Chapter Text
The air was thick with imminent rain the day the man first stepped foot in the village. Her residents tucked themselves under lintels and lampposts, whispers all but drowned out by the brewing storm above. There had been rumors from Grispierre— barely four leagues away— of an aging Witchfinder who had been found on the outskirts of the weald. His body had been mangled, his blood smattered against the grass as if he’d been dragged from within. Most peculiarly, if the letters were to be believed, a glistening vine had sprouted from the man’s gaping mouth and pierced his flesh from sternum to navel. The man could confirm those rumors as true, if any soul were brave enough to ask him, as he was the one to have discovered his master’s remains.
Like clockwork, the villagers rushed to their doors as the first droplets littered the ground. It had been this way for weeks: from the gilded halls of Aurum to Grispierre and now the Silverwood, all knew that when rain fell from the heavens they must lock themselves away. Some weeks ago, the Witchfinders’ presence had been enough to assuage their fears. They had often brought a certain degree of comfort and safety to the masses, the pointed hats adorning their heads a signal that the wrongs done unto the town would soon be righted. Until Amis, of course. Beldaruit, one third of the King’s Hands, had tasked both himself and his master to investigate a series of disappearances in Grispierre and… Well…
The man brushed his thoughts aside as he scanned his surroundings. The tavern. That would do. The dirt below his feet soon caked his boots as the downpour began in earnest. Bundling himself in his cloak, he rapped his knuckles against the door.
Silence.
He spared the inhabitants of the tavern only a moment before trying his luck again. A lock from within seemed to shutter and a short, bespectacled man peered out from behind the door. “Y’er that Witchfinder, eh?” The man’s eyes narrowed, “The one those folks from the Great City said would be comin’?”
The man nodded, “May I come in?”
After a brief moment of hesitation, the tavernkeep grasped the Witchfinder’s sleeve, pulling him inside and abruptly slamming the door behind him. A young boy, positioned to the old man’s left, hefted the lock into place. The man couldn’t blame them for their skittishness as it was only three days prior that the Silverwood’s first victim had been claimed. Sighing, the man pulled his cloak from his shoulders, shaking off the dampness that threatened to seep into his underclothes. “I suppose you wouldn’t mind tellin’ me where I could find the bailiff? Lord Beldaruit sent word ahead of my arrival.” It was only then that he noticed the tavern’s sparse patrons, all of whom quieted at the mention of the village’s de-facto leader.
“The bailiff has disappeared, Ser Witchfinder,” the boy from before stammered.
The man shot a glance at the tavernkeep, “I was informed that the Lord of the Manor was taken during the storm three days past.” Curious, he thought, that neither the old man or his patrons would look him in the eye.
“Nolnoa.” The tavernkeep held out his hand for the Witchfinder’s cloak, “And that he did.” Nolnoa’s spectacles shadowed his gaze as the man pressed the sodden cloth into his hands. “The bailiff— Guillaume— went searchin’ the wood the followin’ afternoon. He couldn’t bear his Lady givin’ out to him about the Lord’s disappearance… Accused him of wrongdoing. Sure enough, the rain started up again after he left and no one has seen him since.” He hung the coat on a rack stood next to the door. “Apologies for the sour welcome, Ser…?”
The man cleared his throat, “Olruggio.”
“Ser Olruggio.” Nolnoa turned back to the lad beside him. “My grandson, Tartah. It’d be best if he explained further. The Lord was his friend, after all.” The Witchfinder cocked his head in surprise. As if anticipating his confusion, the tavernkeep explained further. “The previous Lord fell ill last winter. The flux, they say. Young Eckart was saddled with the position as his only heir.” Olruggio nodded. Dysentery was a horrid way to meet one’s end. The King had graciously demanded an overhaul of the sewage system after his queen’s handmaid had taken ill. The poor Lady… Losing both her husband and son in the span of only five moons.
“Right,” Olruggio rested his gaze on Tartah, whose jaw was tightly set. “Mind if I have a drink while you tell me what you know?” That seemed to set Nolnoa straight to work. The flame-haired boy ushered Olruggio to a seat at the left-most corner, away from prying ears. Before he could blink, the bitter reek of ale was presented under his nose. He took a sip, waiting for the young boy to muster up the courage to spin his tale.
Taking a sharp breath in, Tartah began to speak. “Eckart and I weren’t supposed to be hangin’ around each other. His father wanted him to grow up proper; learn his manners and eventually be sent to Aurum for an education. Busyin’ with the common folk an’ all… Well, the Bailiff allowed it. He didn’t tell a soul. Nothing ever happened until three nights ago.” Olruggio noted the boy fiddling with the drawstrings on his sleeves, the dark look in his eyes: he’d seen it. Just as Olruggio had.
“… And what happened?”
Tartah paused, “Eckart came knocking just after sundown. He came right up to my window like usual, told me that we were going to the wood. I—” Tears began to gather in the boy’s eyes. Olruggio took a small sip of his ale and pulled a handkerchief from his robes. “Sorry— sorry.” The boy wiped furiously at his eyes and crossed his arms protectively over his chest.
“It’s alright. I’m not a sheriff. Y’er not gonna get in trouble for tellin’ me anything.” His words clearly didn’t console Tartah, but it was enough to get him speaking again.
“We started on the path toward Milton,” the boy whispered. “There’s a lake a small ways from one of the path markers where we go nightswimmin’ if the weather allows. The skies were clear so we thought it’d be safe.”
Olruggio leaned back in his ill-constructed seat, the dull sound of rain hitting wood scratching at the back of his head. “Did you make it to the lake?”
Tartah shook his head, “No, ser. We have a guiding rope, see? About halfway through the clouds rolled in. I— I told him that we needed to go back. Everyone had been gossipin’ about what happened in Grispierre… At first he said I was bein’ a coward, but then the rain started. I thought we’d be fine once we got back to the trail, but then…” The boy whipped his head around as if to ensure none of the other patrons were nosing about their conversation. He turned back to Olruggio, his voice low, “A branch came out of his chest. The whole front of his robe just went red. He looked so scared— he didn’t even scream. He just… He was writhing on the ground and I ran.” Tartah buried his face in the borrowed handkerchief, muffling his sobs with the fabric. Olruggio quietly shifted his chair, blocking view of the boy from any spectators. “I’m so selfish, I know and I’m so, so sorry. I just— I couldn’t—”
The Witchfinder grasped the boy’s shoulder, gently prompting him to look him in the eye. “It’s not your fault. There is no way you could have known.” Tartah nodded miserably, foregoing the slip of cloth and brushed his tears away. “I assume ya told your grandfather, but anyone else?” Tartah shook his head.
“No. As soon as I got home I fell asleep. Swear that I didn’t mean to keep it from anyone, I was just… I was so tired.” Trauma. Olruggio could hardly blame the lad. “By the time I woke up, the Lady had already sent the bailiff to the wood. That’s when the rain came down again.”
Olruggio downed the last of his, frankly, awful drink. Scratching nervously at his beard, he pressed on. “Did you see anyone else in the wood? Hear anythin’ amiss while you were out there?” Tartah shook his head, and Olruggio gave him what he hoped was a comforting smile. He stood up, sparing a moment to ruffle the boy’s feathery locks. “Like I said lad, it’s not yer fault. Y’er just a child.” Spinning back towards Nolnoa, who shot him a weary glance from his place at the bar, he gave Tartah one final piece of advice. “I’d venture that it goes without sayin’, but stay clear of the wood for now. I’ll find what or whoever did this to yer friend, I swear it.” With a brisk turn, he marched back over to the tavernkeep and his uneasy clientele.
“I’ll need a place to stay. Preferably somewhere close to the wood.” Olruggio could feel the tension seep into the air with his request. A few men found an intense interest in their glasses, while others simply stared at him in disbelief.
Nolnoa cleared his throat, “There’s an old hunting lodge near the bridge. It’s not comfortable, but it’s the closest we’ve got.” Olruggio nodded his assent.
“Good. I’ll need one of you lot to take me there now.”
One of the patrons— a burly man well into his middle age— scoffed, “Y’er crazy if you think any of us would be willin’ to go out in that weather. We all know what it means. Whatever is out there won’t spare anyone, not even you Witchfinders.” The Witchfinder smirked, slowly approaching the man. He whirled his head back toward the bar, refusing to meet the raven-haired man’s gaze as he towered over him.
“As a Witchfinder,” Olruggio did his best not to let the man’s sickly tone sour his own, “I can tell you that there is nothing to fear from the rain itself.” Every head in the tavern perked up at his words. “As long as you don’t step a single foot in that forest, you can go about doing whatever you please.” The tavern fell silent. There was not a shuffle of fabric nor clinking of glasses, only the pounding gale against the roof.
“Hamon,” Nolnoa addressed the heavyset man, setting down the glass he’d been polishing. “If the King sent him this way, it means that what he says holds true.” He rounded the bar, grabbing Olruggio’s cloak and offering it to its owner. “We’ll take you to the lodge. I can only hope you aren’t pulling one over on us.”
Olruggio fastened his cloak around his neck, “I’m not. Believe me: so long as you don’t touch a single tree, you’ll make it home safe and sound.”
* * *
The lodge was a mere five yards from the edge of the wood. Just as he’d promised, neither Nolnoa nor Hamon experienced any negative effects as they began the slow trek back up toward the village. Olruggio grunted as he forced the ill-fitting door open, it’s hinges rusted from years of neglect; however, the inside was not nearly as homely as its exterior. To his right, the Witchfinder found a cozy kitchen. It had clearly been used within the past few weeks, judging by its spotless wooden countertop and utensils neatly stacked inside a doorless cupboard. The pantry’s stock was sparse, but with the occasional trip back to the village, He was sure he’d be able to make do. To his left lie a bed. It was a bit small, but seemed sturdy enough that Olruggio could not find reason to complain.
The raven-haired man sighed as he shed his overclothes, casting them off to a chaise along the inner wall of the bedroom. With a dull thunk he fell onto the bed, not bothering to slip beneath the meager quilt provided. As he stared aimlessly toward the ceiling, he noted the distinct lack of droplets falling on the roof overhead. The storm had finally cleared, yet Olruggio felt that familiar dread fill his chest.
Three things were immediately clear to the Witchfinder. First, neither Tartah nor, presumably, Eckart had seen anyone in their journey through the wood. If this truly was the workings of a witch, they were able to trigger their spell from afar. Second, the Lady of the Manor had accused the bailiff, who Tartah had confirmed had a habit of turning a blind eye when the young Lord would sneak out into the night. That detail had wormed its way under Olruggio’s skin. Why would the Lady turn her ire toward the estate’s manager if every villager knew full well that this was the doing of a witch? To Olruggio’s admittedly limited knowledge, she hadn’t known about her son’s apparent deal with the bailiff as, if she had, she’d have known Eckart was likely with Tartah on the night of his disappearance. Curious.
And finally…
Olruggio turned toward the latticed window to his right, visually confirming the the tempest outside had cleared.
“Who is our latest victim?”