Iron Quill (the Message) - The Message...

[Paddywhack]

Well, here goes one. Haven't written in a while. I used all elements but the line. Couldn't think of a better name. 1745 words.

 

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The Message...

 

Mortensen huddled in the alley, mumbling and rocking back and forth. He wasn’t really cold, drunk or homeless, but it helped to play the part. He didn’t want to be noticed and people tended to avoid beggars and drunks. He coughed as wind kicked the dust around him. That he didn’t need to fake. This town was dry and sandy, like many small contract towns outside Malifaux that survived by scraping soulstones from the ground.

 

He’d followed his nose to this blip on the map on the trail of a kidnapper. Or kidnappers. He didn’t yet know. All he knew was children had gone missing from the orphanages and work houses and the Guild didn’t deem it important enough to bother investigating. As far as they were concerned just runaways and good for nothings no one cared about. Except for him. He always had a soft spot for kids.

 

Once he started investigating he was able to drum up a few small leads and with a little bit of surreptitious divination, found himself in this stink hole of a town by the name of Way’s Point. His trail had led here, sitting in the dirt across the street from the town’s small general store. The trail went cold here, but he guessed his target would be back sooner or later and had set a small enchantment on the teapot in the window. He kept his eyes on it as customers came and went.

 

He’d been there for hours, and the shop would be closing soon, when the little yellow and red teapot suddenly started whistling and steaming in the shop window. He smiled slightly as the bewildered shop owner rushed over to see what was going on, but his eyes were fixed on the man that was quickly making his way down the rutted Main Street. He was back on the trail and had a target.

 

He followed as closely as he could, maintaining the drunk act while keeping the small man in his sights. He tried to get a better look at him from a distance, but couldn’t make out any significant features. He was short, maybe 5’4”, overweight, but not fat, with short blond hair. He wore plain brown slacks and a simple, but well kept, green collared shirt. The only weapon he carried openly was a small knife on his belt, more likely used for meals than fighting. Nothing distinguished him in any way, but Mortensen’s spell had marked him as having had contact with the last child to go missing.

 

He followed as closely as he could for several blocks and they were nearing the edge of town when he lost sight of his quarry.  He had slipped into one of the last alleys behind the small warehouse not far from the train lines. Mortensen sighed heavily as he scanned the area for any signs. The alley was a dead end. Just piles of old wooden crates and bare brick walls. Where’d he go?

 

He glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. This town was too small to have a full Guild house and definitely no Witch Hunters, but he had survived this long with his gift by being very careful. It was the reason he had never joined the Guard. Too dangerous for his kind.

 

He took a few deep breaths to calm and center himself. He began chanting under his breath quietly as a soft amber glow bled from his pores. The glowing haze slowly roiled away, blanketing the alleyway and walls like a dim fog or cold winter’s frost. He stopped chanting and opened his eyes. The amber glow was slowly fading from the ground and walls, leaving behind a trace of footprints in the dirt. He followed the tracks behind a stack of crates where he found handprints traced in the amber glow dotted along the brick wall.

 

There were three spots, specific bricks that the man must have touched. A secret entrance of some kind to the warehouse. He studied the glowing hand prints carefully. This spell allowed him to discern the order the stones were touched by how brightly they glowed. With one last look around to make sure he was alone, he tapped the stones in the same order.

 

The brick wall before him clicked quietly and swung inwards on hidden and well-oiled hinges. The opening revealed a staircase leading downwards. He pulled his pistol and began his descent into the dark stone passage. As he neared the bottom he began to hear a mumbling and shuffling. He paused, trying to make out the faint voice. It sounded like one man talking to himself.

 

“… I must deliver the message… the message… He must know… the Behemoth is coming…”, he ranted over and over again.

 

That doesn’t sound good, Mortensen thought to himself as he peaked around the corner. The room was large, but dim and cold with several sparsely laden bookshelves and a table placed squarely in the middle. The stone walls were a strange color and the way they were fit looked strange. The room may have been here before the town was ever built, from before the Breach possibly. One of the old places that dotted Malifaux and the surrounding lands.

 

The small blond man paced from bookshelf to table collecting a smattering of jars and vials, pausing briefly now and then to consult a large tome laid out on the table. Mortensen watched as the man left the room in hurry through an archway across from the stairs. He counted to five before the man returned, pushing a large wooden gurney. Strapped to it was the missing boy. The man glanced his way and Mortensen ducked back, holding his breath tightly. He sat there for a few moments listening. It sounded like the man was still mumbling and shuffling around the room. He let out a small breath and peeked back around the corner.

 

The man had pushed the gurney near the table and placed four white candles on each corner near the boy’s hands and feet. The boy was gagged, though it seemed unnecessary as he was unconscious. The small man stood near the boy’s head, rocking back and forth, his eyes closed and sweat beading his brow as he chanted under his breath. In his hands he held a bowl suspended over the boy’s head.  Smoke began to rise from the bowl and the man began to slowly tip it toward the bound child’s head.

 

Well, that’s enough of that, Mortensen thought. He stepped around the corner, his pistol aimed and fired in one fluid motion. The bowl shattered, the smoke and contents dissipating in a haze as the man yelped, clutching his hands in pain. He stumbled backwards into a bookshelf, scattering jars to the floor with a crash as his eyes opened wide. He stared as the pistol was retrained at his head.

 

 “What are you doing? What have you done!” he shrieked as his hands began to shake. “You don’t understand! The message! None of the others have gotten through. The Behemoth… the message… the message…”, his voice trailed off as his eyes darted about the room, his breathing rapid.

 

He screamed and pushed the gurney at Mortensen and turned to run. Mortensen fired, but the gurney slammed into his hip, spoiling his aim. He only managed to wing his shoulder, causing him to stumble as he ran through the archway and turned the corner.

 

Mortensen hurried to the stone arch and hesitantly peaked around the edge. Nothing. A slim, bare hallway leading down to another corner. He made his way quickly down the hall, pistol held ready and risked another glance around the next corner.

 

Shit.

 

There was one small caged room to the left, probably where he had kept the boy, but further down the stone passage ended and changed to the bare rock walls of a cave. Worse still, he could see at least five different passages from where he stood. He closed his eyes to begin another tracking spell, but as soon as the first syllable left his lips there was a loud crack like thunder and a sharp pain in his chest as he was slammed against the stone wall. He crumpled to the ground gasping for breath and shaking his head. That hurt. Either the man was a powerful sorcerer or he was working with one. Or maybe it was this place, older than the city and imbued with who knows what ancient magics.

 

As he stood rubbing his chest he heard a muffled crying from behind. The boy must have woken. Mortensen stared down the cave entrance for a moment more before turning with an angry grunt. The boy was more important now. He would track the kidnapper down and end him later. He’d done it once already.

 

He quickly freed the boy and tried to calm him. He was young, maybe seven or eight, and scared. He didn’t remember how or where he was taken. The last he remembered was going to bed in the orphanage with the other children. The next was waking up here. He told the boy to go up the stairs and wait for him.

 

As the small boy crept up the stairs Mortensen walked over to the large table. The man had left his belongings behind and they may still hold a clue. The large book he had been using lay open to a strange diagram, in a language he couldn’t read that hurt his eyes if he stared too long. He reached out to turn the page and with a white flash the book disintegrated into a pile of sand. Well I’ll be... Everything he tried to touch on the table led to the same results: a white flash and a pile of sand. Hmmm…

 

He stood there for a moment as the sand slowly shifted and dripped over the edge to the floor. There wasn’t much else here other than some candles, bowls and jars full of spices and powders. He frowned and began to turn when his eye caught a small piece of paper poking from the shifting sand. He leaned in and blew more sand away, revealing a small rectangular piece of paper embedded in the remains of the book.

 

A bookmark.

 

And engraved with gold foil the name Barnabus Silvan Thornby. He smiled as he turned to follow the boy. I’m coming for you Barnabus.

 

 

 

[The Grue]

Good read. Some of the sentences seemed to run together and or run a little long, which is something I noticed only because I have the same problem when I write. I half expected some monster at the end with the book disintegrating but it was refreshing for a different ending.

As always,

The Grue