Words Most Foul
The bishop sat behind his desk and his brow furrowed in worry, alone with a single visitor in the room. The unsettling presence of his guest caused sweat to bead on his forehead. Against the scent of incense and firewood, the smell of a graveyard lingered in the air about the man sitting across from him.
A sliver of silver moonlight shone through the crack between a set of heavy velvet curtains. Its sheen paled in comparison to the warm red glow of flames, dancing in the fireplace and atop a dozen candles throughout the room. The lights reflected on myriads of shiny surfaces made of brass, gold, and glass throughout the chamber.
The guest’s impatience was palpable. It made the bishop’s stomach cramp up and he avoided eye contact, instead training his gaze upon a set of papers in his hand. He cleared his throat, hoping that doing what was expected of him would prompt this unpleasant man to finally leave. And he began to read the letter out loud.
“To the Bishopric of Crimsonport,” the bishop spoke, reading from the parchment.
* * *
I write to you in regards to the events in Hallowglen. While I refuse to call any of the events unnatural—and I am certain that time will eventually yield rational explanations for all things yet unexplained—I am convinced that the events here warrant additional intervention from our order.
By the power vested in me by the church and the good god, I believe that we cannot let things continue to get out of hand. I believe you will see it my way by the end of reading my account.
Upon arriving in Hallowglen to investigate Father Morgan Simpson’s absence, I soon learned from the town’s overseer, Mister Gregory Galway, that the good Father had perished. Galway sent a courier to Crimsonport, which may have crossed paths with me on my way to the village, so consider my word to supersede whatever Galway wrote in his correspondence.
Much like Simpson wrote in his original letter about disturbed bodies in the cemetery missing their faces, Simpson’s corpse, too, was faceless. Galway found him like that in his guest room and had already had him buried prior to my arrival in Hallowglen. I had the local gravedigger exhume Simpson’s remains and can confirm the descriptions given in his letter.
Indeed, all facial features on the bodies—his included—are simply missing. They have not been surgically removed or sealed in any way. Where eye sockets, nostrils, or mouth should be, are only smooth patches of skin, seamlessly connected to the skin of the face around them. I still lack an explanation, but cannot deny what I witnessed.
I immediately began questioning the townsfolk and started with the most suspicious individual mentioned in Simpson’s writing: Mister Sherman Hill. It was late afternoon and I obviously disturbed the man during attempts to prepare something for supper. Judging by the noise he made and the inordinate amount of time he took to answer the door, I deduce that he hid occult and pagan paraphernalia before responding.
He stepped outside and was mostly uncooperative, though I was able to strike some fear of the good lord into his heart. I also threatened with alerting the authorities to any possible involvement he may have had with the disturbances in the cemetery or even Simpson’s death, which finally convinced him to share with me what he knew.
Hill admitted to observing or at least respecting heathen rituals, and mentioned an old wives’ tale about fair folk. He spoke of a “Fair Prince of Fragrant Flowers” also known as Prince Fainlahset to the villagers. According to Hill, the townsfolk either worshiped or had some agreement with these supposed fair folk, and just mentioning the name had this miserable man fearing for his own life. He also revealed to me that this “Prince” had his “lair” in an old ruin out in the Blackwood, not too far from town.
I should have picked up on the warning signs then and there. Because while the story about fair folk is clearly nonsense, we all know that scoundrels and murderers avoid the authorities by hiding in the Blackwood. It dawned on me that the events here were connected to such a band of wretches, as I would later confirm.
Knowing it wise not to venture out into the forest at twilight or night, I spent the rest of the hours of daylight in town, questioning over villagers. However, none of the conversations with them proved to be as fruitful as the one with Mister Hill. Although I estimate the people observing pagan traditions to be the minority in Hallowglen, I think the villagers themselves are of little concern to us—nothing that the presence of a dedicated priest and a small place of worship could not correct.
No, the reason I humbly request a group of knight-crusaders from the old world to venture to this town are the events I witnessed on the following day.
I had spent the night in the guest room of Mister Galway’s home—the same in which Father Simpson was found dead. Part of me hoped that the culprit would show up again and that I could put an immediate stop to this without having to trudge out into the woods. While I did find a strange stain and residue of some unidentifiable mucus on the floor of this room (I sent you a sample in a vial along with this letter), neither did I find any clues as to how the murderer somehow got in and out of a locked room to end Simpson’s life, nor did the villain return to the scene of the crime.
I woke up the next morning, none the wiser, to the knocking of Mister Galway. His face was as pale as a ghost. According to Mister Hill’s neighbors, they had heard strange noises from the craven man’s home last night, and a foul stench was coming from an open window.
The overseer accompanied me as I stormed across town to investigate this. It is probably fortunate that Galway waited outside, for the scene that unfolded in Hill’s house was truly awful.
As far as I could determine this, the man had been subject to a vivisection. A blade or stiletto had punctured his spine and throat from behind, likely prior to all the other mortal injuries, preventing him from screaming for help. His heart and liver had been removed with surgical precision and cooked in a pot on his stove. Someone had eaten from it. The partially eaten organs were left in there with the disgusting slop, and the stew explained the foul smell the neighbors had spoken of. The culprits also used his entrails as a sort of grisly decoration, draping them all around the room like garlands.
I left everything mostly untouched as to not interfere with any investigations that the constabulary might eventually carry out in Hallowglen. Though I must admit, the temptation to burn the place down and consecrate the ashes was tremendous.
Pardon my language from here on out, but I do not know how else to cope with witnessing such abominable deeds. It was clear to me what had transpired here: some bastard had murdered Hill for speaking with me. Word must have gotten out to these brigands in the woods, and they wanted to send a message to silence the townsfolk. The tales of fair folk were evidently poppycock and one or more violent madmen were terrorizing this settlement.
Prince Fainlahset my arse.
I knew I had no time to waste and marched into the woods to gather more information on this figure. I took my bag with me and entered the forest. Call it arrogance that I believed I could take them on all on my own, armed only with a silvered dagger, but I planned not to confront them. I merely wanted to locate them, so capable lawmen, soldiers, or knights could deal with them appropriately.
After several hours of sneaking through the Blackwood with muck clinging to my boots, I finally came across a ruined old monastery, matching what Hill had mentioned to me the day before. The place was overgrown and the canopy of trees rendered it dark and dreary even on a sunny day.
Before approaching, I hid and observed. I had left my pocket watch back at Galway’s estate so I had no way of telling how long I waited there in the shadows, watching. But it felt like a long time. Whoever had eviscerated Sherman Hill was a monster, and I suspected there to be more than one of these bandit scumbags hiding out here.
I saw no sign, however. So after what must have been nearly an hour of waiting, I snuck into the ruins to search for any traces of the criminals.
It was deathly quiet, with the whispers of a gentle breeze sweeping through the trees, drowning out all other sounds. I took care not to make any noise as I crept forth, hoping to ambush the bandits, should I encounter any.
Despite all precautions, someone had noticed me before I noticed them. I froze, dead in my tracks, and I could feel the blood draining from my face. Clutching the dagger in my clammy hand, I turned to face the foe who had managed to sneak up on me.
The figure stood halfway in the shade, so it was difficult to discern all the details of his appearance. He was clad in a suit of armor that did not even remotely resemble any I had ever seen before. It shone like silver in the dim light. It covered all skin of the man, leaving every single feature to the imagination. Upon his head sat a helm, fashioned to look like a strange ursine creature. The visor’s slit was so narrow that I could not make out the man’s eyes, but I felt him staring at me with malice.
The strangest detail about his armor were his arms and gauntlets. The arms looked disproportionately long and rather bestial. The hands had only two fingers and a thumb each, which I found unsettling, but I also figured them to be extensions and the man’s actual hands hidden within the vambraces.
It must have been a full minute of us staring at each other when it dawned on me that neither of us moved to attack or do anything. But this armored stranger burned with a hostility I had never felt before.
He then spoke to me, but in some crude heathen tongue I had never heard before. It must have been one of the old dead languages that fell out of use, reaching back to the days of the old empire and the age of enlightenment. A language the pagans used to speak.
I understood nothing, but it chilled me to the core when I recognized a string of syllables within the guttural sounds: Fainlahset. The name of that so-called fair folk prince.
I regret to admit that fear overcame me and I had a sudden lapse in judgment. A lapse of sound mind, doubting all I believed in and falling into a brief moment of superstition. I threw a flask of holy water at the armored brigand and told him that the power of the lord compelled him to stand down. And of course it did nothing. I do not understand what I expected to happen.
The armored man just looked at the water dripping off of him. He then took a menacing step towards me and the shattered glass from the flask of holy water crunched underneath his heavy greaves.
Those three-fingered, clawed gauntlets opened and closed, like he readied himself to rip me apart. I raised the dagger in my hand, pointing it at his face, hoping he would rethink the situation.
The crack of a gunshot echoed through the ruins, and the armored figure stumbled back away from me. Dark, viscous fluid poured from a hole in his breastplate. I spotted the shooter. A woman in a tricorne hat, red scarf, and long coat was crouched upon a crumbling wall, holding a flintlock rifle in her hands. Smoke still rose from the muzzle of the weapon when she ducked into cover, out of sight from us.
The armored man looked around and failed to notice her in time. He returned his attention to me and lunged at me, but I stabbed him in the bleeding hole in his breastplate. Rather than stopping him dead in his tracks, he flung me aside as if I weighed nothing. His strength was tremendous; the kind of feat you would expect from the strongman of a wandering circus.
The world spun around me and I started feeling sick to my stomach, for I hit my head on a chunk of stone before landing, sprawled out on the ground. The bastard’s claws dug into my arm as he clamped down and flipped me over onto my back, looming over me. Though I could not see his eyes, I felt the murder in them.
A second gunshot pierced his helmet from behind and a flood of disgusting fluid sprayed my face. His armor creaked and screeched as his head turned, looking around to see where the shooter was, but then he collapsed onto the ground beside me.
I bled from my upper arm where the knife-like claws had sunken into the flesh, and hitting my head had certainly resulted in a concussion—in case you are to wonder about any possible lapses in judgment or action that followed—but the adrenaline still pumped through my veins and I scrambled to check on the armored man.
The world spun around me, faster and faster, and I passed out. Through a haze of semi-consciousness, I heard that woman reloading once more. When I heard the dead leaves crunching under her shoes, I came to again. So I yanked my dagger from the man’s chest, holding it out in front of me, hoping it would prevent her from shooting me as well.
Her icy gaze ignored me and stared directly at the figure of this armored man, exclaiming matter-of-factly, “Silver is useless against fair folk.”
And then she shot him in the head once more.
My mind reeled with the possibilities. At the time, I worried that I might have stumbled into the middle of a disagreement between bandits. But the woman had no quarrel with me. She poked the armored man with her rifle a few times and then helped me get back up onto my feet, looking me up and down.
I exchanged some words with her and she confirmed my hunch that she was the one Simpson had heard of and written of in his original correspondence. She claimed to be a “hunter” but deflected whenever I asked about her name. She was more keen on explaining the situation to me.
I heard her out, though it all sounded like more of this inane drivel you will inevitably hear from superstitious folk out on the countryside: the dead man here was no man, but a fair folk warrior, a member of the “wyld hunt” as she alleged.
He had served this “Prince Fainlahset” in terrorizing the people of Hallowglen, but the prince’s forces were spread out thin, seeking out several villages in and around the Blackwood. The people of these towns had stopped giving their children to the so-called prince, and he was now taking his toll for protection and prosperity he had rendered onto them in the past.
Although I think it sounds categorically absurd, I do have a feeling that there was a grain of truth in there. It would not surprise me if some bandits and thieves had long-standing relationships with the old clans and families of these backwater towns. It would stand to reason that old pagan traditions and misguided beliefs blended with agreements with crooks claiming to be unnatural creatures such as fairies.
She helped me. Bandaged my injuries. Then we went separate ways. This “hunter” went deeper into the woods, saying she was not done with them because it was something personal.
There was one more thing she told me that I found rather odd. When she learned that I was an inquisitor, she said that we—the church—should look into the affairs of Earl Irvine Tyson. She accused the earl of being involved in the practice of dark magick, and responsible for many awful things occurring in recent years in and around the city.
If her accusations are to be believed, then he is somehow responsible for the fires that burnt down the estate of Lord Wilkins, the Royal Society’s museum under the earl’s very own care, and the derelict Hayes residence. She refused to explain how exactly one would tie him to these incidents, but she was adamant about it.
I am inclined to believe her. For as much as she seemed untrustworthy overall—and perhaps even dangerous or insane—she quite firmly believed in what she was telling me. And if I have ever learned anything about reading people’s demeanor, then it is that all strong beliefs are rooted in a fundamental truth.
I searched the rest of the ruins but found no sign of anybody living there. I also found no tracks of the armored man anywhere. It was almost like he had appeared here out of thin air. When I returned to examine his body more closely, it was gone. Not dragged away. Not like he had gotten up and walked off into the woods. Just vanished.
I conclude thus far that the old monastery’s ruin is no “lair” or hideout of the bandits. But they must have some sort of sanctuary out there in the forest. I would suggest burning the entire range down, but I doubt the authorities would sanction that and I imagine the king would strongly object.
As such, I believe it would be prudent to summon crusaders here. They would definitely be able to offer assistance to the constabulary in rooting out whatever human monsters are lurking in the woods and terrorizing Hallowglen—and other settlements we are not aware of yet. And not for nothing, but it would be best for all if we could improve the image of the new inquisition by painting us as benefactors. It would be best in these dark times.
I will rest another day in Mister Galway’s care, and then travel to the next village to the north, Lesterfield. Once I learn more about the scoundrels behind all these crimes I will write to you again.
I will get to the bottom of this.
Yours truly,
Inquisitor Virgil Armstrong
* * *
The bishop finished reading the letter out loud and gingerly placed it onto the surface of his desk. He used a handkerchief to dab the beads of sweat from his forehead, then folded his hands together in front of himself, just as he always did in prayer to the good god. He closed his eyes, still avoiding the gaze of his guest.
His visitor had carried an air of malice from the moment of entering till now, sitting there all this time. Finally, the bishop opened his eyes and looked at him. The fireplace behind the guest turned him into a dark silhouette in the chair, sitting there with crossed legs and now drumming his fingers against the armrest.
The bishop took a deep breath, culminating in a sigh. He asked, “Is any of that true? Did you have anything to do with those—incidents?”
The silence from the other man across the desk was deafening.
“I know we had an agreement. I know something must be done about the king and his folly. But you know that I cannot sit idly by. Armstrong is just one of many. If there are others out there who—”
“They will be dealt with,” growled Earl Irvine Tyson. He stopped drumming his fingers against the armrest and glowered at the bishop.
The bishop leaned his head against his hands, for the worry on his shoulders weighed heavy. His fear filtered his words to the point of silence.
“Are there any copies of this letter from Armstrong?”
“As of yet, no,” answered the bishop.
The earl stood up from his chair and snatched the papers from the bishop’s desk. He carried them to the fireplace and tossed them in, where they quickly burnt up and joined the ashes.
The bishop sighed again and spoke, “I can lance a superficial investigation. Since you don’t really have anything to hide, it should be—”
“I’m afraid I can’t let that happen,” said the earl, interrupting him again.
He then muttered a sentence comprised of words that sounded too foul to be human language. Turning to the bishop, his eyes glowed with an eerie light not of this world. He snapped his fingers.
The bishop’s eyes went wide and he ripped open a drawer of his desk, drawing a pistol hidden therein. Before he could aim it at the earl, a trembling seized his body and made him shake like leaves in the wind. The weapon clattered onto the desk as spasms rocked the bishop’s body and his limbs locked up.
He gurgled and choked and then dozens of insects crawled out from his mouth, pouring out in a steady stream and spilling onto his desk, and onto the floor. Spreading everywhere. Other vermin soon followed, pushing out of his nostrils and ears and even burrowing out of his eye as the jelly popped and exploded outwards.
The earl had already stepped out of the room and walked away after closing the door behind him. The swarm of insects flooded away from the bishop’s dying body like a sheet of chittering, writhing, crawling darkness, filling the bishop’s study and dispersing in every direction.
The earl had more work to do. He now knew exactly who was meddling the most in his endeavors. Who risked everything he had been working for; everything he had done to get his revenge on the king.
He needed to find that damned huntress.
And he knew exactly the spell for the task.
—Submitted by Wratts
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