It was during the last push into the heart of Paris that I lost my right arm. After a day of glorious battle, myself and a few others had begun to rest in an abandoned building in the outskirts of the city. Miles from the front, we thought we would be safe for a few, short hours. We could not have known that as we slept, the French strategy changed. Their front line broke, they gave up on defending their few remaining bases and monuments and instead turned the whole city into their battlefield. Men hid in every alleyway, on every rooftop and in every house, picking off our numbers one by one and then fleeing before we could counter. It was true we now controlled the city, but the fight was far from over.
It was during one such attack that a bomb was thrown through the window of our shelter. Seconds later and I was the last member of our unit, lying buried in the rubble as men looted my fellow soldier’s corpses before retreating into the Paris night. Hours later I would be rescued by the Spanish forces. The next day I was given back to the English forces. Throughout the next months I was treated and then finally sent home back to Sarnia, less of a man than I had been.
“Another round for our hero!” Dillon, one of my closest companions, cried. The whole crowd cheered as the barman poured another round for us; old friends and family whom I’d left behind when I went to fight, and their children who I had not yet had the chance to meet. All had hugged me and asked me for stories of the battles that I had been in. They showed me newspapers with pictures and vivid descriptions of how the French fields ran red with blood, and how so many of our battles turned to free-for-alls as the many alliances between the European powers fractured and changed. They all wanted to know how the Spanish fought with us, if the German Empire was truly a friend or foe, if it’s true that the tiny country of Luxembourg had stood up against the tyranny of France.
Most of all though, they asked about the arm.
“I wouldn’t keep worrying about that too much now mate,” Dillon told me, “Half the folks ‘round here ‘ave only got half a brain, and they’re doing alright for themselves. Now you come back, stay with me and the wife awhile, until you get yourself on your feet.”
“How can I,” I asked, looking into my drink, “Have you seen much work around here for a deformed man?”
“Deformed?” Dillon asked, “You mean battle-scarred. A brave bloke like you, wounded fighting against the French bastards? I’m surprised the papers haven’t already taken you up. Do you know how many are gonna want to hear about one of our own boys, come back from years of war now as a hero? You don’t have to worry about work at all.”
“And why’s that?”
“You only need your mouth to tell stories mate. You just charge any of those papers who want an interview with you, and in a week’s time you’ll have earned more than you’d ever had in a year. If you really wanted you could write a… Or I suppose ask someone else to write a book of you-”
“More gin!” I told the barkeep, sliding my now empty glass away from me. He nodded and dutifully poured me another, assuring me there was no charge. Dillon continued to talk, telling me how famous I would be and how honoured he was to have known me all my life while I sank deeper into misery.
The night finally died down, and soon only a handful of us were left. Dillon and another man, whom I could not remember, escorted me to Dillon’s home. There his wife, Lola had made up a bed in their living room, which I gratefully accepted. For the first time in years I could sleep in a room on my own. Though even in my drunken state I laid awake, looking up at the ceiling as memories of the war appeared before me.
I knew not how long it was before I fell asleep, but when I finally awoke around midday my mind ached. Lola served me bacon and tea, which lessened the hangover. Dillon returned home that evening and insisted that I should have gone to the press, to tell my tales. I pretended to humour him, telling him how I would - I would! - after I had rested for the week.
And so for a week the same cycle continued. I would wake when the sun was highest in the sky, drink from then until the early late of the next morning, and then pass out.
That was up until one day when Lola, whilst tending to my hungover state, asked me how I felt to be back home.
“Disappointed,” I replied, “Miles from us the heroes of the European continent are at war against the French, and yet I am sitting here. We all sit here, far from the action and glory! And what did I win as a reward? I hold no rank, no fame. No, I have lost an arm and with that, lost my chance of power.”
“Power?”
“Status, rank, authority. I earned nothing but debilitation and sympathy. Dillon talks of how I should sell my war stories - why should I! Sarnia shall not care for my heroics, they wish only to read some sad, self-pitying rambles of-”
“Well there you’ll succeed!” Lola cried, “Self-pity seems to be the only thing you have left. Years of war and you’re acting like a stupid little boy.”
“How dare you speak to me like that!”
“In my house, I’ll speak to you how I like.”
“When Dillon gets home-”
“When Dillon gets home I’ll ask him how long you’ll be staying for. I’m happy to host a man who’d fought against terror, but not some snivelling little boy. What’s done is done, I think it’s about time you moved on.”
“Move on! A man like me, with only one arm? Where are you expecting me to go! All I had was warfare, and I can no longer take part in such joys.”
“Well if you refuse to go and sell your story to the press, why not go out and learn some skills? Something other than fighting?”
I could feel anger bubbling up within me. Perhaps the remains of last night’s drink, or the rage that had been building within me ever since my first night in that hospital bed in England.
“You are lucky to be married to a friend,” I warned her. Lola’s brow furrowed at that as I stood and staggered out from the house. I had no want for further conversation - instead wishing only to find my way to the pub.
Unfortunately, I was rudely blocked by an old man.
“My, my,” he said as I approached, “How lucky am I to be in the presence of-”
“Sod off, I’m busy.”
“Yes, I can imagine,” the man replied, looking behind him to the door of the pub that I intended to enter. I walked around, only for him to reach out and grab my shoulder.
“Let go of me!”
“Why not make me? I’m just an old man; what threat could I pose to a soldier such as you?”
I swung at him, missing completely. The old man watched as I stumbled about kicking up dust as I tried to steady myself. I leant against the side of the house we were both standing next to, embarrassed by how ungraceful I now seemed to be.
“More a threat than I thought, it seems…” The old man joked.
“Oh, damn you,” I cried, “I’m no soldier. Not anymore.”
“Is that so,” the old man said. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and took out a cigar. Unlit, he placed it in his mouth and continued to speak.
“Should your wound be healed, would you become a soldier once again?”
“Don’t joke with me old man,” I said, only now bothering to look at him closely. Aside from his waistcoat, he had a white shirt and brown trousers - with a bowler hat on his head. I did not recognise his face, a fact which troubled me somewhat. The village was only small, and I had known almost everybody before I left to serve in France.
“Who are you?” I asked. He gave a large grin at that, tapping the end of his cigar with just the tip of his finger.
“Oh… Just a visitor.”
And as he smoked, a plume of smoke blew out from his now lit cigar. I stood there stupefied as I attempted to determine what sort of thing he was.
“Are… Are you a witch? A demon?” I asked him.
“No, no,” he said, shaking his head, “I am no witch or demon, although I believe your kind may not see the difference.”
“Then… Then you must be a pouque?”
“Perhaps you are not as thick-skulled as I thought,” the old man said, “As you know my kind, you’ll forgive me if I do not tell you my name.”
“Why are you here!” I demanded, although I kept my voice low. While no-one was about, it was still foolish to draw attention to the fae.
“Why am I here?” the man repeated, “As I said, I am only a visitor. Very few of my kind are lucky enough to blend in with the likes of you humans, you know?”
“So what, you’ve come to torment me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” the old man scoffed, “I am not here for you. It is by coincidence that I should be passing through when I heard of your return. The village talks of you a lot, my boy. Of course I took an interest in a one-armed drunkard-”
“What do they say of me?” I interrupted.
“That you are a broken man. A great man who was struck down before his time came. They pity you, young man.”
Those last words struck deeper than I would have liked. The faerie knew that of course. While he looked human I knew his mind was twisted and far more devious than that of any person. His kind - who were born far beneath the Earth and forced to live in their subterranean cities - harboured a love of misery and discourse, which they seeked to spread to whatever unfortunate souls that came across. While not as wicked as a demon, or corrupt as a witch, they were far from good.
“You’re trying to anger me,” I told the man, “But I won’t lower myself to your level.”
“Then I suppose, you don’t wish for my assistance. Very well.”
He turned away from me, placing his hands behind his back as he sauntered off in the way old folk do. I watched as he turned the corner, vanishing. For a few moments I stood there in the quiet road, until finally I carried on to the pub.
“Gin!” I demanded from the barkeep, placing a few coins upon the counter. He served me and left me to drink alone. My eyes passed over the few others who had come here so early, who in turn looked to me and then quickly turned away. They spoke to one another in hushed tones. They spoke of me! Why else?
Another drink, and another and another. Some folks came to me and paid on my behalf. Charity. I took the drinks they bought me and stared at them in silence as they spoke at me. There was far less interest in me now than when I had first arrived that week ago, but still people wished to hear my stories.
“I have no more to say,” I told a younger man who had tried to join me at the bar. He was only a child when I left for France, although now seemed to be some up-and-coming artist or sculptor or something. I did not care to learn his name or listen to his praises. His money and insistence on spending it on alcohol was about the only reason I had bothered to acknowledge him.
“Do you think I cannot afford my own drink!” I yelled as he offered to buy me another. A look of confusion spread across his face, and he said something that did not make sense to me. Some time later he had disappeared, although I knew not where. Some other idiot had taken his place beside me, and I gladly accepted the drink he offered me. That was until he, too, offered to purchase another for me.
“Mad fool,” somebody called me. At least I believed the comment was directed at me. I turned in the direction the words came from and screamed - screamed! - just about every profanity that came into my mind. I cursed the man, his home, his soul. I swore to kill him should my eyes ever spot him again - then he’d see! He thought me some sort of idiot! But I knew my mind and soul to be as sound as it had always been.
Two thugs ambushed me then, wrapping their arms around me and dragging me from my chair. I understood at once - they must be boys wanting to tussle with a soldier. They thought I was an easy target! I shook about with my whole weight, slamming one against the bar and loosening the grip of another. Snatching a bottle from another patron, who watched the scene with concern, I spun around and smashed it against one of the young men’s heads.
Screams and shouts drowned out the noise of the abuse that I hurled as more people came to take a piece of me. I bit and kicked and stomped as they ganged up on me, grabbing my neck and chest and heaving me outside. Some punched me as the others dragged me to the door and flung me out.
“Come on then!” I screamed at them, “I’ll kill the whole sodding lot of you! You hear me, cowards! Come and fight me then!”
But of course none of them dared to show themselves. They were all too afraid to face me, even with just one arm. I laughed as I crawled my way away from the pub and back home - wherever that may have been.
“Pity me?” I asked nobody, “Pity! I showed you all. I showed each and every one of you.”
The events of the following hours were a blur to me, but when I next awoke I was on the ground, on one of the trails that lead out from the village into the nearby woods. The moon was in its final hours as I climbed back up to my feet, head still spinning. Even in the early morning light I could tell the environment around me was blurring and shifting. I hoped for a moment Lola may be near with breakfast, although as my mind came to I realised that was unlikely.
“Such a waste,” said a voice from behind me. I turned slowly to meet a strange man in a waistcoat and bowler hat. The faerie! He seemed younger… Magic, perhaps. Some illusion he had placed upon himself to unsettle me - of course.
“What do you want?” I stuttered out. My mouth was hoarse, although I could not remember why.”
“Nothing at all. Here I was out for a walk, and who is it I should run into? The menace everyone in the village is talking about.”
Menace. There was a word I did not like. As my memories slowly made their way back to me I saw the stranger take another cigar from his pocket and place it in his mouth.
“Leave me,” I ordered, “I am not afraid of you. Your words mean nothing to my ears, pouque.”
“It begs the question, what does now matter to you hero?”
“Hero,” I practically spat the words, “Tell me, do you mean to praise or insult me?”
The faerie laughed, tapping the end of his cigar and lighting it again.
“Do you know,” he said after a while, “I cannot decide if you want to be praised or insulted. You claim to dislike the sympathy you are given, and yet you seem content to revel in it. Curious…”
“It’s no business of yours.”
“No. Perhaps you’re right. After all, it is clear you are coping well with your situation. You of course have no need for that help I offered you before.”
“What help?” I asked, having no clue what the odd old man was referring to. He took a drag of his cigar and turned his head away from me in the direction of the village.
“You never answered my question, you know. If it was possible, would you return to the army?”
“… Well, of course. It’s the only place I could be satisfied. But it’s not possible now, is it?”
“Oh, my dear boy,” the faerie muttered, “I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve a friend I met during my travels in the south. One of my own kind, who may be willing to assist you.”
“And how’s that then?” I asked, expecting some joke to be the next words from the faerie’s mouth. Instead he turned back to me, a wide smile across his face.
“It’s very simple, isn’t it? You were dismissed after you lost your arm, is that correct? Well, how would you like to gain a new one?”
I had been on the train for hours now, and my craving for a drink would not leave me. The last of my wealth had gone towards purchasing the ticket, and as such I had been forced to go hungry and with an unsatiated thirst. I knew it would be a while yet before we arrived in the parish of Saint Martin, one of the most southern sections of Sarnia.
I thought it strange how, despite my travels across England and France and the rest of Europe, I had never been to this region of my home country. It felt almost silly to admit, but as I watched the countryside roll by outside the train window, I was nervous. Not of the parish itself… But the man whom I was supposed to find once I had arrived there.
“Is this seat free?” an American voice asked me. I looked up to see a woman with a suitcase standing there, looking at the chair next to me. I nodded to her and she sat.
“Thank you. I was up near the front before you see, but it’s very loud there. My name’s Anneke. Anneke Howe. How do you do?”
I didn’t bother to answer her. Even before the war small talk had never interested me. But still she remained there, expecting an answer for me.
“Gee, not much of a talker are ya?”
That, I obviously did not dignify with a response.
“Hey buddy, it’s pretty rude not to-”
“You haven’t been on this island long, have you?”
“Oh, you can speak then. No, I just arrived by boat just a few days ago.”
“Then I suggest you learn how to keep your mouth shut.”
Anneke scoffed, staring at me with her mouth open, wanting some sort of apology from me. She’d be waiting a long time for it. I turned away from her to face the window once again.
“Someone’s got a temper, haven’t they. What’s the matter with you?”
“Mind your own business.”
“Oh wow, really that serious?” She asked in a condescending tone, “I’m sorry mister, I didn’t really it was business that you were up to.”
“Sod off.”
“Now, that’s no way to talk. Especially to a lady. If your business is in Saint Martin then I suggest you find yourself some manners. I know a lot of powerful people down there, you know? My daddy’s Rutherford Howe. You know of Howes the arms manufacturers? You’d better be nice to me unless you wanna find yourself-”
I had to laugh at her then. This woman sat by and threatened me, a man who had lived through Hell and had the scars to prove it. A man who, as we spoke, was heading into an unfamiliar place to seek out a faerie - on the advice of another faerie, no less. A man who was willing to give up anything to have his body restored. And she thought she could do anything to make me fear her.
“Keep talking,” I told her, “Or shut up. Do whatever you want, it won’t matter. I’m telling you now pretty soon I’m gonna be out of here. Making my way across Europe, killing every Frenchman I can find until the war’s done. By the time I’m done out there I’ll be the greatest man in all the land, and you’ll still be stuck up little girl.”
“What on Earth are you on about?”
“Oh of course you couldn’t understand!” I exploded, “None of you do! Nobody does! All of you, so happy to be tucked up here in all this warmth and wealth. No, all the fun is happening overseas, you see. Why did you bother coming here? The whole of Europe is alive and you decided to waste time on this rock? You have lost your right to speak to me, so do not waste any more breath!”
The whole carriage now looked to me with concern. Anneke moved to a different seat and I ignored her. Nothing she, nor anybody else had to say truly mattered. Unless they had knowledge on how I could find this friend that I had been sent to meet with, then they were as good as dead to me. Eventually the awkward silence that my rant had caused gave way to quiet conversation once again. Anneke, however, did not bother to speak again for the remainder of our journey
I stepped onto the platform of Saint Martin and began to wander the village. Back in Vale the pouque had told me that a bartender in The Royal Duck would be able to point me in the right direction. Seeing how I was in desperate need of a drink, and would need to go to a pub regardless, I thought it would be best if I first acquired some cash.
Luckily, I was used to finding ways of gaining resources. I passed many beggars on the roads as I searched for a spot, silently mocking them for not thinking of my method of making money. After a bit of searching I found an alleyway which was only a few metres from the pub in question. There I waited, hidden by the darkness of the nighttime, and watched the front door. It wasn’t long before a fat old man came stumbling out alone, heading in my direction.
“Alright, let’s see what you have for me,” I whispered as he came close to my hiding spot. A few more steps… I readied myself… Now! I dashed out just before he passed me by and swung my only arm at his head, hard as I could. Although it was my left arm I could still pack enough of a punch to knock him to the ground. I slammed my fist into his face to keep him down, and then stamped down hard as I could onto his neck to stop him crying out.
The man didn’t move as I rummaged through his pockets, searching for all the money he had. He had no notes, and only a small handful of coins which I shoved into my own coat.
“Worthless!” I yelled at his now flattened face, “Absolutely worthless! Well, you’ve gone and spent it all in there, haven’t you?”
I pointed to The Royal Duck. The man obviously did not answer me. Shaking my head, I left him in the road as I walked over to the pub and entered, relieved by the warmth of its interior. There I bought a drink with what little money I had and sipped it slowly. It was like Heaven pouring down my throat.
Very soon I would not need to savour such things. Once I met this man and rejoined the army, I would acquire all the wealth and honour I deserved. People would fight just for the chance to buy me a drink, as they had done when I first returned.
“Barkeep,” I called just before finishing my drink. The man appeared before me, wiping a glass with a dirty rag as he waited impatiently for me to speak.
“Last orders soon,” he warned.
“That’s quite alright,” I told him, “Quite… Alright. Now, I was wondering if you could help me. I’m looking for a man, you see.”
“Ah, then I think you’re in the wrong place here.”
“No no, I don’t believe you understand,” I said, dropping down into a whisper, “This gentleman, he goes by the name Heaumerie.”
The man looked at me funny, then checked to see if anyone was listening in on our conversation.
“You’re not from The Church are you?” he whispered back.
“Of course not. Do you see many churchmen in pubs? No, I’ve been told that he lives in the forest around here. You wouldn’t happen to know where abouts?”
“Well that depends now. How much is it worth to you?”
I scowled at him as I explained how at the moment, I was short on cash.
“Well, that’s a shame now, isn’t it. Perhaps one of the other lads will-”
“I’m not sure you understand who it is you’re dealing with here,” I informed the man, “I was a lieutenant in the British army, I’ll have you know. Tell me where I can find this man.”
“Not without proper compensation. It’s a risk you know; talking to a stranger about stuff like this. For I know you could still be a Church spy.”
“… I imagine that it would be quite bad if the Church were to learn that you had knowledge of a pouque. Very bad indeed.”
“Are you trying to threaten me?” The barman laughed, shaking his head, “Just about everyone here knows that I can find the blacksmith. Do you wanna know why nobody’s come and taken me away yet?”
“Perhaps they wished to save me the honour of slitting your throat.”
The man punched me. I fell off my stool but managed to stagger about on my feet rather than land on the ground. A great cheer came from the other patrons as I reached across the bar with my one arm and shattered his nose. Not that you could truly tell, considering the man’s already unattractive face. He threw a glass at me as another two men grabbed me from behind and began kicking the back of my legs.
Another man, a foot taller than myself and double the size, barreled towards me and delivered a fist straight into my chest. Myself and the two who were holding me wet flying backwards into the table behind us.
Then the fight started properly. Glasses smashed around me as they were used to knock people in the head. Lying on my back I watched a chair fly over the top of me and strike the big man right in the face. That beast didn’t even flinch, stepping on me, then over me, as we went to brutalise whatever stupid sod had just picked a fight with him.
I stood up amidst the chaos and did my best to edge over to the door. Another man took a swing at me and missed. I countered and winded him with a hit to the stomach. Some other mug took his place and managed to catch my jaw - shattering a few teeth as I stumbled back into some other thug.
The commotion carried on this way for a while until the front door opened once again. Either someone was escaping or some unlucky soul had just entered the melee. To my surprise, I could hear their shouting over the ruckus of the pub.
“Cease this!” a stern voice cried. The few men I was fighting with lowered their fists and turned to face the newcomer. He only needed to shout a few more demands before the fighting cooled down to whispered insults and hateful looks. Even then, everyone’s attention was on this man.
He wore the robes of a churchman, with the moon pendant proudly displayed around his neck. A small amount of black hair was visible underneath his hood, and his face was about as pleasing as a maggot-filled corpse. He didn’t look in anybody’s eyes, instead keeping his nose upturned as if our very presence here in the pub was somehow insulting to him.
“All of you are to remain exactly where you are. The Church is claiming use of this public house for the night.”
“What!” demanded the barman, who I was pleased to see now had blood leaking from his nose.
“We are to launch an inquiry immediately. All of you are suspects, and as such you will all be remaining here for the foreseeable future. There is to be no smoking or drinking in the presence of The Church. Is this understood?”
“This is outrageous!” The barman cried.
“You DARE question a servant of our goddess Selene!” Cried the churchman. The whole pub fell silent, eyes split between the two men. I tried not to laugh thinking about the barkeep’s comments just a few minutes ago.
“No. No, I suppose not,” the barman finally gave in, “Anything for The Church.”
“Good. Clear a space. Not any of you filthy creatures with blood on you. You’ll confuse the corpse.”
“Corpse?” Asked a few men as the churchman stepped properly inside. Two other, younger servants of The Church entered, struggling to carry a body. A hot flush came over when they carried him past where I was standing and placed him down on one of the few upright tables. My bootprints were on that dead man’s neck. It dawned on me then that I had killed him.
I knew that I would have to escape from here soon. The body of a man that I had killed was spread out on one of the pub’s tables, and a man from The Church was asking questions. Luckily the crowded bar - filled with drunks - was guaranteed to make his investigation slow and difficult. All I needed to do was act inconspicuous until I had a chance to slip away.
“I’ll tell you what lads,” said the barkeep, “You want a suspect, you should start with that bloke.”
The churchman’s eyes followed to where the man was pointing. To me. He stepped forward and the crowd, even in their intoxicated state, managed to part for him. People looked at me with nothing but disgust as I wondered how the Hell I was supposed to talk my way out of here.
“You. What’s your name?”
“It’s… Richard sir,” I lied, “Richard Whitt.”
“He’s not from around here sir,” the bartender said, “I’ve never seen him.”
“Shut up. You will speak when I say,” the churchman warned, giving the man a withering glare. He turned his attention back to me, staring at my stump of an arm, then directly into my eyes.
“Where are you from?”
“Uh, Vale sir.”
“And why are you here?”
“I’m, I’m just visiting family. I was in the war you see,” I said, holding up my stump, “Been away a long time.”
“How long have you been in Saint Martin?”
“Just arrived tonight, sir. Off the train. You can go ask them at the station if you don’t believe me-”
“And so upon arriving in Saint Martin in the middle of the night to visit family, your first port of call is a nearby pub. A pub which just so happens to be less than a minute’s distance from where a body has now been discovered. Doesn’t this all seem a little unfortunate for you, Mr Whitt?”
“Well… Yes I can see why you may be sceptical Mr… Umm. Beg pardon, I didn’t catch your-”
“Be quiet,” he ordered. I watched as he turned back to his two companions - the ones who had carried the dead body into the pub. He gestured for one to come forward, which he did.
“Mr Whitt, along with anybody else whom I would like to question further, are to be kept under supervision upstairs until I am ready for them. See that he doesn’t try to do anything reckless now.”
“Yes sir,” the young man said. I stepped back as he reached out to grab me.
“No,” I protested, “No, you don’t understand. This is all just one big mistake.”
He grabbed hold of me and started dragging me behind the bar and to the staircase. Nobody made any move to try and intervene. While I was far from weak, he overpowered me. Soon enough I was thrown into a spare room in the upstairs of the pub.
“You can’t go around treating war veterans like this!” I cried, “This is an outrage! Let me go, or I’ll show you some of the things I learnt while fighting in France.”
I got to my feet and charged at the man, punching him in the chest. He didn’t even flinch as he grabbed me and slammed me into the wall. Furniture rattled as he bashed me against it again and again until finally I relented. Then with all the care a dog has for a dead cat, he threw me back onto the floor.
What must have been an hour passed, during which time I was joined by a handful of other men, including the bartender. We complained and laid about on the floor as conversation went on outside the door. This went on until one man, unable to take it any longer, stood up and charged for the lone window.
The churchman was on him in a flash; pounding the poor man’s skull against the wall until the top of his head was nothing but a red smear. He dropped the body back onto the ground and ignored its cries of pain and want of mercy.
“You will remain here until his holiness has had the chance to question you all.”
“Well, where is he then?” the bartender asked. The churchman looked as though he wished to punch him, but refrained.
“He has gone to rest, and shall return tomorrow after his morning duties.”
“You have to be joking!” I cried out. A number of others made similar protests which the man ignored.
“May I suggest that you all pray?” he said, “After all, should his holiness find you guilty of the bloody crime which was done to that poor man, you will need all the forgiveness you can find.
“Look,” said the bartender, “This is ridiculous. My bedroom is right across the hallway. Surely I at least have the right to-”
“Question the orders of his holiness again and you will be struck down. He speaks with the authority of our goddess Selene! Do you doubt her wisdom, peasant?”
“No,” the man stuttered.
“Then you will do as you are told! Now be silent.”
The next few hours passed in silence. The other men trapped in here with me dozed off one by one, until it was only myself and the churchman still awake. I felt his gaze shift to focus on me every time I rolled onto my side or twitched. I was far too sober to be sleeping on a wooden floor.
“I’m not going to try anything,” I reassured the man, “I’ve already seen how useless that is with you around.”
“Be quiet.”
“Don’t you sleep?” I asked him.
“The duties of the goddess are constant - day or night. It is my honour to stand vigilant. You should rest.”
“That’s strange. I was always taught that the moon at night was Selene’s protection over us.”
“Perhaps in a spiritual sense, that’s true,” said the churchman, “But the moon has no arms with which it can strike you down. It is my honour to be one of the soldiers of Selene.
“Ah, I was a soldier. Not too long ago, in fact.”
“So I’ve heard. Is that where you lost your arm?”
I made a point of raising my stump up and staring at it longingly. It seemed to have its effect, as even behind those stoic eyes I could see a hint of sympathy within the young man. On any other occasion I would have hated seeing that feeling, especially directed at me. Now, however, it was my only chance of escaping here alive.
“I was in between the lines,” I lied, “The French on one side, Brits, Spaniards and the rest of them on the other. A few others had been wounded out there you see, and I was carrying them back to safety. That’s when a cannonball landed right next to me. One of those explosive ones, you know?”
“I see.”
“Yes… I still see it too, you know. Every time I close my eyes I still feel it all. The heat, the sound - By Selene was it all so loud. That’s why I’m not sleeping now. I only came down here to see some family, to put my mind at ease. That’s not gone so well now though, has it.”The churchman thought for a moment, looking down upon the other sleeping prisoners, then back to me. Tired, one-armed me who’d already admit defeat.
“If I got you a drink, would you sleep?”
“Oh yes!” I replied, not bothering to hide the excitement in my voice. He would mistake it for relief, no doubt. I suppose in a sense he would be correct - I was relieved my plan was going as I hoped.
“You stay exactly where you are. I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything stupid like run away now, or I’ll have to come and catch you.”
He exited the room. As soon as the door closed I moved across to the barman - who had been the main cause of all my latest troubles. I shook the sleeping fool until he was awake and then immediately jammed his mouth closed.
“We have perhaps thirty seconds. I pretended to be asleep as the guard and another man talked. They plan to kill us all to save time on the investigation. The guard has gone downstairs to let the other soldiers in. We must escape now.”
The man looked at me with a worried expression on his face. He clambered to his feet and looked around, seeing that the guard had gone. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps on his own staircase.
“I have a man who can get me away from here. Tell me where I can find the pouque Heaumerie and I will take you to safety with me.”
“And what if I don’t trust you?”
“Then you will die - either now if you wait in this room, or in an hour when The Church hunts you down after you fail to escape. Quickly, we don't have much time.”
I placed my hand on the bottom of the windowsill and looked down onto the cobbled street. Not a far drop by any means, but still one which I would rather not do. Add onto that the fact that we were in the centre of the village, and almost bound to be spotted by some night patrol.
Still, I had a need to escape. I lifted one leg out the window, dangling it in the air as I turned back to the barman. I could see the confusion in his eyes as I re-adjusted myself so that my other leg was kneeling on the windowsill. I held on tight with my one arm as I lowered myself down and then dropped the remaining distance.
Vibrations went through my legs as the bottoms of my boots struck the cold stone. I felt as though my legs may snap, although I could not allow myself to be delayed by it. Instead I waited under the window as the barman looked down at me.
“Hurry,” I said as loud as I dared, “Or you will surely be killed with the rest of them.”
That seemed to do the job. He did as I had, lowering himself out the window and dropping down. By now I knew the churchman would be on his way back up to the room. I grabbed the barman’s arm and dragged him behind a rather large home a few buildings away, where we would hopefully have a few extra moments of peace. We found a row of bushes and ducked down into them.
“Where now?” he asked me.
“First, you tell me where I can find Heaumerie.”
He thought about this for a moment. Precious moments which I could not afford to waste. If there truly was a goddess then she must have been no fan of mine. Eventually he spoke.
“How do I know you’re not bluffing?”
“By Selene you idiot! We have a matter of seconds before we are discovered missing. Unless you have a better plan which you would like to try, then answer me!”
“Okay, okay,” the bartender replied. He gestured west and began to give me instructions. I was to enter the forest on a particular path, then take a series of turns that would bring me to a dead end. From there all I needed to do was carry on walking straight through the brush until I came across his shack.
As he spoke we both heard the stomps of men approaching. I risked looking out from the bushes, pulling my head down immediately as I saw three churchmen jog past. Luckily none could spot me in the darkness.
“I think they may be searching for us,” I whispered, unsure if that was truly the case. Of course they would want to find us, but I had lied about there being reinforcements at the pub. Could that guard have alerted The Church so quickly?
“Now tell me,” said the barman, “How do we escape from here?”
“Well…” I struggled for a moment, “That’s… That’s rather simple, really. Do you know of Howes, the weapons manufacturers?”
“What?”
“Yes or no!”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
“Good. And you know Rutherford Howe lives in this village?”
“Of course, he came and retired here years ago; lives over in the posh quarter with-”
“Good. Well, I just so happen to be very close friends with his daughter Anneke. So, you go there and tell them the one-armed man sent you. She’ll know it’s me.”
“And what then?”
“Then she’ll help you. Tell her how you assisted me, then she’ll help you get out of here. Trust me, you can rely on her.”
I felt a little guilty for what I was doing. Sending this man to a place where he would most certainly be captured and quite possibly killed. Still, he had accused me of murder - which I had accidentally committed - and tried to fight me. In a way, this was simply justice.
We left the bush and parted ways. He ran towards his doom whilst I followed the directions to the edge of the village. As I went I realised that without the electric lights of the village, I would be unable to see in the darkness. To compensate I stole a lantern which was hanging outside of a bungalow on the outskirts of the forest.
Soon cobbles gave way to dirt, and the only sign of civilisation became the snaking forest path. My lantern light did little to pierce the darkness of the trees and bushes. Instead, it created a small sphere of light around me - on the edges of which all manner of evils seemed to lurk. Shadows and sounds which would have been harmless in daylight now appeared viscous.
I recited the instructions in my head again and again, not only to remember them, but to distract myself from the shapes I saw out of the corner of my eye. The night had never felt so cold as I continued on - dirt turning to mud as I went further and further off the well-used paths.
I took my final turn and walked through the most overgrown section of the path. I wondered why anyone would have even bothered to try and clear a way through this section of the forest. Aside from the blacksmith whom I was hopefully about to meet, who else would be out here? Perhaps it’s the remains of some long-forgotten lumber mill or farm.
That didn’t matter now. Nothing else mattered the moment that the path ended and I continued to walk. Clambering through the dense bushes and trees that had sat untouched for so many years felt good. It reminded me of some of the times I’d spent back in the French countryside - crawling about with my gun and sword, waiting to come across someone to fight. No fight this time though, but soon.
A light appeared through the trees. I carried on towards it, finding that the forest grew less dense the further I went now. Eventually I came to a clearing with a small wooden hut at the centre. Just to the side of this hut was a paved area on which an anvil had been placed. Sitting upon this anvil, watching me with a cup of tea in his hand, was a face I’d seen before.
“Well… You’ve certainly taken your time,” said the old man I had first met in Vale. The one who had first told me of the blacksmith. I stared at him, waiting for him to laugh and reveal the real blacksmith to me. He did not.
“What is this?”
“My home - from time to time. When I’m not travelling I like to live here, just on the fringe of my realm and yours. You see-”
“So this was a trick!” I yelled, approaching now with my lantern raised. The old faerie sipped his tea while I continued to move towards him.
“I confess I made up the name Haeumarie. You must accept my apologies, although in my own defence, you were foolish enough to believe that I would give you a fellow pouque’s name. I can hardly take all the blame for that now, can I?”
“Now you listen to me. I’ve ended up picking a fight with The Church just so I can get here - and you want to tell me that there is NO blacksmith-”
“My dear boy, you appear to be rather thick.” The blacksmith mocked.
“Say that again and I’ll-”
“I am the blacksmith, you stupid little human. I am the one who intends to build you a new arm. So may I suggest that for your own sake you hold your tongue, before I change my mind.”
I stared at him, confused. The feeling must have shown on my face, as the old man gave an exasperated sigh and dropped his half-full cup on the ground. It landed upright without a drop of tea spilt.
“So… You’re going to give me a new arm?”
“That is correct.”
“Then why couldn’t you do that for me back in Vale, instead of making me traipse all the way out here. There are plenty of other blacksmiths around which we could have gone and stolen from rather than-”
“Because there would have been no point using my talents on somebody who wasn’t going to be interesting. Now some sorry sop that staggers about a village all day, dumb to the world, isn’t worth anything. But a man who bothers to work for something he wants - that’s someone who’s going to do something fun. I can’t wait to see what you get up to next.”
“I know exactly what I am up to next-” I told the faerie, moving closer to it still. Even knowing it’s true nature I struggled to comprehend the fact that the thing right before my eyes wasn’t human. It looked the part of course, but it was far from a real person. It was a resource, and one which I was willing to take full advantage of,
“Let’s waste no more time on tricks. Make me an arm I can use to replace the one I lost - one which will allow me to join the war once more.”
With a smile that seemed far too wide to be kind, the pouque nodded.
Brother Harrow was growing tired of his hunt. The same night that the one-armed man, who gave his name as Richard Whitt, had murdered a drunk and then disappeared, the search for him had started. Whitt’s accomplice, a local barman, had been found trying to weasel his way out of Saint Martin. The fool had run straight to the home of Rutherford Howe, the founder of one of the major gun manufacturers. Unfortunately, the barman had tried to flee once he realised Howe was not friend of his. In response, Howe shot him dead.
There was however still one lead they could follow. When a description of Whitt was passed around the village, Howe’s daughter Anneke perked up.
“Yeah, that’s him alright,” she told Harrow as they sat in one of the backrooms of the Saint Martin church, “Crazy fella. I met him on the train while I was coming down from Vale, you see. I tried striking up a conversation, but he just started ranting about the French and how he was going to get his glory. If you ask me, the man’s got a few screws loose.”
“I see,” Harrow replied, “And did he happen to tell you where he was from, or why he was coming here?”
“No siree. He just rants about Europe and tells me he’s gonna be there soon. He did say though that he had business down here. What that could be, I’ve got no idea.”
With only a description and this little information to go on, Harrow expanded his manhunt. He sent word to Saint Peter Port and a few of the other harbours to stop any man matching the description from boarding a ship. Then he and a small force of Church Brothers went north to Vale, where they met with the local sect and began their search.
In two weeks, they had found no trace of the one-armed man. Now Harrow prayed within a small church of one of the unnamed villages which himself and his inquisition had stopped at. His peace was interrupted by the opening of the front door, and the entrance of an older man.
“Brother Harrow,” said Brother Patrick, the leader of Vale sect, “I think perhaps that it is time to face the truth. We have other duties we must attend to, and this search for-”
“You wish to stop searching for the murderer?”
“It is not an easy decision. But in all this time we have not come any closer to-”
“Would you dare to suggest that I even consider allowing this man Whitt to face no justice for his crimes? He has killed and fled the scene - for that, he shall be executed. Then it will be for the Lady Selene to weigh his soul and judge his sins.”
“And one day, he will face that judgement,” Patrick replied, “But it does not look as though that day will come soon. Let it be known that The Church has deemed Richard Whitt to be of no threat, and that as such we have stopped our search-”
Harrow slapped the man across the face. Brother Patrick gasped and backed away, looking around the empty church for any help.
“What! What are you doing, Harrow?”
“Punishing the faithless. Until death we serve The Goddess Selene. We are her forces, we are her army. We have a duty to carry out her will and want against the living. And you believe that simply allowing this murderer to get away, to escape from our justice, is in any way good? Shame on you. Leave me now, and do not disturb me again until you have some news.”
Patrick left, and for the next few hours Harrow prayed in silence. He held his necklace, on which a pendant in the shape of the moon hung, and kept his eyes closed. He knew the goddess could read his thoughts, and would reward his dedication and ideals with the answers he was looking for. Where was the killer?
The sun was rising when Harrow was next interrupted. This time by a scrawny little man, who’s church robes barely fit. He panted at the doorway as an enraged Harrow demanded to know who he was and why he had interrupted him.
“I’m, I’m Brother Eagle, Mr Harrow,” he stuttered, “We’ve got. I mean, we think we’ve got a lead on Mr Whitt.”
“What is it?”
“There are people saying he was born in the next village over-”
Harrow shot up and within a moment was within a hair’s breadth of Eagle. He towered over the little man, staring down upon him with his cold eye.
“-and… And we sent a few people over to go and investigate. They told us Mr Whitt’s real name, and where he’d been staying. Or at least, where he was staying. In a house with a childhood friend and their wife.”
“Have they been arrested?”
“Not yet sir. We were waiting-”
“Don’t wait! Two peasants who have aided a murderer should not be allowed time to plot against us. Send word that they are to be arrested at once and brought to me here. Go now!”
Brother Eagle nodded and scurried out the Church like a rat. Harrow said his thanks to the goddess Selene before returning to his prayers – now in a far better mood. He stayed in this state of contemplative silence for quite some time before Eagle finally returned.
A small party made their way into the church. Eagle led the group, followed by a young couple, both with bruised faces and scared looks. Behind them were five other churchmen, all tall and muscular and with bloodied knuckles.
“These are the two he was staying with, Mr Harrow,” Eagle said proudly, “They were a little difficult to convince, mind. They didn’t want to help you- us, with our enquiries. So…
“I see,” Harrow said, before turning his attention to them, “What are your names?”
“Look,” said the man, “You have no right to-”There came a loud crack as Harrow slapped the man across the face. One of the other churchmen grabbed the victim’s arms before he could retaliate.
“Your names. Don’t make me ask again.”
“Dillon Simmons,” said the man, “And this is Lola.”
“Are you aware that you were harbouring a man who has now killed, and will most likely kill again.”
“We don’t know what you’re talking-”
“Clearly state yes, or no.”
“No,” Lola replied, and Harrow turned his gaze to her.
“Lies,” he said, “And in the house of the Goddess herself. I’ll see that your tongue is removed for that sin.”
“But it’s the truth!” Lola cried, “We don’t know what it is you’re-”
“Take the woman away and keep her locked somewhere. I’ll interrogate them individually.”
“Yes brother.”
“And, do ensure that she remains under watch at all times until I speak to her. I will not have a repeat of Saint Martin.”
“Of course,” Eagle replied. Two of the large men grabbed Lola’s arms and dragged her from the Church. She kicked and swore as they went, proclaiming that neither her or Dillon had done anything wrong. Harrow of course dismissed these statements as nothing but more lies. He waited for the great doors to close before bothering to speak again.
“You are an accomplice of Mr Whitt, are you not? Or you may of course know him under his real name…”
Harrow gestured towards brother Eagle, who declared the real name of Richard Whitt to be Jacob Smythe. Dillon’s eyes widened at the reveal.
“I… Yes, he’s a friend. Was a friend. He went off to war you see and when he came back he was-”
“He became a cold-blooded killer,” Harrow interrupted, “And you and your wife allowed him to stay in your home until he was in a position to indulge in his psychotic tendencies. Is that right?”
“No! Not at all. Look, whatever’s happened here- you’ve got it all wrong! Jacob would-”
“Be quiet. I have not the want or need to listen to your pathetic excuses. Jacob Smythe travelled to Saint Martin, where he brutally murdered a drunkard and then fled from justice. For that he will be hunted and executed in the name of justice. You, as his ally in his grim doings, will burn with him.
“What!”
“To find redemption you must tell me now where I may find Smythe. Should you lead me to him, perhaps our Lady will show mercy upon your soul. Otherwise, I dread to imagine what post-death may have prepared for you.”
“But I don’t know where he is!”
Harrow, wordlessly, walked towards the altar at the far end of the church. There he reached under it and drew a long, curved ceremonial knife. On its handle the image of the moon had been carved, along with an inscription which translated as ‘may evil men fear moonlight’. Harrow returned to Dillon and ordered one of the larger men to hold out the prisoner’s hand.
Dillon winced as the Church Brother ran the edge of the knife across his fingertips.
“I consider it my duty to maintain peace and justice upon this land,” said Harrow, “And I pray that peace comes to all men, evil or otherwise. If you do not wish to confess to your crimes, then for the good of your immortal soul I shall make you. Confession, Mr Simmons, is the only way to redemption.”
“I’m innocent! I’m telling you that I have-”
“Unless you wish to confess now, save your breath. Otherwise, I fear we may have a long day ahead.”
Hours after being locked in the basement of someone’s home, Lola had a visitor. The light from their lantern broke through the darkness and for a moment she thought she may be saved. That was until the battered body of her husband was thrown onto the ground before her.
“Well, Mr Simmons,” said the grim face of the man she had met in the Church, “I hope that your time in solitude has allowed you to consider your position. You are to come with me now.”
“Dillon,” she asked, kneeling down by her husband’s side. His face was covered in cuts and bruises. The palms of his hands had been dyed red with blood which poured from the gashes that had been inflicted upon him. Not a sound came from him save for the slow beating of his chest.
“What did you do to him!”
“I took confession, as I will for you. Unless you would like to tell me now why you have betrayed the Goddess Selene.”
“We have not done anything-”
“I will listen to no more of this!” Harrow cried, reaching into his cloak and revealing his knife, “You will give your confession willingly, or it will be extracted from you.”
Harrow stepped forward and immediately the two men by his sides overtook him. Lola cried out more as they grabbed her arms and pressed her so that her back was against the cellar wall. Harrow raised his knife up to her eye.
“Your husband took so long to admit to his sins,” Harrow said, “But I waited for him. As I will wait for you. Speak now, or speak later. It makes no difference to me.”
“Please…” Lola whispered, “Please. We haven’t done anything.”
With that, Harrow gently pressed the tip of the knife into her pupil. Lola screamed as Harrow’s face remained devoid of any emotions. He pulled the knife away slowly and in a calmer tone, spoke again.
“You allowed the man Jacob Smythe into your home, did you not?”
“Yes,” Lola whimpered, “Yes- but that was before he killed anyone. He left one day and didn’t tell us where he was going or- or anything. You have to believe us!”
“But you said he had returned from war,” Harrow reminded her, placing a hand upon her shoulder, “Do you not think he had killed in all the years he had been a soldier?”
“That’s- but that’s different. That was-”
“You continue to lie to me, Mr Simmons. It is a habit yourself and your husband seem to indulge in. Perhaps now though, you will want to tell me the truth. Where is Jacob Smythe?”
“We don’t know!” Lola cried, “Why won’t you listen to us? We don’t know where he is. He was with us, then he left. Please, don’t hurt us.”
Harrow took off the necklace he had been wearing and pressed the moon pendant against the woman’s sweat-drenched brow.
“Is that your truth?” he asked calmly.
“Yes,” Lola whispered, “Yes. We do not know where he is.”
“Your husband said the same. I believe that much to be true,” Harrow told her, “So take relief in the knowledge that your souls will not be burdened by that after you are burnt.”
Brother Harrow and Brother Eagle watched the fire lighting from afar. A small crowd was gathered around the village square, where this execution was to be committed. Two posts stuck upright from a pile of wood, upon which Dillon and Lola were tied. Neither spoke - neither could - for their tongues had been removed. Instead they simply watched wide-eyed as the flames spread around their feet and onto them.
“It’s a good night for it,” Brother Eagle said in an attempt to brighten Harrow’s mood. The hideous man did not reply, staring intently at the display of justice as his gaze was what had lit the blaze.
“I believe you’ve done a fine job, Brother Harrow. Perhaps now you’ll be returning to Saint Martin’s and-”
“No,” Harrow mumbled.
“… Your business here in Vale is over. Jacob Smythe may have escaped but the two who helped him are now soon to die. The barman who escaped alongside him is dead as well, as is the Brother who allowed him to escape in the first instance. What more could you want?”
“Don’t be so stupid!” Harrow cried, “What more could I want? What more? A murderer walks free and you ask what more I could want? Believe me when I say this, Brother Eagle, for my word is my bond, and all I speak is truth-
I vow that this shall not be over until I have inflicted justice upon the man who has killed and therefore declared war upon our church. My hunt will continue until Jacob Smythe is dead; by my own hand or by the hand of the Goddess herself. One day, Eagle, I shall find him. When that day comes, only then will my justice be served.”