The Widow Maker

I

The candle flickered on the table, encouraging the shadows around the darkroom to dance sporadically. The visibility in the room was limited, despite the moon desperately attempting to creep its rays through the window. The glow from the moon mixed intimately with the orange and yellows of the candle flame to paint a mysterious, but calming aura.

From beyond the door, two heavy sets of metallic footsteps clattered along stony floors. Each step forward rang painfully into the room until the loud creaky hinges of the bulky wooden door burst into life.

Light poured through the once-empty room casting long deathly shadows of two fully armoured soldiers, both bustling into the room with frowns embedded into their faces.

"Captain, I've checked the barracks, Reeve, Jyp, Hamund and Wymond have failed to turn up for duty in the past few days. I've sent some men to their homes, but they and their families seem to have upped and disappeared."

The Captain removed his Sallet helmet from his head and placed it firmly on the table. The clang of metal bombarding the wooden table did little to disturb his train of thought, instead encouraging him to walk over to the fireplace and massage his torch deep inside the already-prepared firewood.

As the wood gradually birthed into a flame, he responded abruptly in a broken gruff voice. "The taverns?"

"I can send someone again," his subordinate responded assertively, "but so far the taverns have proved unfruitful."

The Captain carefully made his way around the table, examining the candle as the flame continued to flicker. The clanging of his chainmail rang loudly, and his demeanour and mood appeared sour. "When I find them, they will each receive fifty lashes or worse!" he grunted.

Sitting by the wooden table, the Captain turned to the flame and watched as the embers glowed brightly. "Who did you say failed to report for duty?" he asked, his glum-chiselled features displaying displeasure and frustration.

"Reeve, Jyp, Hamund and Wymond, Captain." the soldier replied.

The Captain jumped up as if one of the embers had flown onto his seat and immediately wandered to the blaze. Looking towards the flickers as they rose up and into the chimney, he stared at them intently appearing to make his complexion pale and sickly.

"Lockdown the castle, double the patrols throughout Lionmane and frisk anyone out on the streets tonight thoroughly!" barked the Captain, his orders spoken with assertiveness with a tinge of something else.

Anxiousness.

"Captain?" the soldier asked, confused by the exaggerated orders. The moon was almost at its highest. It was unlikely that anything out of the ordinary would happen at this time of night.

"That's an order Sergeant." the Captain responded with pure venom, leaving the room to echo voraciously at his authority. Slamming the desk as he lowered himself to his seat the Captain grabbed a hold of a tankard before filling it to the brim with the garrison's honeyed ale.

As he raised the drink to his lips he refused to savour the smell of the sweet honey mixed with barley, instead downing the tankard with one ferocious gulp. As soon as he finished the last drop, he instantly refilled the tankard once more before repeating the process quicker than the Sergeant could count his breaths.

Whatever had the Captain on edge, it was starting to cause his subordinate a certain level of alarm, "Uh, yes Captain."

The hinges creaked wildly as the Sergeant grabbed hold of the handle to exit the dimly lit room. Bombarded by the sound of metal scraping metal, the Captain responded sharply. "Post additional guards around the Emperor's concubine with haste."

"Nimue? Uh, yes, Captain," replied the Sergeant more confused than before. Despite the various questions running through his mind and the urgency of the orders, the futility of engaging with the Captian and the expected wrath from his increasingly drunken state would likely end up having something thrown angrily towards his head.

Taking another large gulp from his tankard, the Captain unceremoniously wiped his mouth. His blue eyes focused directly on the candle, almost unflinching from his posture. "What to do, what to do?" he asked himself, his voice wavering with panic. "Surely he isn't still alive?"

The fire crackled loudly, breaking him from his panic-stricken trance. To his side, he spotted a quill and ink. Grabbing a hold of a sheet of paper, he placed it squarely on the table, securing it in place with two small stones.

Reaching forward toward the quill he noticed his hand shaking unceremoniously. The tapping as the quill battered the side of the inkwell seemed to be far louder than it should be and as the tip turned jet black, drops of the wet ink plastered itself on the table toward the parchment.

'At least my wife will know what person I truly am' he thought, readying himself to write on the sheet of paper.

His control of the quill was unbearable, his hands shook more and more as his thoughts were full of truths he wanted to tell his wife, and of revelations, he'd keep well hidden.

There was hope that his theories were incorrect, but if the speculations of today's actions rang true, tonight could very well be the last time he drank ale, stared at the fire or even took a breath of the cool rough air.

As the quill briefly touched the parchment for the first time, there was a long drawn-out sigh at the furthest corner of the room.

The ink soaked its way into the parchment, leaving a puddle of tar on a pool of cream as the Captain instantly froze in his spot.

"When a man sees his final moments, that's when you know what type of man he truly is," a calm, clear, accented voice came from across the room. "While some men take their sins to their grave, others choose to confess, telling the ones that they love, or the ones that they hate, their deepest darkest transgressions."

The puddle on the parchment turned into a pool of pure darkness with the hand that held the quill shaking to the point of being incapable of holding it any longer.

"Sir Vanderbilt?" the Captain croaked, a far cry from the once assertive grizzly voice that barked orders at his subordinate.

Sir Vanderbilt learnt forward, revealing his ghostly features underneath a darkened hood to the limited light for the first time. His dark brown indignant eyes glared towards the Captain like piercing shining daggers, while, pulling down his mask from his mouth, he revealed a deep scar on his left cheek as he showed a forced malicious smile.

His breathing was relaxed and as he exhaled his voice was unnervingly calm and soothing. "Captain Reynfred, it's been a while. Tonight, you and I are to have a chat as two men. I will tell you a story, and you will have an opportunity to disclose your sins to me in person."

His calm demeanour but aggressive posture had the Captain subconsciously digging his fingers into the side of the table. "Sir Vanderbilt, I was simply following orders, you must understand."

Sir Vanderbilt chuckled. "You misunderstand Captain. First, it is my opportunity to tell you a story. A story about love, life and death," he took a deep, relaxed breath, "and tonight I'm not Sir Vanderbilt. No Captain, tonight, I'm the Widow Maker."