The following derives from Malcom’s account. While simply presenting his report without my interpretation would seem sensible on the outset, it should be noted that Malcolm’s writing is somehow more obtuse than his speech.
Disregard interpretation, this is a translation.
###
The Farmer heft himself onto the stool at the counter of the Crispy Biscuit with a sigh. “Cider. Highest proof you’ve got.”
It had been a trying week since Emilie left with those two boys. He didn’t know how his niece fared, he just knew he’d be more afraid for her if she stayed. Stayed in the inn, more like. The police had taped off his property. One report of a dead body in the parlor and suddenly he was the suspect. He had to assume that his position would improve if the police actually found the black robed-assassin, but the body was gone. Either he walked out himself or he was fetched.
Either was a bad sign.
He had to hope. Something would turn up, and then he’d be exonerated. Bartholomew would stop by with Emilie, for a visit. Normalcy would return. Joshua and his brother would never come within a hundred miles ever again.
The cider came piping hot just like the Farmer liked. It burned in more ways than one but he downed it in a chugging gulp. “Another.”
“That good, huh?” a man said, taking a seat next to the Farmer, his weight causing the stool to groan.
The man’s feet scraped the floor while sitting tall on the stool. Seven feet standing, had to be. The Farmer would estimate taller, but he figured that was the terror talking. This man wore the same black robes as the County that came to his house looking for murder. This guy, though, didn’t cover his face. This made it worse seeing those jagged teeth like a piranha. The Farmer tried to stand but his body balked.
He’d been warned of this, of course, but he had decided on the first day that he’d rather die in the city he was born in than turn tail. But now, that voice of stubbornness wasn’t so loud.
Saley the barmaid set their drinks down at the same time, and the Farmer grabbed his with trembling fingers. She saw the giant’s evil looking getup of course, but her rural politeness precluded acknowledgment.
“You’re doing good,” the assassin said, downing his mason jar of cider like a shot. “Keep calm and quiet. Don’t ask for help. It would only make everyone else’s lives worse.” He slammed the counter and shouted for the barmaid. “Another! Make it two. My friend will catch up by then.”
Saley peered back halfway through the swinging door to the kitchen. The Farmer shook his head as subtly as he could.
“Drink.” The large man commanded, shoving the cider into the Farmer’s hands.
Drink the Farmer did, choking on the last dregs of his swill before the next round arrived. The Farmer put on a smile and looked at Saley. “Can I get some paline mixed in there, hun?” Saley scooped the jars back up in a jiffy and disappeared. He despised the piney flavor and Saley knew that. Or at least she used to when he came here regularly, please let her remember.
“Looks scrumptious!” The words were nearly shouted into the Farmer’s ear as a kid took a seat on his other side. Young twenties maybe, leather jacket, acne scars on his right cheek. Terrible timing for him. “Beget unto me what these dandies are imbibing. ‘Hun’.”
At least the Farmer wouldn’t have to feel too bad if this kid was caught up in whatever this was. Show some respect to the wait staff. There was perhaps nothing he despised more than kids from the city laughing at the lingo or slightest accent in the countryside.
Saley came back with a round for all three, not a care in the world. Stupid girl. “You know where to find me,” she said, gliding away.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
The Farmer side eyed the giant man, expecting him to get a kick out of this situation. Look at the hicks who don’t know no better. But he had changed. He was side eyeing the Farmer as well, his skin pale. No, he wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at the kid.
“What are you doing here?” the giant asked. “This isn’t your territory.”
The kid glowered at them and then with one finger slowly moved his glass across the counter until it fell. The clatter was met with a shout from Saley saying she’d be right out. Only now, the Farmer saw that the others dining in that night had left in a hurry.
“You ever spied a person’s shadow when that very personage does not subsist?” The kid asked the giant, talking right across the Farmer. “There’s this thing we do—Combustion Syches,” he said aside to the Farmer. “A person’s there—” He snapped his finger, getting a jump out of both the Farmer and the giant. “And then they’re not.”
The Farmer could sense the big man wilting, shrinking in his seat, if such a thing was even possible. They’d be the same size soon, at this rate.
The kid continued, “You ask me why I am here. But people don’t ask me why I am where I am, because I’ve only ever been where I want to be. See?” He took a second to follow Saley with his eyes as she came out with the dust pan, the napkins, and a spray bottle. “You though,” he pointed at the giant and then started to push the Farmer’s cider as well. “You’re far away from home. What are you doing on the continent?”
Crash
“Urgent business,” the large man said. “I phoned the local Synod and was told to handle it myself.”
“And now your enterprise is mine. Fly away little tit, back to Tyré.” The kid flapped his fingers in nothing resembling a bird. “And convey to my lummoxes to come in with the amuse-bouche. Quit posing for animal crackers. Git.”
The large man kept his eyes trained on the floor as he pushed himself from the stool. The Farmer could sense Saley, already cleaning up the second broken jar, about to demand he pay first and exaggeratedly mouthed ‘Leave’.
He looked back to see the kid gleaming at him.
“It’s acceptable, she can egress. You’ll want to flagellate your wretched self soon enough either way.”
Saley had to move aside—horrified-- from the doors as two more black robed thugs came through, dragging Pieter between them. His eye was swollen shut. His lip cracked. Blood trickled from one ear. ‘Go!’ the Farmer mouthed one more time, begging she would listen. Praying the giant on the other side of that door would let her.
And she did leave, her ultimate fate he’d never know.
The kid stood up, grabbed Pieter by his collar, and shoved him into the seat the giant had occupied. He waived the other two off and they were alone again, all three of them.
“I’m going to keep this brevity—brevit—I’m going to keep this short. Who knows more?” the kid said. “Come on. The reward structure is yet unestablished. You might get off easier if you talk.”
Pieter sniffled and shivered in his seat, showing no sign he even heard the words. Not that it mattered. Pieter was the happenstantial victim here.
“I’m not going to try and bargain,” the Farmer started. “I know as much as I could, given the situation. But let the boy go. His involvement, top to bottom, is an accident. Do right by him.”
“This little taste of reality was ‘right by him’. I tracked that brat down to his parents’ chalet three countries over. Let me tell you, takes more than a broken leg to correct that kind of upbringing.” Mal stopped his pacing waltz and delivered a swift kick to Pieter’s casted leg, with elicited a surprisingly demure groan through clenched teeth. “Imagine having parents; he may never recover.”
“Okay, okay, let’s calm down,” the Farmer tried to soothe. Tried.
The kid was in his face in a flash. “I’m serene. Bored even. But I feel you. We need to get this show on the road.” The kid hurdled across the counter and knocked over a cup filled with cutlery, pulling a steak knife out of the haystack. He tested the tip of the blade on his finger tip and found it satisfactory. As he walked back around the counter, the two goons came back through the door and hoisted Pieter up, dragging him back outside. His casted leg bumping up and down with every step.
The kid shook off his leather jacket and threw it over one shoulder as he approached with the knife. Underneath, he sported a simple white undershirt with a deep V. He tossed the knife up caught it on the blade, then did it again. Each toss, a small fire sprung to life in the diner, a booth, end of the counter, in the kitchen.
By the time Malcom made it to the Farmer, they were already in a ring of fire. But something told the Farmer it wasn’t to keep him there; where could he go?
The kid squared up: “Now don’t worry about this part, only sucks for me.” He raised his right forearm and the Farmer saw inky blackness swimming through his forearm. It was blacker than black, and frankly, the way it moved looked alive. The knife came up and slid down the forearm, right through that black. And what oozed out was not definitely not blood. It pooled between their feet, slowly covering the both of them. The more it poured from his arm, the further they sunk.
“They call us the Dark Element for a reason,” the kid said. “It’s a neat trick really. Always goes back to the source. Will bring us right along. Fast travel-style.”
And then the Farmer was lost in Darkness. Thick, writhing darkness.
The boy’s voice came through like an echo: “I don’t remember, but if you heard my men or that oaf call me Stains, put it out of your mind. Calling me Malcolm—or even ‘that guy’-- will do fine. Otherwise, tray tables upright and prepare to meet the Dark Lord.”