That fall, the classroom of Master Jeremiah and part of the attaching corridor was cast into hell.
— Extract from "The History of Almadel" vol 2.
12 Days until the fall of Almadel
The two men trudged through the drizzle. The one in front wore glasses and had to stop every few minutes to wipe them. The one in back had a canvas bag over one shoulder, and his boots sunk into the mud of the forest with each step, causing him to fall further and further behind. He wore a flat cap of black leather with a rip down the middle. It was noon, but the wet, grey sky meant it was dark in the forest under the pine trees.
He lost his focus for a second and slipped on a wet root and fell to the ground, dropping his burden. “SHIT!” He climbed back to his feet, grabbing onto a nearby branch to keep his balance. He kicked the soaked and muddy cloth bag three times then squatted down and rolled it back onto his shoulder. “Give us a hand!” he shouted ahead to the other man, who had turned back to see what was happening.
“No.” came the reply, “I told you we should have parked the car at the other side of the forest, you twat.”
“You bloody will help me, or we’ll be late, and you know how much he hates that"
“Oh fucking fine then!” said the other man, and he wiped his glasses and took one end of the bag on his shoulder.
They proceeded through the wood, a four-legged shape, slithering and slipping along like a new-born foal, until the path came to an end in front of a squat cottage.
It was built of grey stone. The roof had once been thatch, but was now rotted and covered in green moss. A welcoming orange light shone from the two small windows on either side of the door. The men dropped the bag off their shoulders, landing it with a squelch outside the door. The man in the hat leaned over the bag and knocked twice on the door.
“Come in!” said a high-pitched voice from inside.
They pushed the door open and together dragged the bag over the threshold. It was hot. Inside was a single room laid to floorboards and covered with a mishmash of furs and carpets. In the center of the far wall a wood stove was burning fiercely, the flames heaving and rolling over on themselves. In one corner there was a high wooden chair piled with pillows in which a young boy of perhaps fourteen was sitting, one leg tucked beneath himself. Books and papers were spread out on the floor below him, and as they entered he closed the book he had been holding and threw it gently into one of the piles. The stove plinked as the metal shifted in response to the high heat. The man wearing the hat looked up warily as a rustling noise came from above, and clutched the cap to his head. Five owls were perched on a beam staring down at him hungrily.
“You have him?” the boy asked.
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“Yes, we caught him on the way back from town. He was no trouble.”
“Show me” said the boy.
The man in the hat crouched down and untied the top of the bag, then up-ended it on the floor. The body inside slid out wetly. A chorus of excited shrieks and hisses echoed down from the owls sitting on the joists.
The boy looked at the pile distastefully. “That is not the one.” he said.
The man swallowed, “We tried. He does not venture outside the wards. We haven't seen any trace of the one who took her, yet. You did say that any teacher would do, to start with."
The boy silenced the man with a raised finger and stood up from his chair. He padded over to the body on the floor, barefoot, squatted down and lifted its head to look at the face. He stared at the face for a while. “It makes sense” he said finally. “Having done such a thing, it is normal that he would huddle there in his hole, hiding himself amongst the innocent. Now that he knows we are hunting in this region he will become doubly careful. My daughter has waited for a long time, she can wait longer, we need not be hasty, we may take our time, enjoy ourselves.” He pulled one of the eyelids open and stared into the eye behind. “How did this one die?”
“He resisted our capture” said the man, “but he is still fresh enough.”
“Then let us wake him” said the boy. “And search for a crack in their defenses where I might slip through. What fun.”
Outside, the rain had stopped and the sky was beginning to lighten. Birdsong began to return. A robin had perched on the rusted metal bracket that once held a bird feeder next to the front door. A drop of water fell from the roof onto its back and it shook itself dry, puffing up its feathers around its neck against the chill. It settled down onto its legs and began preening its red chest feathers.
The owl made no noise as it approached, dropping quietly from its perch on a beech tree that poked out above the young pines surrounding it. This had once been a deciduous forest, a bright and healthy place of oaks, beech and sycamore. Some thirty years ago during an especially dry summer a fire had burnt it to the ground, and only this little house and the beech tree looming above it had survived, a miracle. Both were now crowded by leggy young spruce trees that had been planted after the fire.
The owl flew in a smooth curve, its eyes fixed unblinking on its target. The robin noticed a second too late and tried to take flight, but the owl stretched out its feet unhurriedly and plucked it from its perch.
From inside the house a terrible screaming had started up, a babbling, gurgling scream, like someone trying to shout for help with a mouth full of jelly. The owl returned to its perch, its prize twitching in its claws. It stood on the little bird, watching the life leak from its body, the feathers of its belly turning red to match its chest. Its struggles becoming weaker and weaker as the life was crushed out by the powerful feet of the owl.
The screaming from the house stopped just as suddenly as it had started. The owl looked up, twisting its head to stare behind itself. The forest was quiet now, all other birds in the area had fled when the sound started. The only noise was a drip drip drip of water dropping from the soaked trees. The owl looked back down at its prize, it was dead. Bored, it lifted its foot, letting the limp body of the robin tumble to the forest floor.
The owl watched the clearing below as the door opened and two men walked out. Inside the house, the boy was back in his chair, reading a book. The body was gone. The owl watched the men and the boy watched also, seeing the world through a hundred eyes, like watching it through a shattered mirror, each sliver of glass a different viewpoint. He saw the clearing, and he saw his book, he saw the forest from high above, he saw a terrified rabbit running for its life as a predator swooped closer. He stretched his mouth open, revealing his teeth. One would hesitate to call it a smile. He was having fun. For the first time in a century, he had a simple goal. No more politics, no more bribery and blackmail. A competent quarry. A hunting trip like those of his distant youth.