The air was cold, though he did not feel it. Adebar’s senses were numb, his feet leaden, and his skull throbbed from the red wine he’d nursed over the last hours. Huis had truly not spared any expense.
The nightly streets of Streissen were coated in a light mist, and, though it was dark, Mannslieb and Morrslieb above granted their sickly illumination, guiding his impaired course through the creek quarter, where the lower craftsmen, and the truly poor, made their homes. Once Adebar von Bolstedt, scion of Altdorf nobility, would not even have considered striding through these streets by day, but two years spent on the road, in the woodlands and backwaters of the Empire, had hardened his senses, and, even in his tipsy state, he could not fathom any danger the sleepy university-town could bring to bear on him, that Dark Gods, witches and murderous cults had not already flung at him. Streissen’s rebellious days lay long behind it, he had been told. He intended to leave on the morrow, unless some truly pressing matter presented itself. This place had bored him since his arrival, but two weeks ago.
The alleys were dark, but in that darkness was a strange comfort. While he was under no illusion that any sensible person was still about at this hour, finally off the open streets, Adebar allowed himself a crooked grin, as he reached out his mangled left hand to balance himself against the daubed wall. An old wound by now, earned over a year ago at the hands of a slavering Beastman-monstrosity, the stiff appendage was not a pretty sight, lacking two joints of the ring- and middle fingers, and the rest horrifically scarred, von Bolstedt had often come to meaningfully place it atop heavy wooden tables when the occasion called for such, or removing heavy riding gloves, when the fearsome effect was required. The sly smile faded, memories returned. The cold mist slowly crept into his bones, and movement alone would ward it off.
His path took him farther than he’d anticipated. The Pauper’s Market, where cobblers and daytalers usually crowded together during the day, was now liberating quiet. The nobleman slowly strode across, breathing deeply of the cold autumn air. Adebar looked around, at the dark facades of the houses, the unsupervised barrels of goods here or there.
Here were found the pawnshops, the seediest alehouses and the Apprentice’s House of the Cobbler’s Guild, still displaying the fire-scorched sigil of a white dove above its door, from older days, when, so Adebar had been told, it had been a hospice of the Shallyans.
His eyes turned northward, toward the heart of Streissen, toward the main road, flanked by the rundown houses of the Guildmasters of both the cobblers and, much less wholesomely, the tanners. Though the estates had once surely looked fashionable, age and past strife had reduced the burgher-dwellings to a rather sorry state. Beyond them, along the main road, lay the homes of other craftsmen, carpenters, butchers and other such workers of the lower classes, who had long abandoned the dilapidated quarter around the Pauper’s Market.
Beyond them lay the Schwesingplatz, from which roads led in all directions, the most important of which lead the the Palace-Park at the centre of Streissen, which connected the most important places of the township with a long band of greenery and ponds, not the least of which was the, now infamous, university.
A nagging, far too familiar sensation tore him from his nightly musings.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
His senses cried out, his entire being tensed up in less than a heartbeat. From the corner of his vision a dark, slowly moving figure emerged, slinking from the selfsame alley he had just traversed moments earlier.
It disappeared into the shadow of an overhanging facade as the Witchhunter turned to regard it.
Once he would’ve believed his senses to play tricks, now his mind shook off the cloying grasp of wine, acutely aware of his exposed position. So, so dreadfully long he hesitated then, only torn from his staring match with the inky blackness when he noticed cold sweat rolling down the bridge of his nose.
His right, good hand sank to the hilt of his trusted rapier, a weapon he had carried as a sign of his quest since the fateful night of his flight from Altdorf. Though it had been repaired many times in the meantime, its familiarity lent him the surety of the able duellist. He made haste to leave, crossing the Pauper’s Market, choosing the main road toward the centre of Streissen. The street behind him empty to the bare eye, but his sharp ears perceived the hurried step of boots through the mist, that now drew around him ever closer, like a deathshroud. While the mist hid his pursuer, it also brought von Bolstedt a deciding advantage.
He halted for a moment, listening for the footfalls of his pursuer. They too stopped, though a moment too late to be mistaken for Adebar’s own boots.
He knelt down, his mangled hand digging into the inside of his mantle, procuring, from a hidden holster, a finely engraved firearm, another old friend of Adebar’s. He rose again, looking far ahead, wagering to make out the mouth of a dark alleyway ahead. He cocked the hammer of his pistol, while not effortless, he’d had long to practise the manoeuvre. He raised the flintlock and squeezed the trigger, producing a whizzing ball of lead and a sharp flame.
Then he ran.
The shadow of his pursuer hurtled past him, racing down main street. Adebar’s ruse had worked. His stalker, now certain that he had been discovered, had dropped the pretence of stealth, now chasing after Adebar, who, so the shade thought, had taken off running.
It was a trick Adebar had learned in the streets of Nuln months ago, though he’d never seen it employed effectively.
He let the shadow sprint ahead, toward Schwesingplatz, where the Old Oak towered above the surrounding houses. Adebar stepped out of the alley and drew his rapier, then he too took off, now giving chase to his stalker. He needed a few answers.
Schwesingplatz was empty, the gnarled twigs of the Old Oak at its centre, enclosed in a fence of forged iron, reached in all directions like corpse-hands. Adebar’s heart beat the baleful rhythm of a war-drum in his chest, he was sweating, despite the cold. Slowly he circled around the thoroughfare, already hearing the shouting voices of, now awake, townsfolk. Shots were not a common occurrence in Streissen, not for a few years.
Over the distant voices, another, straining noise pierced von Bolstedt’s ears, though he could not locate it. He advanced, rapier on guard, studying the overhangs and dark fronts of the houses that stood in a circle around the Schwesingplatz. The air was tense now, the early hours of the morning were approaching rapidly. Suddenly, a heavy droplet hit the brim of his cocked hat. Instinctively he jumped backwards, expecting an attack from above.
What he saw was far beyond attacking him. He had found the source of the straining noise, for, far above the street, in the branches of the Old Oak, hung a body, the rope around its neck protesting, as the bleeding, naked carcass swayed around.
Von Bolstedt sheathed his blade, and took off his hat, mostly to inspect the damage, rather than to show his respect for the deceased.
It seemed Streissen would provide some work for him yet.