Forever Green

~ 29 ~ A Dangerous Lullaby

Lenesa made it to the ferryman's bridge in time to see Bramthaus scoop his son up in his arms, surrounded by the crowd that had gathered at the end of the street despite the rain.

"He spat up water a bit earlier," an older woman was saying, raising a knobby finger from beneath the cloak she held over her head. "He may be breathing again, but he hasn't regained consciousness."

"Let us help you carry him back to your home," a rain-soaked man suggested, holding out his arms in offering. Bramthaus drew back.

"Thank you, but I must—"

"The poor boy looks cold as a fish. It's best you get him out of this weather and by a fire as soon as possible," a motherly figure interjected.

Bramthaus tried again. "Exactly what I'm trying—"

"A proper swallow of whisky will set him right again," what looked to be the husband of the first woman interrupted, while she nodded sagely beside him. "Never was nothing that whisky couldn't fix." He held a wrinkled hand above his head, blinking up against the rain.

Lenesa turned away from the conversation with the intent of sneaking into the Ferryman's Rest ahead of Bramthaus. Before she turned completely, however, her eye caught the hulking figure standing beneath the eaves of the building closest to the crowd on the bridge, glowering at the spectacle through the rain with crossed arms.

The sight of the man locked Lenesa's muscles and bound her to the spot, injecting her veins with a fear that roiled within her stomach and left a sharp sour taste on her tongue.

It's a set up!

To the people of Patachal City, Death was a solemn man with a gaunt face shadowed by stormclouds and long fingers that snagged souls from their bodies. But to Lenesa, Death could not be embodied by anyone other than Sarav Decliteur. The witch hunter had an overpowering presence that sucked out the light from around him and cloaked his scarred frame in icy shadows. There was no mistaking the broad shoulders, as rigid as carved stone, nor the thick beard that added to the darkness already lining the furrows of the man's face.  Death was not a wispy wraith; rather, he came in the form of a cunning, brutal man who smelled of human blood and fed on pain.

Lenesa rued her hastiness to follow after Bramthaus. She had foolishly been swayed by the pleas of a desperate man only to be led to her death. Now, she would be ambushed and imprisoned for torture. Memories flickered through her mind's eye, bringing with them a sense of helplessness and grief.

The longer she stood there, however, the more it seemed to her as though the witch hunter had not noticed her yet. Rather, it looked as though he had merely come to observe the spectacle at the bridge.

Lenesa quickly surveyed the streets, but there were no other witch hunters around that she could see. Was it possible that this was only a coincidence? That the man known for his careful planning and calculations had only stumbled onto the scene by chance? And surely if Bramthaus was acting in league with Decliteur, he would have quit the charade by now.

She wasn't about to risk her luck. The longer she stood there, the greater possibility there was of the head witch hunter noticing her. It took a great effort to finally force her limbs to move, but at last, Lenesa pushed through the door at her left and into the bright, humming atmosphere of the Ferryman's Rest.

"Welcome, welcome!" a booming voice proclaimed as Lenesa shook the droplets from her cloak, careful to keep the hood shielding her face in shadow. "How can I help you? Some ale, perhaps?"

Lenesa turned to find the innkeeper beaming up at her, the short man's voice and convivial personality the largest things about him.

Recognition sparked in his eyes. "Why, you're the one who—" he broke off, then leaned in to continue in a whisper, "helped my wife with her cold and brought back our goats!"