Beneath the Mire
By Conri

http://ceallachconri.deviantart.com/

Editing by C. Sacco

Cover art by Kassandra Leigh Purcell

http://kassandraleigh.deviantart.com/

Every time Hammond opened that cover plate, a chill of disgust ran down his spine. The sickly green script etched into the bronze surface mocked him with its secrets that he yearned to understand. The web of veins across his chest, pulsing with the same faint color that scrawled and twisted its way across the node, took up the precious space where his heart should be.

The mirror could only give him an inverse view of what he had become. He had never been a slim man. At peak health he would have been right at home bailing hay on a farm next to another man of his stature. Time would have robbed him of that. The deal had beaten that sickle’s compass come. As a man of 6 Samhradh, 25 years all accounted, he should have been enjoying health and all it’s benefits. Instead, his youthful and rugged face was drawn and gaunt. Sallow cheeks met with cheekbones, already strong before, now jutting out and sharp enough to cut a careless hand. His eyes had once been a brilliant blue but now only showed dull grey. His hair, once a enviable blonde mane hanging to his shoulders, now matched those eyes.

He shouldn’t have made the bargain. He should have told the man to let him die; ended his torture by fading into the dark of whatever afterlife had in store for his miserable soul. Marshals were said to have a place set aside for them in the wings of the Paladin’s hall. Doubt has its way of convincing you to stick around. He had feared that what lay within those scriptures was actually just folk tales that empowered his position and kept the masses in line. And now he stared at the hideous results of his dread and doubt.

His heart lay bare, beating its rhythm in defiance of what is meant to be. Green wound its way about the muscle, giving every bloodway an unnatural pallor. Hammond averted his eyes, shook his head, returned the cover plate, and began the rote ritual he had come to truly abhor over these past 2 weeks.

The small two-room apartment sat above the holdings of a Money Lender; adequate for a low born Marshal whom found his calling and proved his worth to the Consilium and Ecclesiarchs. The wood burning stove plied its trade in the center of the living room, heating the boiling pot that sat bubbling upon its lid. Within the pot, water churned and boiled about a glass bottle containing an ominous, ruddy, brown liquid.

Hammond left his bathroom, tossed on his simple brown trousers, and trudged to the small area that could barely be called a kitchen. He grabbed one of the thick bottles from the top shelf and bit out the cork with a snarl. A moment later the half filled fifth of whiskey was empty and tossed into the pail at the end of the counter. With all the enthusiasm of a cat ready to bathe, the grizzled Marshal made his way to the simple potbelly stove. A needle, the length of a palm, stabbed into the top of the bottle. His thumb drew back the plunger and stole some of the vile fluid.

Back to the counter he plodded. A small leather pouch, concealed behind a clay pot on a shelf, was snatched from its hiding spot. He carefully withdrew a precious phial of gilded glass containing a milky blue liquid, faintly radiating it’s own light. It cast an azure

pallor about the room, lending a wonderful yet sorrowful tone to the small living space. He drove the needle through the stopper on top of the gilded flask and pulled some of the elixir into the ampule, mixing the two into a wicked concoction. A face contorted with equal parts disgust, grief, and anger glared at the liquid left in the container. All but a few drops remained not quite bringing any comfort to his situation in the least.

A sharp rap at the door pulled Hammond from his grim ritual. Quickly spiriting his tools into the nearest well-hidden place, a false bottom on a drawer where he hid his Marshal’s Will, -- he cursed himself under his breath. Never a Saint-given moment of peace. The rap came again with more force and intent as he tossed on a shirt that lay in a crumple by his couch. “A moment in the name of the Martyr, would you!” he roared in frustration. He took a swift stride over to the door. Once there, he put one hand on the door knob and the other on the hilt of his rapier hanging off his belt which hung from it’s hook on the wall “Who’s there?” He challenged, and put his ear intently to the hardy ironwood portal.

A dry and cracking voice scratched at the other side of his door. “Just an old friend here to check up on my loved ones.” It dripped with insincere kindness and reddened jaws. And with that voice came waves of dread that fell down Hammond’s back like cold slush from a muddy, snow-laden street.

“Damn,” was the only sharp utterance Hammond could manage before he was sent sprawling. The very hinges that kept the 40-stone door in place moaned and buckled from the force, leaving the Marshal discarded to the floor, on his side and aching from shoulder to hip. Rattled and dazed, Hammond gripped his head and attempted to shake himself from the stun and haze. Once passed, the fog left him with a none-too-pleasing image.

That sturdy door he had personally installed to keep the flotsam and jetsam of society out had failed, and now hung from two bent and broken hinges. And despite that fact, the portal was still not empty. There stood a monolith of what could be assumed was man. Flat inside the door pressed a hand as big as the skillet kept in the kitchen. With a purposeful tilt of the head and slouch at the shoulders, the behemoth took one very large step into the room, letting the light land on him enough to give Hammond a litany of horrid detail. He wore the great long coat of a coachman. That is, assuming one could find a coach this man would not crush from the drivers seat, much less a team that could pull it. He was tall, with thick boots covering his feet, calves and upward, until finally vanishing into the folds of the massive coat. The brown leather of that coat was stained with the many gifts of the city and more than a few stains of questionable and dubious origin.

The most frightening part of this beast standing before him was not his enormity or what he wore. The thing that made the most primal parts of Hammond’s soul urge him to flee and never stop running was this abomination’s skin. All of the life and vigor was gone, leaving behind a mealy grey pallor. Veins of pale green and azure crossed the back of its hands and across its barren forehead. Rheumy cataracts stared blankly down at him, all too aware to simply be blind.

That same dry and hoarse voice rippled from behind the monstrosity. “Hugo, please step aside and allow me to address Sir Talbot.” An almost pure white hand, marred by ruddy brown fingertips and inky black nails, gripped the beast’s shoulder and with little effort slid him aside. “I do apologize for the door. We’ll see that it gets replaced as quick as can be.”

As the beast that was Hugo turned his back to the shattered door, a man in a mummers farce of surgeon’s garb passed through the door. A long brown leather coat hung over yellowed whites. Down the front of his garments hung a once tan leather apron, and on his feet boots of the same, now brown and ruddy as a butcher’s own would be. He face was wane and pale with large circular lens spectacles concealing corpse- coveting eyes. Salt and pepper hair hung lank from below the garish top hat upon his head and sat above his lips in a heavy mustache that curled up at the ends, as was the fashion of a decade past. His slash of a smile gloomed at Hammond.

“Cyrus...,” was what Marshal Hammond Talbot had intended to speak, but to the untrained ear it would have been heard as an aggravated growl.

“Now now, Sir Talbot, are my associate, Hugo, and I interrupting anything?” leered the butcher, “or were you set on having respite for the rest of the evening?” His filth- ridden hands rested on his equally soiled belt as he stood over the fallen Marshal. “I do see an ampule on the counter and a vessel on the stove, so you must have been up to something very very important, I gather. ’Ere let me help you up,” he chuckled as he extended a hand.

Hammond considered reaching for something, anything, sturdy enough to cause damage nearby and proceeding to swing at Cyrus’ kneecap. That thought quickly faded as he remembered the towering figure consuming his threshold. He pushed down the urge and took the lean gentleman’s hand. Soon he was on his feet and staring down slightly at Doctor Obadiah Cyrus, Patris Trinitaria of the Ressurectionists. Even though half a hand taller than the man, Hammond could feel the confidence and intimidation pouring off of the Doctor. “I was in the middle of applying the suppressant, if you must know. And since we’re answering questions” braved the Marshal, “why don’t you let me know why I have to replace my door.”

Dr. Cyrus let out a throaty, genuine laugh at Hammond’s question. “Ah it’s good to have someone who’ll challenge me with the King’s Tongue.” He mockingly mimed wiping a tear. “Few have the san to screw up the courage to talk like that to me.” Tapping a finger on his chin in thought, his laughter dwindled. “Or they can’t speak much at all. Take Hugo here. He can barely put a simple yes or no together. Isn’t that right Hugo?”

Hugo half took breath, half moaned in reply. It still gave Hammond the chills every time he heard it.

“To be honest Sir Talbot,” The doctor soothed “I’m here to check up on my investment and my property.” A grimy finger landed solidly on the plate in Hammond’s

chest with a dull thunk. “I don’t do such procedures out of kindness. And with a case such as yours...well, I’m forced to maintain great interest.” He punctuated each syllable of his last word with jab from his right index finger, finishing with a final shove, forcing Hammond to take a half step back.

“Well if you hadn’t decided that the standard mode of entering someone’s home was inadequate, I might have been done already,” snapped the irritated Marshal.

Dr. Cyrus began a slow pace and scan of the kitchen, “Hugo is at fault for that. I had mentioned off hand, something to the tune of ’If only this blasted door were open’ and then...crunch.” His hand twirled about the air dismissively as he began opening drawers with the other. “You really can’t rely too much on them once they become Oneiroi. Too lost to truly think. You’re sorry, right Hugo?” The creature made a sound almost indistinguishable from its previous utterance. “See? He’s sorry...ah, here we are.” He rummaged through an opened drawer and pulled out the previously hidden phial of azure fluids.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” the doctor continued, fully aware that Hammond stood glaring and infuriated by his true impotence in the situation. “Pure Mnemosynetic fluid with a Tinctura Antiperiodica and Ticture of Opium.” He took a longing, amorous breath. “Mnemo-Vitae. The blue comes from the poppies you know?” The phial twirled in his hands as he smiled at his little creation. “You see, it’s two weeks since our little arrangement was made and it’s about time that you should have gone out to get more of the Mnemosyne. And from what I see in this vile, you haven’t gotten any like I told you to.”

Hammond’s mind fumed at the non-nonchalant attitude of the Resurrectionist. With such a casual and cold temper he would have a Marshal of the Edicts go out and simply jab a needle into an innocent victims neck and draw out the stuff of their very memories. The bastard was insane and a wave of equal parts rage, revolt, and regret crashed on his weary shoulders. But reluctance gave way to realization. And realization gave way to eventual relent. This was all his own doing-- he had to accept his failures.

“I tried.” Hammond choked. “I couldn’t get it.”

There was a crash as the phial containing the rest of the Mnemosyne shattered against the far wall. “Well now ya ’ave none, ya bleedin’ sod.” thundered the doctor, his face a canvas of rage for a brief moment before sanity regained its grasp. He adjusted his jacket and apron, as if adjusting the garment somehow erased his temporary temperament. Hammond hadn’t been watching the big man and he all but jumped directly from sitting to standing when he realized the beast, Hugo, had closed the door and small distance between him and the fallen man in the blink of an eye. A half breathing half moan escaped its barely animate mouth in emotionless intimidation.

“Hugo, stand down,” was all the doctor needed to say in order to set Hugo back to a state of calm. “Go to the livery and fetch our package.” He tutted the beast along as one

hushes a dog off a couch. “Be quick about it.” The corner of his mustache twitched at Hammond as his attention redirected. “Now, if I remember correctly, just before the red temper came over me, I was about to warn you of the consequences of not keeping to the regimen I have proscribed.”

Hammond eyed the deceptively old man as he paced casually over to the chair next to the potbelly stove. Cyrus took his time easing into the comfortable upholstered chair, all the while weathering the Marshal’s piercing glare, before he continued. “If you choose to not replenish your store, as I have instructed, you will quickly find yourself in Hugo’s position...an Oneroi with little will or purpose other than disposable meat.”

It wasn’t that he wanted to lose his memories. The crucial fact was that Hammond couldn’t bring himself to harming the very people he had taken oaths to protect. He was still Marshal of the Edicts. The oaths sworn to the Paladin were until death. But all he could wonder now, with this thing in his chest and alchemy in his veins, was if he truly was alive anymore? Or had this bargain he had struck ended his life?

He had done it all for her. Hammond knew that she was worth it all.

Hammond shook the thoughts from his mind and readdressed the recidivist in his home. “That won’t be happening. I’ll get what I need on my own.” He stalked back to the readied syringe. Discarding his shirt and leaving his shame to bear, the Marshal picked up the ampule and placed it into the small cannula at the bottom of the apparatus in his chest. The small port lead to a spike going directly to the ventriculus sinister cordis, sending the mixture coursing from the heart to the rest of the body, finding its home in his brain.

The good doctor looked on with a mild smile playing across his face as the Mnemo- Vitae took its course. Hammond’s shoulders buckled, his back stretched as every muscle in his chest contracted at once. His left side felt as if it were aflame from the heart of Abyssus. With a violent wretch, his back tightened, arching Hammond into a bow. His hands clutched the air as agonizing claws until the worst of the pain began to subside. Using the kitchen counter as support, he threw his torso on the wooden slab just to remain off the floor.

Gasping for air, Hammond found a moments rest from the pain. His anger rose again with the pain as he heard the sadistic laughter spilling from Dr. Cryus’ lips. His teeth ground hard, his jaw tightening,“You draw joy from all of this?” he seethed.

“I wouldn’t say joy. But mild amusement would be something I’d admit to having,” the doctor nonchalantly tutted. “It’s not every day a man gets to see the fruits” Just then the familiar shuffle and thud of Hugo’s plod could be heard coming up the stair. “Ah, there’s my good man with your gift.” Dr. Cyrus lightly wrung his hands with excitement. “I do so love gift giving.” His eyes snapped back to Hammond from the door. “I did give you the gift of your own life back, boyo.”

Hammond nearly spat venom, but a jolt of Mnemo-Vitae found what was left of his

heart and forced him to wince rather than sling insult. When he opened his eyes, Hugo had yet again darkened his threshold. This time he carried a rather large soft leather portmanteau over his shoulder as if it were a sack of light groceries. Dr. Cyrus clapped his hands and gave his gratitudes. “Ah, well done. Now, now, Hugo, place Sir Talbot’s gift on the counter next to him so he can get a nice long look at what we got for him.”

Hugo hefted the sack and it landed with a thud and a sigh on the counter not three feet from the Marshal. The beast’s massive hands began unhooking the clasps holding the large cover flap, concealing the ’gift’ within. Hammond’s eyes snapped to terrified moons as he realized the horrid truth hiding within this sack. Golden tresses poured out of the top and pooled on the counter top. Hugo reached in and roughly pulled out the limp, slight form of a young woman.

Hammond’s body, still sluggish and stiff, only let him stare at the poor girl, for she seemed barely of age to wed. His rage would come out impotent, for his vocal chords had yet to regain their strength. Only rasping breaths escaped his mouth in the place of curses, hexes, and profanities abound. Once fully removed from the holdall, he could see she wore the slip and bodice of a woman that sought money from desperate men. Yet even such mature garb couldn’t take from the obvious fact that she had seen a handful of Summer Sahmradh at best.

With a Jack sharp grin, Dr. Cyrus let a finger idle in and out of the girls hair. “Isn’t she lovely?” he mused absently. “I think she is absolutely breathtaking.” He traced the girl’s soft chin and found his way to a caress of her trembling lips. “I was both proud and infuriated with Hugo. Proud, for he knew my tastes; infuriated that he chose her for this in particular. A tragedy really.”

Her eyes quivered and pleaded with Hammond. Within, all he could do was scream. Every fiber of his being wanted to lunge from the crusted counter, stab the good Doctor in the eye, and fire ever loaded barrel he could find directly into Hugo, hoping it would be enough. His being may have wanted that, but his body was completely unable. The life-giving poison kept him docile and pathetic upon the slab. Tears welled and streaked down her face, unable to do anything but blankly stare, as she was thoroughly paralyzed by whatever Hugo had done.

“Well, no use prolonging this display.” quipped Cryus. He had already pulled out the instruments of his trade and placed them on the cutting board next to the helpless pair. He nuzzled up behind her and craned his neck to her hair, whispering what Hammond could only assume were nightmares and seductions that only the doctor’s mind could concoct. The whites of her eyes all but consumed the rest as she realized her fate. Cyrus, undeterred, rubbed her cheek with his own as he cooed further. “Yousee, Sir Talbot, I made you as you are right now. I know you better than you know your very self. I know your veins. I know your sinews. I know your deepest thoughts. I know full well that you want nothing more than to kill me and make everything all better for this sweet child. And that is why you have to learn something.”

His aged and skilled hand found purchase on the handle of his favorite scalpel. It felt as one with his hand, a singular wicked finger. Nuzzling the girl’s cheek once more, Cyrus smiled his tar tooth grin. “You may have been a marshal. Now you’re a Quidam.” His swindler’s smile cracked and crumbled into a scowl of hideous rage. “My Quidam! An’ a lesson...mus’...be...taught!”

Choking cries quickly became shouts of “No!” as Hammond found his strength once more. But seeing the cuts in her neck, the light leaving her eyes, and the life leaking onto the floor...all that strength left Hammond. Futility was the new poison paralyzing him. “No...,” he whispered in vain repetition. The Paladin isn’t here. In all his prayers and dreams the Paladin was always there to save the helpless, to protect. That great warrior was not here.

The Doctor, feeling satisfied in his little display, went about his grizzly business. Needles bit and knives lashed. The girl was now reduced to spasmodic meat while the doctor plied his way through her neck and spine. A new bottle was found and attached to the tap. A whole new supply of Mnemosyn filling its new home.

Hammond sat on the floor next to the kitchen chair. Stunned, he simply watched the two fluids flow. Her memories and dreams into a bottle, and her breath and life onto the floor. His convictions were gone. Ideals and valor were dashed and left sterile and numb. The Paladin and the order felt as though they could be as far away as the stars for all Hammond knew. Every shred of conscience he had seemed to die on his kitchen counter. Killed by the very man that had given him a second chance at life.

Was she worth all of this?

Dr. Cyrus was cleaning his hands by the time Hammond had come out of his thought. Unceremoniously stuffing the husk back into the portmanteau, he looked down at Hammond with the fond eyes of a shattered father. “Now, do as your told and refill your own supplies from now on. Live your life as though I hadn’t given you this gift.” He padded over to his charge. His hand smelled like the sick concoction of a butchers shop and a funeral home as it lifted Hammond’s chin. “And for the Exalted’s sake, stay hidden.” After a few condescending head pats and hair tussles, he stood and instructed Hugo.“Pick the young lady up and take her back down to the carriage. I’m sure she’ll feed a few unfortunate families.” His eyes passed over Hammond again, “Waste not the plentiful. That’s how the Pilgrim’s proverb goes, yes?”

The gruesome pair made their way to the stairs after collecting all their effects. Cyrus turned and viewed the room set in disarray. “Would you kindly clean this place up... it’s a sty in here.” He turned on his heel and began down the stairs once more. He left Hammond with one more shout over his shoulder. “Do right by us boyo, and I’ll make sure you see her. You can be sure of it.”

Ideals may be gone. But with that simple thought...Hammond had hope again.

Next Chapter: Death Whispers