Kingdom's Fall

Chapter 8, Part 3

The widow's house was dark and quiet. Cuan knocked softly at first, but when no-one answered he quickly escalated to hammering on the door with one fist. The house stayed silent. He looked up and down the street and then back at Gray, unsure about how to proceed.

"Go on, lad." Gray stood to one side, his back to the wall, facing out from the building. He spared Cuan a lone glance before turning back to look at the buildings opposite. Cuan lifted the latch, and found the door open.

"Should we go in?"

"We've come all this way," Gray said. "Be rude not to."

It was late enough that the night was starting to feel more like an early morning. They had left Thomas in the hands of Ambrose, who was calmed by how genuinely upset the groom became once the source of the poison was explained to him. The rest of the stable hands had responded to the news by demonstrating the cool, determined purpose that was the mark of royal training. Some had split up to check the rest of the palace's oil stores, to see if the deception was limited to the stables. Others left to wake up merchants in search of an untainted source. Gray had penned an order to the treasury for the release of funds to them, and the purchases would be made at no cost to the stables. He'd earn a slap on the wrist for making a demand he had no authority to, but Ambrose had lost enough to have to worry about how much coin it would take to recover. Cuan had made the mistake of asking Gray if they were going to get some rest. The older man had straightened up at that, affront flickering momentarily across his face, and decreed that their best course was to follow the lead Thomas had given them and go visit the widow.

As the door opened, a cloying, rank smell washed over Cuan, and he reeled backwards into the street, trying to escape it. Gray caught him by the shoulder, and stepped hastily out of the way as Cuan gagged and doubled over. The smell was like bad food, the smell of meat left out too long. It was the smell of something long dead.

"Best get that blade ready, lad." Gray said, and as he did he pulled his knife out.

Cuan regained his feet and drew his anlace, swallowing fiercely to try and suppress the sick feeling that hinted at the back of his throat. "Do you want to go first?" He asked.

"Better you do." Gray gestured with his knife. "Hard to handle that blade if I'm in the way. I'll watch your back."

"Maybe I could have a knife?"

"If I had another, you'd have it. Hold your hand low and if anyone comes at you, stick it straight into their belly." Cuan shuddered, and Gray put a hand on his shoulder. It was meant to steady him, he knew, but it settled like lead. "It's all right, lad. You can do this."

Past the threshold, the smell was overpowering. The walls and ceiling held it thick in the air and Cuan could feel it clinging to him, settling on his forehead and cheeks as if he had just walked through a spider's web. His thigh hit something hard, rudely discovering a table and almost upsetting the tall oil lamp that stood on it.

"There's a lamp here," he said.

Gray hesitated a second. "Light it, if you can."

"What if someone is in here?"

"If there is, they know we're here already."

Cuan fumbled the flint, trying to light the lamp while keeping his blade up and pointed down the hallway. Once lit, he lifted it in his left hand to light the way ahead. The hallway was neat, and clean, and completely ordinary. Confronted by the plain walls and the simple furniture, the smell seemed as though it came from another world entirely. It was rank - pure evil - and sat at odds with the mundane surroundings. This isn't how people die, Cuan thought. They die dirty in battles, and clean in their beds. He took a deep breath and made his way forward into the house.