The Headsman Commeth

In the passing months the news was grim and so was the butcher’s bill. New casualties, another score and more reported throughout the county. No rhyme or reason was there to the attacks, no consistency upon which to fix. The Reaper, it seemed, was everywhere. And so the people marked by his touch became well acquainted with a new past time: burying the dead. 

Paranoia soon took hold, as it became widely known the nature of the beasts which so brutally assailed the land. For now life was a gamble, a roll of the dice as to whether or not your neighbor, your lover, your brother could be a beast within.

Suspicion became rule of the day, hysteria it’s master of ceremonies presiding over wild orgies of violence against any accused. How many blameless were burnt at the stake? How many virtuous dangled from a tree? Who can say? For in the arithmetic of the foreboding, is anyone truly innocent?

To put it plainly the County of Nordemars was sick. A demesne afflicted with a lupine plague that festered throughout it’s body, a body which had begun to attack itself, if only to stave off further infection but in truth left everything worse for the wear.

Count Alarik von Keller, the ruler of this poorly shire, sat in his private study at a desk strewn with papers. The pleasant sun that shined outside the window adjacent, gave little to him in the way of warmth, not in body nor in mind. His mood was sour, and his lavender gaze seemed to be staring into a world beyond.

Seated opposite was his younger brother, Lukas von Keller, the Baron of Kalmor, who seemed to be utterly content smoking away the time with a cigar. His lack of concern did chide Alarik who returned to the mundane and waved his hand about him to drive away his brother’s haze. Lukas, amused at the display, chuckled lightly before butting out the cheroot and leaning back in his seat.

For a few moments neither spoke and they simply stared at one another. Alarik wore a mask of annoyance while Lukas espoused a visage of disconnect with a hint of mischief.

“Damn it man,” Alarik swore. “Won’t you speak? I have laid my troubles bare before you and here you sit as if mute and dumb. Surely you concur that my concerns are warranted?”

“Of which? The howling marauders or the gracious aid provided by His Highness?”

Alarik sputtered, struggling to find the words to respond to the indignation posited. The Count had kindly requested of His Highness, the Prince-Regent Bohdan, to send him troops in order to deal with the werewolf problem that marred his fief. Yet in the stead of this request…

“Gracious? Gracious!? I ask for the means by which to put down this ghastly insurrection and that molly sends me ONE MAN!”

Alarik stood up, driving forth an index finger held upright in emphasis.

“ONE MAN! And a damnable one at that sir.”

Lukas shrugged in gesture, “Who better to hunt monsters than another monster?”

“Oh pish!” Alarik scoffed. “Bad enough I have that beastly sort gallivanting about, that I should add further to my woes? A sullied tradesman who consorts with the diabolic?”

“All I’m saying is that perhaps there is a silver lining in all this,” Harlec reasoned. “You cannot deny that if even half of what is said about him is true, then we are in need of this man indeed.”

“Do we? Truly? What can this solitary, glorified headsman do that my entire Constabulary could not? What can this devil-whisperer accomplish in the place of the dragoons I asked for in the first place?”

Lukas grinned as he answered, “Well, I suppose actually finding the blighters, for a start.”

Alarik burned at Lukas intensely with a look of fury. Prompting his junior sibling to respond in kind, dropping his jester’s cap for but a moment.

 “Hades, brother, we are at the mercy of these mongrels. Your men have not managed to make hide nor hair of the beasts since this whole thing began and I very much doubt a regiment of dragoons would make a difference. Say what you will but Master Konrad is exactly the medicine for this illness. Mark my words.”

“Oh but I will brother,” Alarik spat. “And when he conjures Monad only knows what from the Realm of Pyre I will be sure to remind you of them.”

“Well enough.”

The debate paused as both men stewed, annoyed at the other and resolute in their stance on the, as it seemed, divisive matter.

For clarity, the man whom they were arguing about: Master Konrad or, to use his full title, Master Konrad Mydlar, Royal Executioner, was the singular agent dispatched by the Prince-Regent to attend the matter in Nordemars. The good Count’s apprehension at his coming stems from the fact that Konrad is a Corbanite, a controversial veneration within the Kalarian Ecclesia.

Saint Corban, from whose name Corbanite derives, was a holy warrior. During the Age of Calamity, Saint Corban forged and then perfected an ability that allowed him to imprison demons within his body. Using his soul as a spiritual bind, he could enslave these malevolent spirits and, in turn, wield powerful infernal energies against the diabolic. Those who venerated Saint Corban, such as Konrad, were gifted this power following the observance of several rites and initiations.

Naturally, all of this culminated into a general suspicion towards Corbanites. Their abilities to wield these baleful powers oft drew comparisons to sorcerers, necromancers and other practitioners of the dark arts. During the Great Schism, the suppression and persecution of the Corbanites — in addition to the outright banning of saintly veneration — was explicitly detailed as one of the tenants of the Charter of Reform, presented by the Metaryte Movement that split off from the Ecclesia some three-hundred years ago.

Furthering the scales towards disdain was the usual tarnishing associated with executioners in general. They were macabre men who dealt in a macabre trade. As far as anyone was concerned, being the Royal Executioner afforded no prestige. Nor did being an agent of the Crown amount to anything worthy of boast. The latter especially marked you as a pariah, for who in the right mind would speak freely and in good comfort knowing that a cloak and dagger was just a breath away?

Yet, to the credit of Lukas, Konrad’s abilities were well known. Though shunned and censured, none could deny that the Royal Executioner was first class amongst the practices of thief-taking, beast hunting, capital punishment and exorcism. In fact, if rumors held true, he was quite the accomplished surgeon as well, although he typically only served clientèle that lacked sufficient means or wished to have their ailments remain…surreptitious.

Alarik broke the silence, now calm and composed, “I do hope you’re right. We cannot continue as is or else I fear we will be overrun. This…pack grows in strength with every passing night. Monad knows how many there will be on the morrow.”

“How long till he comes?” asked Lukas.

“Two days by my estimation.”

Lukas sighed but said nothing. Two days? In that time how many would perish? From both the maws of beasts and the fears of men?

A knock on the door drew the attentions of both as they looked up to see Alarik’s butler, Balint Novak, enter and bow profoundly.

“Begging your pardon my lord. But you have guests.”

The Count raised an eyebrow. “Guests?”

“Yes my lord, a masked gentleman with whom I assume is his ward or squire.”

Alarik and Lukas regarded each other in one-half shock and the remainder astonishment. It couldn’t be…

“Bring them here,” Alarik ordered, prompting Balint to bow once more and depart.

“Two days?”

Alarik gestured in a manner that betrayed his confusion, “Yes! I only just received the letter from His Highness yesterday.”

“He must have been on the heels of that courier.”

The door to the study opened once more and Balint ushered in two men who moved with ominous silence. One was a tall, strapping man clad in blake, with a top hat resting upon his umber mane and a mask barring all but his black-grey eyes from display. The other was a young lad of no older than fourteen summers, blond and brown-eyed with a roguish air about him.

“My lord,” the tall one bowed slightly, his voice bass and deep. “I am Konrad Mydlar, at your service.”

He gestured to the lad, “And this is Rayk Steiner, my apprentice.”

Alarik took a moment to regard the two carefully, for they looked nothing at all like he imagined. Aside from the armor they wore Konrad looked every bit a gentlemen and Rayk a respectable ward.

“Ah-h, well, that is, welcome,” he managed to conjure. “We did not expect you so soon.”

Neither Konrad nor Rayk offered a response.

“You must be tired from the road,” Lukas interjected. “Would you care for a drink?”

Konrad shook his head, “No thank you my lord. It would be best if we-“

“My lord!”

A man, dressed in a gray uniform of the Constabulary, that was torn in places and speckled with scarlet, rushed into the room and came to attention before the Count.

“They struck again! A whole village this time!”

“They tore right through us and we couldn’t stop them,” the constable regaled, breathing heavily. “Any of the people they didn’t kill outright they carried off.”

“Which way?” Konrad asked, somewhat startling the constable who then pointed in a general north-westerly direction.

“Thereabouts,” he answered. “If you start at the village they hit, Varnum, you might be able to pick up their tracks but I warn you, it’s a terrible sight sir.”

Konrad snapped his fingers and Rayk was in lockstep behind him, “Let’s go.”