Deathspell (Peter W. Dawes) - Peter Dawes Page 0,1

of his stare, and as our eyes met, my throat turned dry, speech stopped up in my throat. Taking a longer, deeper look at the man, I felt the rest of the room melt away, even if only for a moment.

There I sat, all of fourteen years to this man’s twenty-four? Twenty-five? It was hard to gage solely by regarding him. He still bore the benefit of youth, but the gravity of his gaze suggested someone much older than he appeared. Father often had people calling after him, especially in the towns we frequented, but his warning replayed in my mind as our stalemate continued. ‘Men who make your blood run cold are often doing the devil’s work.’ The fact that this man had me frozen with shock, desperate to run away, seemed to add credence to my father’s superstition.

“Lad?” The innkeeper cleared his throat, knocking me out of my trance. My sights jumped to the innkeeper in time to see him frown, his expression attempting to admonish while conveying something else. I couldn’t quite tell what. “Do you have manners, or do I need to tell your Pa to remind ye of ‘em?”

“I…” My voice sounded odd as it passed through my lips. I forced myself to stop and attempt speech again. “I’m s-sorry, sir,” I said, fighting the compulsion to glance back at the stranger.

“Aye, as ye should be.” John nodded, his eyes narrowing while he reached for a cup. Pouring it full of ale, he thrust it at me and waved me away. “Now, take this up to him and be gone so I can finish business with my other customers.”

“Yes, sir,” I said on automatic, taking the drink and motioning away with it. My movements all seemed to be directed by a force outside myself, including the compulsion to lower from the stool and walk back in the direction of the stairs. I felt an issuance of protest within the recesses of my mind – I had come downstairs for food, it said, not for ale – and yet pressed forward on instinct. Both hands clutched onto the cup, as a lifeline and out of fear that I might drop it any moment. Halfway across the room, I chose that moment to turn my head and glance over my shoulder. What I saw defied all understanding.

Old John and the stranger stared at each other, but something was wrong about the expression on the innkeeper’s face. His eyes looked panicked, his face turning red like something had lodged in his throat. The cloaked man’s lips curled in a twisted grin, his gloved palm pointed upward. He closed his fingers and the invisible assault against John intensified, forcing a gasp from his mouth until a sickening crunch preceded him toppling to the ground.

The mug fell from my hands, its contents splashing across the floor.

My feet scampered for the stairs, hand gripping onto the banister while I raced toward the second floor. In my periphery, I saw the man walk away from the counter and paled when his voice echoed through the dining hall. “He’s here,” he shouted. “And he’s got his whelp with him.”

Clenching my eyes shut through the final stairs, I opened them only while rounding the corner and sprinting down the long corridor before me. As I reached the end of the hall, I held out a hand and pushed against the door, slamming it open and forcing it shut just as quickly. Air passed through my lips and into my lungs in gulps, taken and expelled fast enough for me to feel lightheaded.

“Christian?”

The tall, slender man to whom I bore a striking resemblance furrowed his brow at me. Whatever bewildered look must have been on my face, it was enough for Richard Hardi to sober instantly. “Christian, what is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

My hands shook as I pushed away from the door and pointed at it. “Father, there’s men here. One of them killed Old John,” I said. Swallowing down a rush of fear, I tried to compose myself enough to explain. “T-they have red cloaks and the one who killed Old John said your name. I don’t know who they are, but they… he… he just killed him. Just by looking at him.”

His gaze shot from my face to the door while a short coughing fit assailed him. I watched him process my words, his expression paling. “God, not now,” he said. “Not again.” The sound of footfalls in the hallway spurred him