Death Whispers

By Conri 

http://ceallachconri.deviantart.com/

Editing by Kyle George

Cover Art by Kassandra Leigh Purcell 

http://kassandraleigh.deviantart.com/

Soot seems to get everywhere in this city. The Seven Great Manufactories of Aberdown pump their refuse into the air, giving the entire city a gentle blanket of grit. The sky carries the weight of a cloak, too heavy for it’s shoulders. Clouds are dark no matter the weather, and when something does fall, it will always be tinged with bitter ash. It’s enough to turn anyone’s blood a darker shade of red. And as a Marshal of The Edicts, one gets to see just how dark that blood can get.

A small carriage rumbled to a halt at the end of a long cut between the buildings in the eastern industrial district of Aberdown. The coachman gave out a light sooth to the horses and rapped on the hood behind him. A pair of passengers stepped out, slowly taking in the bleak surroundings. Cold winds whipped through and Walther Cronin pulled the collar of his long coat high, barely helping his defense against the biting cold of Winter’s Year. His hair snapped about, stinging his face, adding to the already glooming unpleasantness. On top of that, being roused from his slumber four hours before first light had put a sour taste in his mouth and spirit. And after only a meager meal of cold soup and bread the texture of a soft stone, one could only hope that tightening his jacket would help alleviate his day. At least as a Marshal, he had the benefit of layers. With cotton padded underwear to cushion the boiled leather and mail vests covered by his black and gold woolen vest of office and long leather coat, he could scarcely be considered under-dressed. He turned to the coachman and issued a curt nod.

"Aye, I’ll wait around the corner,” replied the equally displeased coachman. “There’s an inn called The Bull’s Horn. I’ll be shacked there ‘till you need my services again." Clicking his tongue and shaking the reigns, the black carriage rattled off into the night.

A voice still aging spoke once the carriage was out of sight. “Sir Walthern, You’ve been quiet since you woke. Was the message truly that important that we left so early in... the... morning?” His voice slowly trailing away, realizing he was questioning the decision of the man that was his Cheval.

Marshal Cronin looked to his protégé with an unmistakable annoyance laced in his tone. “I told you the investigation had taken a turn for the worse, Hector. This lead is the most we’ve had to work with since these mass disappearances started happening. I know you’re fourteen seasons old, so don’t be ignorant as if you were but seven.” A boy of his age had no excuse questioning his master, but Walther still did his best to guide the boy without undue anger or punishment. If his own son had not been stillborn, he would be of the same age. So his duties as a Marshal and Master were tempered with a father’s care. “Come along. We have work to do.”

The Marshal’s rapier and dagger clattered at his left hip, echoing off the suffocating walls, while he and his squire made their way down the narrow alley the locals had the nerve to call a street. Though having an athletic build, Walther could still be considered slender, and it would only take four of him standing shoulder to shoulder to cross this street. Even being slightly taller than most didn’t help to stop the oppressive press of the buildings around him. His other weapons made protests of their own, as the flintlock tri-barrel revolvers holstered at the opposite hip, lower back, and inner vest poked at his rib, spine, and pelvis, respectively. Being slightly encumbered was worth the protection offered when travels took you to such unseemly places. Though Hector was not as heavily equipped as his Master, he modestly carried two spare flintlock single pistols and a rapier of his own.

Hector stood as a spry young man of fourteen years. A sensibly cut, blonde head of hair atop a still boyish face that more than a few maidens found very suitable to their tastes. He looked every part the dutiful squire, clad in the same general colors of his lord. He didn’t wear the long leather coat of his

master, but still wore a suitable jacket that hung to the back of his mid thigh. A plain black vest covered the lightweight boiled leather, which sat over padded cloth. He had carried his master’s spare pistols and honor for just under a year and was eager to prove his worth.

Taking a moment to reach into his pocket, Walther drew out the slender heirloom pipe his father had given him. The ivory bowl was an exquisite miniature depiction of the stallion that adorned his family heraldry. It wasn’t too bulky in his hand, small enough to be cupped by two fingers and thumb. The long stem of briarwood allowed for a smooth, cool draw of whatever tobacco he fancied. He loaded a pinch of blackpowder into the flint and cloth lighter. The eyes of the white stallion burned orange as the flame found the bowl. The sketches and fliers on the wall took on a ghostly pallor as the shadows cast by the embers going about their business. Crude drawings of lost children and relatives, crying out to the anonymous passer-by for aid, gave a grim reminder of his task in this early morning. Into that shameful dark ahead. Into the Nether District.

There once were tenements piled twenty stories tapering up and down a shallow valley within a ten-block radius. But, the old is paved over by the new. Where new Manufactories and State Offices were being built three decades ago, no room was left for the old dwellings that stood like so many blocks in a child’s playroom. Due to a need for level construction, the architects had to build outward from one point and stay level. In doing this they cut several stories off the tops of any building that got in the way. And of coarse the State officials of the Consilium and Manufactory Administrata would not want to walk through these streets and alleys of peasant dens.

Ultimately, the architect’s did what those Nobles of the State would want. At first, they built bridges and gangways between the buildings. The density of people became more congested as the industrial area attracted businesses of all kinds. Naturally, the bridges were widened over time. Once the bridges met, they became roads. Soon the entire area was a raised district completely covering the squalor beneath it, populated by an impoverished lot, the underprivileged who work in the horrid, industrial madhouse above and descend into buried homes to live out light-less lives. With no money to leave, those that lived below stayed below. Only the degenerates and ne’er-do-wells of a population would find comfort in such a place.

* * * * * *

The Hellgate lay before them. A rather ill name handed down by a nameless jester to a previously nameless portal. Hellgate was the eastern entrance, one of five ways into the Nethers. Those with an artistic knack took merriment in defacing the simple stone of the archway into hellish depictions from twisted minds. It was a joke to them, but to those who had to live there it was only an ironic reminder of their abysmal situation. The street was narrow enough as it was –with the tunnel’s sides sticking into the street another four feet, there was just enough room for two men to pass by each other without cantering sideways. The poor souls below here couldn’t even fit a horse through this path even if they could afford one –another luxury denied for those who were unfortunate enough to be “gifted” with the fate of a dismal birth. The maze-like passages could be daunting to the unlearned. Go off the wrong branch and you could end up in a three hundred yard long dead end. And dead ends take on a new tone in Lower Aberdown.

The Nether District will always be a problem. In this great city, whose sun is shaded by the ’progress’ of The Great Kingdom of Brythongaul, there are those places that never see the sun at all. Officially called The Nether-Industrial District by the Noble and privileged, the Nethers is what the

common have come to call their forsaken neighborhood. Parents screaming at corners like bleating sheep circulating portraits with meager ransoms were nothing new. ‘A kingshead for finding my young boy, Estan.’ read one scrawled parchment. Another, pleading for a wife’s safe return. But the quantity was what had drawn attention. No less than twenty more covered the first eight feet of the brick and mortar wall all coming together to tell the same story. Missing persons, and the like, were about the entrances to the Nethers.

The Marshals rarely head down there. The High Families had not a care in the world for the place, so long as the masses still came to work and they didn’t make any outrageous uproars. And for the most part, the poor fools did just that. They took the crumbs from the table of the Lords and kept to their hovels and pits. But should rumors begin circulating of a highborn trafficking amongst the under- dwellers, those high families might just want to know what is afoot. And with rumors that a highborn such as Henri Blackwood could be in some way connected.

The Marshal took a long drag from the pipe, and through the archway they passed. The air seemed thicker...dense with a smell of poverty. Walther pulled his collar down and opened the front of his coat to let in the warmer air, even if less appealing in smell. The constant burn of the furnaces overhead with the insulation of the ground and stone kept the Nethers warmer than the more wide-open areas in the wealthier districts –a small concession for the persistent poverty the peasantry was forced to live in here. The pound of heavy metal machinery continued to crash as the manufactories above churned out commodities for export. The rhythm was an unappealing mix of annoyance and hypnosis, forcing ones feet to step to the beat of the pounding hammers.

“This place is really eerie, Sir,” meeked out the young squire.“I’m glad I’m not of the peasantry and forced to live down here.” His gaze traveled along the bricks of the wall and filth in the street displaying open disgust with his eyes.

“A Peasant’s lot is what the Seraphim have given them. They accept theirs as we accept our duty to protect and guide them.” Walther mentored. His words were a rote lesson from the Ecclesiarch, drilled into the minds of every son and daughter of Brythongaul from the moment a child could hear. It seemed hollow now as they descended to this wretched district. These poor souls weren’t protected the way they wanted to be. A farmer in his granted fields may agree with this in that their crops are protected from raiders. But a man from the Manufactory floor need not worry of having his things taken from him; for he has nothing of worth. He’s simply given his food to live, and space if he can’t afford a home. Most can’t.

Walther’s hand drifted to his Paragon’s cross –the four depictions of the Paragon’s always comforted true believers in the Exalted Faith. His fingers gently rubbed the face of the Paladin Seraph, Rolan, Paragon of Strength and Justice. He looked now to the patron of his order for guidance. “We’ll be coming to our informant soon enough, ready yourself,” cautioned the Marshal as he tapped his pipe clear of ash. His squire nodded a quick affirmation and straightened up, a hand resting on the spot where his scabbard and the langets of his sword meet.

The dim light was a strain on the eyes once they had passed the first dip into the Nethers proper. Even as the sun was rising above, only small, precious rays could be seen filtering through the drainage slits in the streets above. An orange glow permeated everything as simple oil lanterns hung and burned all hours. Tight streets and tighter alleys felt more child’s mockery of a city than the pitiful dwellings of an entire class of people. The dutiful pair wound their way through this maze with equal parts vigilance and disgust, wary of the residents that lived in these tunnels as well as the filth that persisted.

* * * * * *

“Be on your guard, Hector. We’ve come to our destination,” the Marshall cautioned after they had been walking for the better part of an hour. Much deeper into the Nethers than the Marshall cared to be, sat a twisted hovel. Obviously one of the original tenements built for the lower class, the crumbling stone and mortar walls gave no reassurance that it would survive the weight of Industry on its back much longer. This building should have had four floors if it weren’t for the Manufactories above cutting the top most floor in half leaving three floors and a mere crawlspace. Commonplace in the Nethers, the peasant workers found no qualms living in these spaces. Better than living in the alley streets below.

The squire nodded and put one hand on his rapier scabbard and another hand on his dagger hilt. “Do you worry about trouble, Sir?” His expression stressed with youth, inexperience, and a touch of fear. He had seen a few brawls in the street and was allowed to witness a heresy trial or two, but he had never been in this kind of situation.

Walther thumbed the langolet of his rapier and let it pop from it’s snug fit in the scabbard. He knew his charge was a little nervous. His eyes turned to the door as his voice dropped. “Worry does not mean fear, but readiness for the confrontation. To anticipate action is to be ready. So we anticipate the worst and pray to the Seraphim for the best.” He took a breath and gave the thick, wooden door three solid raps, forcing a few chunks of mortar from the near wall to crumble to the floor.

Shortly after knocking, a shout came from within the dwelling followed by a slam and a curse. “Sweet Seraphs! Give an ol’ fool a moment,” croaked a voice choked with age. Grumbling and disdain moved toward the door, a voice filled with contempt for the visitors who interrupted whatever repose was to be had for a peasant. The spy lens in the door spun quickly from side to side examining its guests like a suspicious rat. “What business do you have here? You look a little too well dressed for this part of town now don’t ’cha?” questioned from within, chuckling at it’s own obvious humor.

Walther kept stern, “I was sent by Tombro. He made mention of your familiarity with a situation in the district. Was he correct, Serviceman Irons?” He knew that no one down here had any sense to be immediately forthcoming, but he wanted the old codger to feel witty and in control.

“Oh, I’m familiar with a lot of things down here. I do live here,” hacked the elder peasant. “Why would that idiot tell a noble, like yourself, something like that?” The spy lens squeaked and protested its lack of oil and disuse.

Walther had hoped he would not have to rely on his station to make this work, but his time was limited. Take too long and another disappearance may happen and whatever depredation to follow. He produced the small wax-sealed ribbon from his vest, hidden under his long coat, and placed it before the spyglass. He directed Hector to guide the meager lantern light that they carried to illuminate the sigil in the subterranean gloom. “I believe that this explains his forthcoming attitude. Now will my squire and I be invited in, or will I have to see about removing the hinges from this door?” His voice was stern with a sting of authority and impatience.

Immediately the latches could be heard sliding and clacking free on the other side of the oak door. The Marshal was forced to snap a glare at his second as the youth began to snicker. “Sorry sire.”

Hector apologized as he regained his composure. Oak and stone scrapped as the heavy door swung back and revealed the den of squalor beyond.

Irons stood back and waved them in with a long sweep of the arm. Hector was sure that this was a formality, for it surely couldn’t have been to flaunt his dwelling to the Noble blood entering the ramshackle portal. It reeked of mold, rot, and poverty from every inch of the forward room. A staircase rose in the back leading higher into the building. No doubt in the two more apartments that stacked above lived a family per room. The fact that this man had the whole lobby to himself spoke volumes to his status within the Nethers.

A man of fifty years (although one would think he were decades older by his aging appearance) stood hunched and bowed in his door way. The tattered and filth-encrusted clothing did not drape from his body and gave testament to being well fed, a true oddity in these parts. His large hands were rough and calloused from years in the Manufactories as some assistant to a Mechanicae or Enservitor. “Welcome Marshal,” he blathered, “If I had known yer status, I’d have offered you hospitality a might quicker, I would.”

“It’s not your hospitality I need. It’s your information,” snapped Walther. His mood was worsening with every moment. Besides having to suffer the sights and smells of this glorified sewer, he also had to deal with this sniveling wretch. He stepped into the lobby followed closely by Hector. The boy’s face greened as the smells flowed into his nose. Walther wasted no more time as Irons finished clasping the door shut. “What do you know about these resurrectionists?”

One would be hard pressed to tell the difference between Irons being punched in the stomach or having intestinal problems from the face that the old man was making. With wide eyes and a paling complexion, Irons began to stammer. “Sires, I wouldn’t know the first thing about it.” His beady eyes darted from corner to cluttered corner as if searching for the right words somewhere hidden in his dismal dwelling. “I mean to say...mayhap I’ve heard...whisperings of such a thing. But...nothing I know m’self.”

Walther’s eyes narrowed on the peasant. ’Obvious’ isn’t enough to describe the suspicion flowing from Irons’ disposition. The Marshal shifted his weight and loomed over the hunchback. A heavy mailed leather hand gripped a grease-covered shoulder. “Your tone is none too reassuring. What were these whispers that you heard?” he growled. Intimidation was a tactic that he personally abhorred and preferred not to rely on. But the tool best suited is the tool best used.

“From what I hear,” Irons squawked, “and this is just what I hear, the Resurrectionists...just want to make the most of the dead.” A nervous smile wavered on his pock marked face. “I mean do they really need their bodies once they...depart?” As the words escaped his mouth, Irons’ mouth flapped like a carp, attempting to swallow his statement hanging in the air.

“You agree with these ghouls?” Walther’s voice cut like a dagger and Irons winced in reply. “I assume again this is just what you hear and not something I should clasp you in shackles and send you to the Officio Obscura for. Their Interrogator’s would love to hear more to put in a report.” His grip tightened, and what little will was remaining, drained from the poor fool. The Officio was notorious for ’losing’ its suspects during questioning.

“I...I...It’s not mumumy doing, sire.” He howled as he crumpled to the floor. “T...They threaten to donate aaanyone who ssssspeaks out against them. I’m a dead man now rrrregardless.” His quivering

voice gave way to blubbering tears. “I...told them I dddidn’t want to help anymore. But we nnneed to eat down here. An’ they gigigive food for pay.” Irons snorted back snot and tears. He looked up from his knees. “An’ not just extra grgruel from the Manufactory. They offer meat!” He almost seemed excited as he pointed to his cooking pot that had a grey stew floating about.

Cronin’s nose scrunched as he gazed into the pot. He could only imagine what they were giving these poor saps. Whether it was canine, feline, rodent or worse. Walther paled at the thought. He continued to take a visual tour of the peasants domicile. “You would be advised to start detailing what you know, as my judgment sours the longer this takes.”

Curios and knick-knacks of the lower class, and a few stolen from the upper classes, draped and hung here and there about the mantle of the small cobblestone fireplace. A bronze Paragon Cross that would be found in any proper citizen’s home, lest of coarse they wished to be investigated for heresy, a rabbit’s paw on a string, as well as several assorted bolts and cogs. It was then that Walther heard the definitive click of a flintlock being cocked and readied to fire.

* * * * * *

“If I were an intelligent man of Brythongaul,” came the calm and collected voice of years of training, “I would put the knife down, and step against that wall. I would then place my hands out as if I were reaching for the edges of my own life-sized paragons cross.”

Walther stooped his head and gazed absently at the bits of bone and ash scattered about the hearth before him. He, truly, has been that stupid, hasn’t he? The Marshall thought as he slowly turned to look upon the now stark white Manufactory Enservitor. It seems the time for intimidation had ended and the time for more immediate action had arrived.

A wry smile crossed Walther’s lips. “You really thought that you could play such a gambit with a Marshall of the Edicts?” he said while taking a cautious step to his left to inspect a nearly completed sculpture of the Martyr Seraph, Cannessa. “Now do as my squire has asked and put the knife you have in your sleeve on the arm chair next to you and follow the rest of his instructions.”

The knife didn’t make it to the armrest as it began its rapid ascent to Walther’s jugular. He was fast for a banal factory worker, but he either truly underestimated, or simply forgot, whom he was dealing with. Walther caught the foreman’s wrist and wrenched hard. The Marshall had plans to strike the fool in the throat and break his arm. But even the best laid plans, never come to fruition.

Behind Irons, Hector looked wide-eyed and as the lightning quick events unfolded. He saw the knife, heard the thud of a strike and reacted like any green squire would when they’re holding a wheel lock to a man’s back. He pulled the trigger. Thankfully for Irons and the Marshall, the inexperience in Hector’s pistol aim saved them both their lives, although Irons didn’t escape completely unscathed.

A deafening roar reverberated through the small apartment and nearly ended the hearing of the three men standing in the room. The errant bullet failed to unload into Irons back as it had been aimed. It did, however, proceed to put a crown-sized hole in the back of the worker’s shoulder and a fist-sized hole on its way out. Through the ringing pitch coursing its way into Walther’s brain, the Marshall responded as best he could. Pulling the man’s shoulder down sharply, he wrenched the man into the chair. If he had the ability to hear clearly after the discharge, they would have heard the wet crunch of a

man’s shoulder being dislocated and the clang of a knife hitting the floor. Irons had his mouth wide open and was presumably screaming. Walther quickly shoved a dirty rag from the sill into the wounded’s mouth and held it shut.

Eyes wide, Irons had no trouble conveying his pain with those present. Hearing gradually returned to Walther, allowing him to test-speak in a reasonable tone to Hector. “Standing there holding an empty pistol is not helping right now, Hector. Please draw a fresh one and readdress the honorable Mr. Irons.” The boy nodded, quickly swapped his firearm out, and leveled it at the injured peasant.

“Now, Mr. Irons, can you hear me? Discharging firearms in such close quarters has a way of wreaking havoc on the ears. A simple nod will suffice.” Walther curtly scathed, intoning his words with the impatience that was permeating his current mood. Irons didn’t waste any of his time replying with a hurried flurry of nods in between harsh breaths. “Good, now we can continue at a much brisker pace seeing as you have no need for more holes in you. I’m going to remove this crusty rag from your mouth and you will only speak when you are asked a question. Every time you decide to break that trust, I’ll add another bullet to your anatomy.”

The rag came out, and the old worker kept as still as a man suffering from a gunshot wound can sit. Marshal Cronin stood back and caught sight of something he could definitely use. “Well what do we have here?” he forcibly mused while reaching down to the little table next to the fireplace. Brushing aside a few loose papers, Walther revealed his find. A ragged pamphlet loosely bound in twine of no more than five or six pages waved back and forth from a light grip right in front to the dazed interrogate. The man’s eyes started to roll back into his head from the loss of blood and shock. As they did, Cronin scowled and tossed the rag to Hector. “Hold this on the wound and apply some pressure.”

Hector quickly followed orders and Irons sat bolt upright and cried in reply. The experienced Marshal wasted no time and slapped the man stiffly across the face, grabbed Iron’s mouth with one hand and squeezed, making the man look like a fish on the chopping block. “No passing out on us before we get done here. You can go die on your own time. Now answer me, what would you be doing with a pamphlet on the resurrectionists that you so fervently decried not ten minutes ago?”

Irons let out stutters and wails for a few moments before coming out with anything coherent, his words finally sputtered out comically as his cheeks were being pinched. “Ththey were handing them out aa...and I di...didn’t thththrow it away. It....It’s not like I wawawas reading it, Sir! I kekekeep the Paragons! I keep thehe Martyrs! Please sir I bebebeg!” His eyes were red and raw from strain and tears. “Thehe one that threatetens me lives a few furrrr...furlongs to the north.”

Walther smiled and released his grip. “Now that wasn’t too hard was it, Mr. Irons.” He tossed the Pamphlet to Hector. “Place this in the satchel. Mark it Irons’ evidence.” While Hector nodded and began the field collection process, Cronin drew out a dreaded symbol of his office from the inside of his Long coat.

The Marshal’s Will, as was known to citizens, criminals, and marshals alike, was a short blade with a length of about two hands. Down the center of a blade was a highly accentuated fuller that ran from base to tip growing narrower at the top. Its elegant custom made handle covered in black leather and gold trim fit sweetly into Cronin’s grip. Gifted upon the induction of ever Marshal of the Edits, the steel was a badge of office along with his Marshal’s seal and has a number of important uses. Foremost the blade is used for proof of station. One could question the forgery of a simple waxen seal, but no one could replicate the persistent intricate filigrees on the blade as well as the other subtler aspects. Its other

uses are what made it have such an ominous image. Used to mark the convicted and condemned, the fuller could be filled with ink and plunged into the skin creating dark scars which the marshal’s used to keep track of crimes on each citizen.

The Serviceman grabbed his forearms and held them tightly to his stomach, lurching forward and out of Hector’s grasp. He gripped them like a starving child holding onto his last piece of food. His old face screwed up and red from pain, fear, and sorrow at the realizations he had come to. Cronin had planned on producing the ink, but halted and made a grave order to the anguished elder sitting in a near fetal position in his chair. “Show me your Adverseria,” he commanded, pointing the Will at Irons’ arms.

After a few moments of gibberish and shaking of his head, Irons lifted his face to the Marshall expecting to see the violent joy on the face of an overzealous executioner. But instead found the stern, joyless, and almost sorrowful face of a judge ready to place whatever lay before him to the letter of the law. The redness and panic fell away as he resigned to his fate and lifted his sleeves. His arms were scribed from wrist to elbow in the penmanship of more than a handful of Marshals. Raised scars told the tale of his sordid past. From the trivial indictments of insubordination of a noble and failure to pay full taxes to the more criminal acts of robbery, assaulting a noble, and even one count of murder in vengeance.

Cronin’s face remained stern as he read the tale of the ink laid before him. Once complete, he gave a curt nod to his squire who quickly grasped Irons by the shoulders, making the elder wince in pain. Irons’ eyes searched Cronin’s face and found nothing but stern resolve.

Cronin rested the dagger flat to his chest, blade to the floor, with his left hand while he placed a leather clad right on the condemned’s brow. “I, Sir Walther of House Cronin, charge thee with treason against the Consilium and knowingly committing acts of recidivism. How dost thou plead?” His voice carrying an even and low tombre as he issued forth his duty. All Irons could do was cry as he listened to his fate being levied, knowing what surely awaited someone with the kind of history he harbored. When more than twenty seconds had passed, Walther let out a heavy sigh, “In absence of a plea, I must move forward and assume that your silence is admittance of guilt. Evidence has been logged in favor of your guilt. Two servants of the Throne stand before you, witnesses to your crime.” He brought the dagger down slowly from his chest and placed the scripture inscribed crossguard to Irons’ forehead. “In the name of the High Ecclesiarch of the Paragon’s Creed, I do find thee guilty. You may have words before your sentence is levied and carried out.”

The old man’s voice came out soft, distant, and forlorn. “Mercy is all I ask, Sir,” was all he could muster. All past deeds began flooding his mind. A long story filled with rage, anguish, fear, joy, justifications, and a heavy helping of self-pity, all leading to this very moment. Hot tears stained his cheeks and fell to the Adverseria still held out as if on display, laying exposed by his sleeves.

“I hereby sentence you to the Sovereign’s embrace,” the Marshall said in an even tone leaning forward. He came close to Irons’ ear and whispered, “I will give you the Mercy that I can.”

The motion was quick. A repositioning of the thumb and Cronin had a foregrip on the blade without removing it from Irons’ forehead. In one smooth motion he brought it down, and using the chin as a guide, drove the Marshal’s Will right into the soft flesh under the jaw and above the Adam’s apple. It slid in easily and with an upward thrust, ending with a pop as it punctured the bottom of the skull and entered the stem of the brain. Irons’ eyes flew open and his body jerked forward into the Marshal.

Cronin muttered the death blessing while he removed the blade from its grisly sheath. Blood sat in the fuller as well as poured to the wood flooring at their feet. He pushed the body back in the chair and swept a thumb through the reservoir in his hand. That bloody thumb then marked a Paragon’s Cross into the deceased’s forehead as he finished his prayer. Walther finished shortly after, closing each eye with the same thumb leaving vertical crimson stripes down both eyelids, hoping the blessing might let him find his way to peace.

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