XXIV - The Ibis of Alcroft
The sun vanished from the sky. Night returned to Fenwick, and with it came a bright, argent moon that shone through a hazy canopy of clouds from which fell a gentle deluge of drifting snow.
Sybil sat crosslegged on her bedroll in front of the furnace, basking in its gentle flames and eating a piece of dried jerky while Vlad brushed Elpis’ mane nearby. The warmth of the furnace felt pleasant, even as the wintery cold rushed in from the open wall that led to the outside world. Darkness lingered beyond the threshold, and was so thick that the moonlight cascading down upon the white snow was only able to chase so much of it away. Winter nights were heavy, she knew, but none had ever felt quite as dense as the one that they endured now.
“Well,” Vlad said as he brushed the horse, “this may not be a room at the tavern, but if my recollection of that place’s accommodations is accurate, we may actually be better off here.”
Sybil looked at him as he spoke, then glanced out into the darkness again. “Even so, I think I would prefer to sleep in a room with four walls. Are you certain that we are safe here?”
“It’s just like any other night out in the wilderness,” Vlad said. “So long as we keep our wits about us and remain on guard, we will be alright. As I’ve already told Avice, her forge is quite remote as far as Fenwick goes, and a werewolf is more likely to go where it will easily find prey. But if it does deliver upon us an unwanted visit, we will be able to detect any danger from here.” He smiled. “Besides, three out of four walls is still better than zero, no?”
“I suppose,” the girl said, unconvinced. She looked around at the many weapons of steel and iron that surrounded them, and she silently wondered how useful they would all be against a creature that could easily tear them asunder with a mere flex of its great strength.
“Avice offered to make room for us inside with her and Finnian, but I told her that the forge would suffice. After all, we could not very well leave Elpis on her own with a lycanthrope out and about, now could we?”
“That we could not,” Sybil agreed. She allowed a pause, then went on. “Speaking of Madam Avice, there is something she said earlier that I wanted to ask you about. She called you something that I have not heard you referred to as before. Something involving an Ibis.”
Vlad offered her a knowing look. “Ah, you are referring to when she called me the Ibis of Alcroft. Yes, that is quite an old moniker. I have not heard it spoken in a very long time.”
“What does it mean?”
“It is my Plague doctor’s title,” he explained. “We’ve all got one. Avice’s is the Raven of Westwake. Or rather, I suppose it was. She does not much fancy going by such a name anymore, as she has made abundantly clear to me.”
“The Ibis of Alcroft,” Sybil repeated. “Is Alcroft where you hail from? I am afraid I have not heard of it.”
Vlad shook his head. “No, although you would be forgiven for believing so. A Plague doctor takes on the name of the location where they first dawn their mask. For me, that was the city of Alcroft. For Avice, that was my birthplace—the hamlet of Westwake.”
“I’ve not heard of that place before either.”
“That is unsurprising,” he said. “It exists far, far to the east—farther east than anybody from this part of the Dominion will likely ever travel to. Its name, seeming contradictory when spoken in these parts, comes from the fact that it once served as the westernmost point of its region. I am afraid that region is no longer recognized by the greater Dominion, but the hamlet from which I hail still maintains its name.”
“Will we ever go there?”
“Unlikely, unless our search for Three-Fang takes us that way, which I very much doubt that it will. In all of my many years as a Plague doctor, I have never heard of a wandering vampyre returning to lands that it has previously terrorized. At the very least, if they do retread old ground, it does not occur within the lifetime of a mortal like you or me.”
“But surely you will return once Three-Fang has been slain,” Sybil said.
“Also unlikely,” he said. “I am afraid there is not much there for me anymore, Night Owl. Avice, with her spurned moniker, holds more connection to Westwake than I do now.” He paused. “Anyhow, it will not do us any good to linger on such things. We must look toward the future, and not be held back by the past.”
Vlad placed Elpis’ brush on top of a nearby barrel and returned his attention to Sybil. “Well, what do you say we get some sleep? If you are up for it, perhaps we could complete some training tomorrow morning before breakfast.”
Sybil nodded. “Alright.” She hesitated. “Do you… do you suppose that Finn could join us?”
Vlad looked askance at her. “I do not know how Avice would feel about that. She will be very busy fulfilling our request on top of her other orders, and will likely need his assistance.” The Plague doctor paused. “Why do you ask? Has Finnian shown interest in training with us?”
“He has,” she said. “He’s… also expressed interest in joining us when we leave Fenwick.”
“Joining us? Does he wish us to escort him somewhere?”
She paused, hesitating again. “He… would like to join us as your apprentice.”
Vlad paused for only the briefest of moments while he seemed to force back a frown. When he spoke next, he remained jovial, and in fact even seemed to border on amused. “Well he’s a tad too late at claiming such a position, isn’t he?” the Plague doctor said. “I’ve already got an apprentice, after all.”
“He… he wanted me to ask if you would be willing to take him on as a second apprentice.”
This time Vlad really did frown. He waited significantly longer to respond than he had earlier. Every second that passed only furthered Sybil’s worsening anxiety. When the Plague doctor finally spoke, his voice was stern; it made Sybil’s stomach drop before he had even finished his sentence. “I do not believe I can accommodate such a request, Night Owl.”
“But why not?” she said quickly, before she could second guess her decision to do so. “Finn wants nothing more than to become a monster hunter like you. You could change his life.”
“Well for one,” Vlad said, “I already have an apprentice, as I previously stated, which in all honesty is probably more than I should have taken on in the first place.” He stared at her with eyes sharp as twin stilettos. “And for two, I am not in the business of pilfering the students of my associates. Finnian is already Avice’s apprentice, and he shall remain as such.”
“But he doesn’t want to be her apprentice,” Sybil said. “He wants to learn how to fight. He wants to learn how to make a difference, just like you do.”
Vlad shook his head. When he spoke next, his voice had softened slightly, but it was still rigid with absoluteness. “I am sorry, Night Owl, but my answer remains the same. Even if Avice were to approve of me taking her apprentice, I would still not do it. I already have you to look after—and I cannot afford to take another charge under my wing.”
Sybil rose to her feet. She could feel the anger rising in her now. “So that is all I am to you, then? A burden that you have been strapped with?”
Vlad, in a rare moment, wore his surprise plainly on his face. “Night Owl, I—”
“Because if that is the case,” she cut in, “then you might as well just return me to my village. I would hate to continue to hinder your life for even a moment longer.”
Vlad remained silent, continuing to wear his surprise for several lengthy seconds. Then, his face hardened once more. “Very well. If that is how you feel, then I can tell Avice to stop working on your equipment first thing in the morning, and we can be on our way.”
The next words exploded from Sybil before she even realized what she had said. When they were finished, she did not entirely regret them. “Yes. On our way. Away from the defenseless village that you, for some inconceivable reason, refuse to help in its time of need.”
“Do not speak as if you know what is best, Night Owl. You cannot judge my decision until you have experienced all that I have.”
“It does not take experience to know that you are turning your back on these people by refusing to slay the werewolf,” she said. “You have the means to help them but you’re choosing not to act, and that is something that I cannot abide.”
“Well you will not have to abide it for much longer,” he said. “Come morning, we will depart from Fenwick and reverse course toward your home.”
“Excellent,” she said. “At least that way, you will be free of your burden, and I can make some attempt to pick up the pieces of my life.” She paused for only a brief second, contemplating if she should put a voice to the words that inevitably came next. “Perhaps, with enough time, I may even forget that you and your damned Three-Fang ever stepped foot in it.”
She turned away and returned to her bedroll before Vlad could respond. If he intended to say anything, he never did; she was lying beneath the cover of her bedding for close to a minute, listening to the sound of the burning furnace and the gusting wind outside, when at last she heard him sigh. She then heard him shuffle around for a few moments, presumably entering his own bedroll, before the space around them went silent. Neither of them spoke again for the rest of the night.
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Nor did they ever notice Avice, who stood outside in the shadows, her body pressed against the corner of the building, her hair collecting flakes of the gently falling snow. When her guests went quiet, she stood contemplating their conversation for a short while before she finally allowed an inaudible, almost breathless sigh of her own, which was quickly lost to the winter wind.
She turned, and walked away.
___
Godwin was almost disappointed to find that he had awoken from a restless sleep, having survived yet another night. He rose quickly and set off to his post, where that disappointment would only hasten into becoming an intense, bitter regret.
The corpse belonged to Randolph Barnham. This had only been determined after an extensive search found his severed head, which had been thrown onto a rooftop several meters from where the rest of his dismembered body lay slain and ruined. His eyes were still open when Gowdin arrived at the scene of the attack; he was the only one who could muster the inner strength to close them for the old man. Even as the investigation was underway, he stood near the corpse and contemplated how he would venerate the body in a way that honored the man’s legacy. He considered burying him with his sword, but the thing was twisted and mangled, and was hardly fit to spend eternity with the man in his soon-to-be grave.
“Sir Godwin,” came Lucia’s voice from nearby, ripping him from his thoughts. He turned to look at her, giving her his attention, but he was hardly in any mood to speak; Lucia, seeming to sense this, went on without being prompted. “We’ve found another set of bloody footprints in the snow leading away from the carnage. They… they appear to be canine in nature, Sir.”
“Where do they lead?” he said.
“We do now know. We were able to follow them for a short while, but then whatever left them appeared to scale the side of a building. We lost them from there.”
“An ability to climb sheer surfaces such as buildings may at least give us an idea as to how this… thing, whatever it is, manages to get in and out of the village undetected. We will have to position more men on the palisades so that we have no blind spots for it to enter and exit from.”
“The nightwatch is not nearly large enough to accommodate such coverage,” she said. “The daywatch barely even is.”
“Move some men from the daywatch to the night, then,” he said. “Enough to make their numbers more equal. If anybody complains, I will hear their grievances personally.”
Lucia nodded. “As you command, Captain.”
Godwin looked down at the twisted, mutilated corpse for many long moments. The knight noted the deep pool of vermillion snow that the dead thing rested in. He spoke, keeping his eyes on the slaughter even as the image of it burned an ever-deeping scar into his waking mind. “Do you recognize him, Lucia?”
She looked at the body and severed head quickly, then returned her gaze to her superior. “I do not, Captain.”
“I did not think so. He served well before your time. Largely before mine, even. I was little more than a whelp, barely able to lift my sword, when he finally hung up his own.”
“He was a member of the guard, then?”
Godwin nodded. “Aye. He was—he is—Sir Randolph Barnham. He was Captain of the Guard many years ago; predecessor to my own predecessor. He was a hero in his day, but that is not to discredit his later life. Even though he retired from his post years ago—in an official capacity, at least—he remained a truly formidable man, and was not one to be taken lightly in a battle. There was hardly a person alive who could have easily bested him, unless they used the shameful tactics of a coward to take him by surprise, and even then, his ability to retaliate against such an attack cannot be understated.” Godwin finally broke his gaze from the crimson carnage and turned to look at Lucia. “This is all to say that I cannot for the life of me think of a single creature in all of the Dominion that would be able to do this to a man like Randolph Barnham.”
Godwin paused, allowing Lucia to contemplate this for a few silent moments. A voice from behind them took advantage of this brief lapse in their conversation. “I think I could possibly name one or two.”
They both turned in the direction of the unexpected voice. Approaching from down the street was a moustachioed man who looked familiar to Godwin, but whom he could not quite place; he was of average height with a slender, elegant frame, and a mane of chestnut that matched the color of his precisely-styled facial hair. A slender rapier shook at his belt, and he wore a musket slung over his back. Behind him walked a trio of two men and one woman, and at his side walked an ever-loyal dog.
Godwin narrowed his eyes at this man, unamused. “And who, may I ask, are you?”
“You are forgiven for not being familiar with the magnificent Gaston Armond Dupont,” the moustachioed man said, “but only if you promise that it does not happen twice.”
“Believe me,” Godwin said, “I am not the kind of man who you want to be remembered by.”
“Perhaps not,” Gaston said with a smirk, “but I am one who is certainly worth remembering. For I, with the aid of my stalwart companions, am the answer to your prayers.”
Godwin and Lucia only stared at the man before them for several seconds. When the captain spoke again, he was even less amused than before. “I suggest you make your purpose known before I have you arrested for trespassing upon an active crime scene.”
“Straight to the point, then,” Gaston said, undeterred. “Very well. I, too, am a man who dislikes the mincing of words.” Godwin somehow very much doubted the veracity of such a claim. “You ask, my good fellow, what kind of creature could have slain your luckless man here. It appears that fortune smiles upon you, for I have come like a messenger from the Goddess Herself to reveal the identity of such a creature.”
“Out with it, then.”
Gaston nodded deeply. “As you wish.” Then, after a frustratingly long pause, “The creature you seek—the one which terrorizes your hapless village—is none other than what in your tongue would be called a werewolf.”
Godwin shared a glance with his companion, then returned his gaze, now transformed into a glare, to Gaston. “Lucia, slap this man in irons and have him locked away for a few days. Make him regret wasting my time.”
Gaston seemed undeterred. “Ah, but Sir, you must understand that your time has not been wasted.” He paused as if waiting to see if the threat was genuine. When he remained unrestrained, he went on. “ If I recall correctly, I do believe that you said your departed former captain could not easily be bested by any person alive.”
“While that may be true,” Godwin admitted, “and while I cannot yet determine what killed Sir Randolph, that does not mean I am so desperate as to blame his death on a creature straight from the book of fairy tales that rested on my bedroom shelf as a lad.”
“And that we share in common, Captain, for what I speak of is more than just some storybook creature conjured up in a tale filled to the brim with ghosts and ghouls. You too shall understand this soon enough, but how many corpses you allow to fill your cemetery before you do so remains to be seen.” He paused. “Not very many more, I should hope.”
Godwin felt a twitch in his right arm which signified that it wanted to draw his blade; he resisted this urge with great effort, and instead responded with his words. “Say, for a moment, that you have fooled me with such an absurd notion,” he said. “How, then, would you suggest that I slay a beast that so easily ripped asunder a man of Sir Randolph’s caliber?”
“Fear not, my good man, for this is where we step into this tale.” He smirked once more, and his companions all mirrored his demeanor. “You see, we happen to be slayers of these dastardly creatures called werewolves. To eliminate one would be a trivial matter for those of our profession.”
Godwin leered at him. “You would have me place the safety of Fenwick in your hands?”
“I would,” Gaston said plainly, with a quick nod. “And I would do so with haste, were I you, seeing as two nights past was the beginning of the Celestial Curtain.”
The knight raised an eyebrow. “The Celestial Curtain?”
“The Celestial Curtain is a several week period of strengthened lunar fortitude,” Lucia said, drawing her superior’s attention. “The moon draws slightly closer to the planet, and appears marginally larger and brighter. Most folk would not notice the change or pay it much mind, but it is a highly anticipated event for those who possess any sort of fascination with astronomy.”
“Ahh,” Gaston said, sounding pleased, “I did not realize that the young lady was so well-educated on such matters. Consider me very much impressed.”
Godwin returned his attention to the moustachioed man. “What does this have to do with these supposed werewolf attacks?”
Gaston looked at the woman in his group. “Fiora, please educate the good captain on what I have taught you.”
“Of course, Gaston,” the woman said. She stepped up next to her companion and began to speak. “It is a commonly believed falsehood that a full moon is required for a lycanthrope to transform into its wolf state,” she said. “While the transformation can occur during any phase in the lunar cycle, the moon does still play a major role in the creature’s ability to change. The strength of the moon directly influences the transformation’s severity, as well as if it even occurs at all on any given night; the more prominent the moon, the more powerful—and more ravenous—the werewolf becomes. Naturally, the occurrence of the Celestial Curtain will only serve to make our resident lycanthrope that much more dangerous. It will transform more frequently—possibly even every single night of the Celestial Curtain—and when it does, it will be far, far nastier than it normally would be.”
Gaston clapped for his companion, which prompted the woman to blush. “Well-told, my dearest Fiora.”
Fiora bowed, continuing to blush. “Thank you, Gaston.”
Godwin crossed his arms in front of his chest. “That would explain why we have had attacks two nights in a row. This is the first time that such a thing has happened.”
“It would also explain why last night’s attack seems to have been more barbarous than the previous night’s,” Lucia said. “As the Celestial Curtain continues, the strength of the moon will only increase before reaching its peak about fifteen days hence.”
Godwin scowled. “So this is not even the worst of it, then?”
“If this fellow here is to be believed, then no. Assuming our killer is a werewolf, then we should expect to see an increase in the intensity of the attacks each night until the peak of the Celestial Curtain, and even then, we still have another week or so after that before things return to normal.”
“Normal meaning still plagued by attacks, just without the influence of this Celestial Curtain.”
She nodded. “Yes. That is correct, Captain.”
“But that is absurd!” Godwin said. “If this supposed beast is already this ravenous, I shudder to imagine how nightmarish it will be in even a few days’ time.”
“My thoughts precisely,” Gaston said. “But worry not, because as I have already said, we are here to rescue your village from this nightmare once and for all.”
Godwin looked askance at the mustachioed fellow. “What exactly are you suggesting that we do then, Mr. Dupont?”
Gaston smiled widely. “I am so glad you asked me that, Captain. Now, I shall speak in no uncertain terms, as I know we share a dislike for the mincing of words.” Godwin remained in doubt of this fact. “What I shall say to you is this: if we wish to have any hope of preventing these weeks of carnage, and if we are to protect your village from an onslaught the likes of which it has never before seen…”
He paused for a brief moment, as if to leave a block of tension hanging frozen in the frigid air, which he swiftly shattered with his next words. “... then we must slay the beast this very night.”
