn’s approach, he smiled. “Ah, Night Owl. I am glad you’ve returned. How do you feel?”
“Still sore,” she admitted, “but much better than before.”
“Excellent,” Vlad said. “Then we have much to do with the daylight that we have left. Please, come over here.”
Sybil and Finn shared a brief glance, then Finn made his way toward the forge and Sybil did as her mentor instructed.
“Now,” he said, “if you are feeling sufficiently rested, I would like to begin your training with this.”
Vlad made his way to the center of the triangle. He removed his whip from its position on his belt and in a quick motion unraveled it, then struck it against each of the three dummies in rapid succession. Splinters of wood flew from the dummies and landed in the snow several feet away from their parents. The trinity of reports bounced off of the nearby forge and faded into the sky above. Vlad coiled the whip and presented it to her as he stepped out of the triangle.
Sybil looked at the weapon, then back at the Plague doctor, not yet taking it. “I did not think I would be training with this so soon.”
“Nor did I,” he admitted, still holding the whip out toward her, “but after your battle with the lycanthrope, I find it necessary for you to do so with haste. I dislike the thought of you being in a close quarters battle with such a beast and only being armed with a dagger and an expended crossbow.”
“And you are certain that you will not need it?”
“I am plenty armed,” he said, “and in my advancing age, I find comfort in having to remain familiar with fewer weapons. As I have said, it would be much better-suited in your hands.”
Sybil hesitated for a brief moment. “Alright, Mr. Albescu. If you’re sure.”
She reached out and took the whip into her hands, allowing Vlad’s glove to pull away. The weapon was heavier than she would have expected, and it felt awkward in her grip.
“Take some time to grow accustomed to it,” Vlad said. “Mastery will take a great deal of practice, but the first step is to learn how it feels to properly strike with the weapon.”
Sybil stepped into the triangle and uncoiled the whip. She glanced around at the three dummies, trying to choose the best target. Then, with a slow, deep breath, she struck. The weapon jounced pathetically in her hand, completely missing its intended mark. Sybil felt herself beginning to flush, despite her efforts to resist the redness that found its way to her cheeks.
Vlad smiled at her. “Worry not, my apprentice. You will improve; I would not have entrusted you with such a weapon if I did not think you capable of mastering it with time. Give the whip back to me, and I shall show you the proper technique.”
Sybil did as her mentor instructed, then watched as he proceeded to effortlessly sever more splinters from the dummy in a display that he made seem effortless. It was in this way that her training with the new weapon had begun.
By the coming of the second night, her technique with the whip had greatly improved. She could not strike with the same speed or precision as her mentor, but she could now make contact with the dummies with relative ease, only missing on occasion when her technique slipped and her blow went off in a wild, unanticipated direction. Sometimes an attack would ricochet back at her and strike her in her hand or arm, which set her flesh to aching and opened up thin lines of red along any exposed skin. Avice offered her a pair of sturdy leather gloves and bracers that prevented the whip from breaking skin, but which were not able to fully eliminate the pain that the accidental blows caused her. When she was finished for the night, her arms were sore and throbbing with the day’s training, both from the constant effort of striking with the whip as well as from the pain of the many recoiling blows that she had endured.
Sleep came for her quickly that night. At first she was grateful to get whisked off to the world of slumber; she spent a long time drifting through the darkness of a dreamless, restful sleep, which brought her to a state of peace that she had not known for a very long time. For a while, it seemed as though the nightmare would never come. But then, at long last, it arrived.
Sybil awoke remembering every terrible detail. In her dream she was reliving the night of the recent bloodbath, only she witnessed this retelling through the eyes of the werewolf. She rampaged through the village square, slaughtering everybody that was foolish enough to cross her path. Gaston Dupont and his entire gang were the first to go. Next came people who had not been present at the waking event, but who had arrived in the dream reenactment in order to partake in the gory dance. These included her mentor Vlad Albescu, whose face she ripped from its skull with ease, as well as Sir Godwin, who she tore all four limbs from and allowed to bleed out on the frigid ground, facedown, as his agonized screams were eventually drowned by the pooling blood that swallowed his mouth and nose. Then came Madam Avice and Amabel Cook and Mr. Brant and Mrs. Guthrie, and then the young, handsome sentry in her village whose name and now even whose face she could not recall. All of them died screaming and bleeding beneath the might of her tearing fangs and ripping claws. Next came her parents, who she dispatched without care, and whose leaking corpses she tossed around the plaza like a dog playing with the carcass of a rabbit or a raccoon. Sybil thought these two would mark the end of her rampage, but she was delighted when she turned around at the sound of Piers the archer falling from the church roof behind her. For a moment she thought it was strange to see him there, since she was certain that she had slain him with the rest of Gaston’s companions at the start of her bountiful hunt, but this fleeting consideration was quickly erased from her mind, replaced once more by the insatiable desire to kill. Forgetting about her old playthings, Sybil turned and rushed for the downed man who, despite trying desperately to crawl away from her, was unable to escape her eager jaws. They chomped down upon his leg with a mighty crunch, slicing through clothes and flesh and effortlessly shattering bone. Piers’ wailing screams only served to further her bloodlust, and she was eager to make him her new toy when she quickly realized that his voice had suddenly changed. It sounded younger, higher pitched, more terrified. Sybil released her clamp on his ruined leg, blood escaping from his wounds as she went. She looked to his face, where she saw that he no longer possessed the features of the archer, but instead now carried the agonized, terror-stricken countenance of Finn. Through his screams he managed to stare back at her. In addition to the pain in his eyes she also saw betrayal, as if he could somehow see through the veil that was her lycanthropic form to the truth that hid beneath her fur and fangs and ravenous hunger. She heard him begin to say her name, but she woke up before he could reach the word’s end.
That did not stop her from hearing it over and over again in her waking mind.
___
Sybil lazily sat up in her bedroll and looked around, only vaguely aware of the sweat that caked her brow and dampened her clothes. Vlad was nowhere to be seen; the morning sunlight flooded the forge through its absent wall, telling her that he had likely been awake for some time while she slept later than usual. Sybil wasn’t concerned by her late start; she had clearly needed the rest, and in fact, she could have used a whole lot more of it.
Sybil rose to her feet, then stretched every which way that she knew how to. The aches of her encounter with the lycanthrope had largely faded, having been replaced by the new aches of her training. If she was lucky, these fresh pains would begin to fade as well, but it could very well have been several days before her body once again felt like its old self.
She found her mentor outside, sitting in the front of his coach, which was devoid of its horse. An inkwell rested on the seat next to him, and he was hard at work scribbling into an open leatherbound book that he held in his lap. He did not notice her approach until she spoke. “Planning on leaving me here, are you?” He jumped slightly before he looked up at her. “I’m afraid you’ll be needing Elpis for that.”
“Ah,” Vlad said. “Good morning, Night Owl. I was wondering when you’d awaken.” He paused. “How long were you standing there?”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Only for a few moments.”
Vlad seemed perturbed, but he quickly shook off any ill feelings and returned to his normal self. “It would appear you have grown quite furtive as of late. That is good; better for catching our foes unawares, no?”
Sybil climbed into the coach next to him, sure to mind the open inkwell that rested between them as she settled into place. She looked down at the book in his lap. “What are you writing?”
“I am simply updating my journal,” he said. “Any Plague doctor worth their silver should chronicle their adventures, and so I attempt to fill out mine as often as I am able to, usually whenever I find a rogue moment here and there.”
“Have you been keeping it for very long?”
He nodded. “Since the day I became a true Plague doctor, at the behest of my own mentor. It’s been a task of mine ever since, and I remain as consistent as I am able to.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you working on it.”
“I rarely do so around company,” Vlad said. “I find that I am more able to accurately and fully gather my thoughts when alone, and so I most often wait for times of solitude to address any recent events.”
“I can leave you to it, if you’d like.”
The Plague doctor smiled. “There is no need. I was just finishing this particular entry.”
“Well, alright,” Sybil said. She paused, preparing to leave the matter there, but she conjured one further question that she asked before even considering if she should have. “Do you reread your writings often?”
“I do on occasion,” he said. “As I am sure you can imagine, there are certainly some passages that I prefer not to relive.”
“I understand that all too well,” she said.
“But even those I force myself to read sometimes. It is important to remember and learn from the struggles of the past so that we can better prepare for our future, even if remembering them resurfaces dormant pain. It is better to be well-acquainted with that pain than it is to have it be gifted anew by preventable mistakes.” He closed the book. “In any event, we needn’t overly concern ourselves with what was when what will be yet looms before us. What do you say we get ourselves something to eat before beginning the day’s training?”
Sybil resisted the urge to blanch. “More dried meat and flavorless carrots, I suppose?”
“Actually,” Vlad said, “I thought maybe we could make our way into town and gather some items to cook. I would say we’ve more than earned a decent meal, wouldn’t you?”
She nodded. “Yes, I believe I would.”
“It is good for one to treat oneself now and again,” he said. “After all, one never knows when they may be enjoying their final breakfast.”
He dismounted the coach before he could see her reaction to such a morbid statement; this time she actually did blanch.
Sybil followed after her mentor, doing her best to forget his recent comment, and together the two of them made their way into the village. Sybil was pleasantly surprised to see more people out and about than she had since arriving in Fenwick. Folks walked through the streets and entered shops and businesses that were actually open to the public. Conversations bubbled up from passersby that did not entirely revolve around the recent slaughter in the village square. The threat of the lycanthrope almost would have seemed like a distant memory, were it not for the thin, underlying presence of anxiety that laced every inch of the village. Despite their extant fear, those days of peace had done wonders to replenish the villagers’ confidence—Sybil only hoped that they did not grow too comfortable until safety had truly and fully been restored.
Soon they came upon a small bazaar, which was complete with several stalls filled with varying shops, largely consisting of foodstuffs of many types. From the shops they collected a pound of bacon, several eggs, and a small basket of assorted peppers, which they brought back to Avice’s place. When they arrived, they found Avice and Finn both hard at work in the forge. Avice offered them her furnace for the sake of cooking their meal, but Vlad instead opted to start a campfire outside, and cooked their food in an old cast iron skillet that he produced from the depths of the coach. They offered the blacksmith and her apprentice a share of the meal, which they graciously accepted, but as they sat around the fire talking over their breakfast, Sybil realized that Finn had hardly touched any of his food.
“I have not been too terribly hungry the last couple of days,” he said when she asked him about it. “My stomach has not been able to settle.”
“Are you sick?” she asked.
The youth shook his head. “I don’t think so. Just haven’t had much of an appetite, is all. This happens now and again lately. You needn’t think anything of it.”
She frowned. “Well, alright. But the food is still yours if you’d like it.”
Their conversation faded for a few minutes, then returned when Avice asked Vlad a question. “So, Ibis, what do you plan to do with your day? More training, perhaps?”
Sybil felt her aching body grow tense.
“I fear there is little else we can do while we await the werewolf’s next action,” Vlad said. “Were that I could get ahold of that letter, I might be able to further my investigation, but without it we appear to be at a standstill.”
His words were followed by a brief silence, which was soon broken by an unexpected voice. “Perhaps I can be of some help with that.”
They turned at the sound of the familiar voice and watched as Lucia approached them from the hill leading up to the village. Her blonde hair shined with the early morning sun as she walked. “I hope I am not disturbing your breakfast.”
Vlad, having risen to his feet, shook his head. “Not at all. How can we be of assistance to you, Lady Lucia?”
“By allowing me to be of assistance to you.” Lucia came to a halt in front of their campfire. She rummaged through a small satchel that she held over her shoulder and pulled from it a folded piece of sandy-colored parchment, which she presented to Vlad. “I have no interest in mincing words, Plague doctor. Please accept this so I can be on my way.
Avice, now standing as well, crossed her arms in front of her chest. “What have you brought us, some sort of formal warning from Sir Godwin?”
“No,” Lucia said. “He does not know that I am here.” She returned her attention to Vlad, her outstretched hand still offering the parchment.
Vlad did not take it. Instead, he looked askance at her. “If that parchment is what I believe it to be, then Sir Godwin would certainly seize the opportunity to finally imprison me within the deepest and most unpleasant cell in Fenwick, were he to find it in my possession.”
“You needn’t worry,” Lucia said. “I am not here to deceive you. As I’ve stated, I have only come to provide you my aid.”
Vlad, only partially convinced, reached a cautious hand toward the waiting parchment. Once it was in his grip, he quickly opened it and began reading its contents. “So my suspicions were correct, and this is that infamous letter that we’ve recently heard about.” He folded the parchment over its crease and looked back at Lucia. “It is clear that Sir Godwin has not ordered this delivery. Why, then, do you act against his will?”
“Because Sir Godwin may not want to concede to your assistance,” she said, “but I certainly do. I am not sure what all I believe regarding this werewolf business, but I know that something is happening in this village that is beyond all rational explanation—and is thus beyond our capacity as the village guard to combat. The captain clearly recognizes this, even if he does not want to admit it, which is why he was so eager to rally the majority of our men at the slightest opportunity to put an end to these slayings. Well, his wager failed, and it resulted in Fenwick being completely unprotected when the beast went on its rampage two nights past. He feels responsible for this failure—another item to add in his growing list of woes. He is desperate, and also at his wit’s end, which means he will likely no longer be of any use in this investigation. And so I have no choice but to place my faith in you. I will not pretend to understand your peculiar methods, Plague doctor, but if there is anything at all that you can glean from this letter, then I would rather leave it in your ostensibly capable hands.”
Vlad looked over the letter another time as Avice spoke. “And how can we be certain that this letter is not a forgery, created to throw us off the trail and obfuscate the truth?”
“Because that would be a very foolish thing for us to do,” Lucia said, “and neither the captain nor I are fools, despite what you may think of us.”
Vlad continued to puzzle over the parchment in his hands for a few more moments before he returned his attention to the woman in front of him. “Very well, Lady Lucia. We shall graciously accept this gift from you. This letter will go a long way toward putting an end to these killings.”
“Be sure that it does,” she said. “Captain Godwin will be rather cross with me when he learns of my betrayal, and I would hate for it to wind up being in vain.” She began to turn to leave, but, seemingly remembering something else, turned back to face the Plague doctor. “Oh, and one more thing. In case you were curious, Sir Godwin never had a chance to study that archer’s body, and I did not inform him that you ultimately delivered the man’s killing blow. I understand that you may have seen what you did as some form of mercy that you granted to the brutalized man, but the captain will likely view it differently should he ever know the truth. Ensure that he does not, and I shall do the same.”
Vlad nodded. “Understood. You have my gratitude, Lady Lucia. You have been an invaluable ally to us this day.”
“That I have,” she said, “though it remains to be seen if I have also been an ally of justice.”
With that, the young woman turned and walked away. Avice continued the conversation once the four of them were alone. “Well, there you go, Vlad Albescu. Assuming that letter is genuine and not a deceit conjured by Sir Godwin and his lot, you can use it to prove Amabel’s innocence in all of this. I hope you are prepared to set yourself back to the bottom rung of your ladder.”
“For her sake,” he said, “I truly hope that I am able to clear Miss Cook’s name of wrongdoing. I have grown rather fond of her, and thus I would hate to see her wrapped up in this nasty affair with the lycanthrope.”
“What do we do now, Mr. Albescu?” Sybil asked.
“For now, Night Owl, I shall take some time to further review the contents of this letter. When I am satisfied and properly ready, you and I shall pay a much-needed visit to Miss Cook at The Dusty Pumpkin.”
Sybil frowned, confused. “You wish for me to accompany you? But I doubt I will be of any use to you there if you are the only one who has studied the letter.”
“Ah, you sell yourself short, my apprentice,” Vlad said. He offered her a knowing smile, but its meaning yet eluded her. “On the contrary, you just may hold the most important role of all.”
