Luther sat there dazed as the bailiff approached and removed his handcuffs. Then he was buried by a pair of quietly squealing children who piled onto him, and were shortly joined by a woman with tears in her eyes. I heard him start laughing as he hugged them.
I left, because there was something in my eyes.
Outside, in the parking lot, someone approached me and I felt a tug at my sleeve. It took me a second to recognize the judge in her civilian clothes—a plain pair of slacks and a white shirt.
“Let me guess,” she said. “Someone found the girl.”
“The girl from what’s-his-name’s testimony?” I asked, guilelessly.
“And if the girl had gotten up in front of everyone and answered questions, it would have made things awkward for whoever was behind Black. Am I right?”
I scratched at my nose with one finger and said, “Maybe.”
She snorted and turned to walk away. “Worst jurist ever.”
“Thanks,” I said.
She stopped and looked at me over her shoulder with a faint smile. “You’re welcome.”
I hung around long enough to see Luther leaving the building with his family, a free man.
Maybe Will had been right.
Justice served.
The Dead’s Revenant
Shawn Speakman
Viewing the village of South Cadbury, Tathal Ennis intuited its death.
It was a familiar knowing. Death had drawn him like iron to a lodestone for the entirety of his long life, and the future had always been his to see. Now he peered down on the village and knew its death better than even those who inhabited it—its bloody past, its dying present, and its ill-fated future. Old Ellis sitting at his shadowy corner table in Camelot Pub as he did nightly, eyes bloodshot, consuming death in every pint. Widow Cora and twin spinster Eleanor rocking beside their hearth, the former’s husband long in his box but both women readying to join him with every creak of their chairs. Young Tim Becket tossing in sleep, his nightmares darker than the purpling new bruises that mingled with old yellow and old green, all delivered by a grandfather who abhorred weakness.
Even Ruindolon Arl, the long-lived Elf who had managed to avoid discovery, lived the death of heartbreak. Every minute. Passing. Failing. Exiled from his home, he experienced a slower death than his human neighbors, but death all the same.
Death existed in the very bones of South Cadbury.
And Tathal Ennis would possess that death at life’s expense.
South Cadbury was one of the oldest villages in Britain, and its soil had known more blood than even the legends recounted. He knelt, touched the gritty ground, and closed his eyes, sending spell-heightened senses into the land—searching for one death so dark it stained Britain deeper than all others. It was here he would call that death forth.
And he sensed it was nearby.
With a sickle moon slicing the sky, Tathal stood and strode toward the village, unsure exactly where the grave existed but satisfied nonetheless. He breathed in the air’s hint of lavender. He had smelled it before, on this very path, centuries earlier. That visit had brought him in search of the Archstone, the rarest of keys, needed to expose the secrets of Stonehenge. While he had not found the relic within South Cadbury, he always recalled sensing the darkness buried nearby—a suspicion of its source seeded and taken root. Now he hoped that past would bear fruit in the present.
He had now come for a lesser talisman, a soul, and a victim. They would not be all three found in one.
As stunted trees bore witness to his passage, the magic of his birthright tingled, warning of danger. It did not take long to locate it. Three pairs of lantern eyes peered from the gloom, watching with feral interest. Tathal understood their nature. He too felt more comfortable hunting at night. The lead dog growled low. Tathal slowed and glared at the brazen affront. With a last look, the dogs vanished like smoke on a breeze. Like most night creatures astute to his passage, they wanted no part of Tathal Ennis. They knew death better than most beings—the night filled with it—and they would not risk their lives against a creature they sensed would deliver it all too easily.
He continued unimpeded and took in the breadth of the land beyond South Cadbury. The beauty of southwest Britain had become song over the ages. He did not need to enact the magic of his halfbreed blood to see every aspect of verdant hills rolling into the distance. The world turned. The night passed. And, not knowing who entered it, the village slept as it had for centuries.
Most of it, anyway.
The warm glow of lights within Camelot Pub beckoned him onward. It was not yet midnight, and several patrons would still be awake with the last of their pints.
Tathal would start his search now.
When he entered the pub, curious eyes quickly ignored him. He did not blame them. He knew the story of those in his presence, and at their core they could sense some truth about him. Drinkers mostly. Six of them. There were four American tourists as well, arrogant with imagined superiority.
A barmaid, whose most attractive days were behind her, served them all and, sitting at the small bar, the owner who had slept with her once but remembered only how lackluster it had been.
And then there was the drunk.
Old Ellis sat in the corner, where Tathal had divined he would be. He walked to the old man’s table, standing over him.
And waited.
“Bugger off,” the old man slurred, gray-grizzled cheeks drooping.
Tathal willed a gold coin into his hand. He set its discernible weight on the table.
“I am looking for information.”
Old Ellis glanced at the coin with bleary eyes. He then took in the visitor, seeing him for the first time. Any light at newfound wealth died in his eyes then. He grunted and looked into the bottom of his pint.
Like the dogs, Old Ellis knew when not to challenge.
“Sit then,” he snorted. “The Queen cares not.”
Tathal pulled a chair over. “I have been led to believe that you are an expert of these parts, and South Cadbury in particular,” he said. Pride, even the pride of a drunk, had its uses. “There have been many battles in this part of Britain. Hard won. Lives lost.” He paused but the other did not speak. “Those lives lose a great deal they can’t take with them when they pass beyond. The armor they wore. And the weapons they carried.”
“What are you looking for?” Old Ellis asked.
“I seek a sword. Ancient. Millennia old.”
“Do I look like the owner of an antique shop, friend?” Old Ellis grunted.
“My path has brought me to you,” Tathal said. “If you do not know what I need, then you know who does know.”
“South Cadbury is tiny. Everyone knows everyone. Secrets aren’t secret here.”
“So who do you know that can aid my search?”
Old Ellis fingered his new coin for the first time. And remained silent. Tathal waited. Drunks were more often than not obstinate folk, their wits vanishing with drink.
But greed’s thirst had no slaking and even the most inebriated soul had a price.
Tathal pulled another coin free.
“Yes?”
“I know of the blade,” Old Ellis admitted, eyeing the coin but taking a drink instead. “Everyone does.”
“Go on.”
“That bitch,” the old man mumbled. He lifted the glass again to cracked lips. “Cora. And her sister, Eleanor. The bitches of Cadbury, I calls them. They have a sword. Hangs over their fireplace. A terrible-looking thing. Long broadsword. Old. Cannot say if they still have it. Been many years since I entered that damn house, I tells you.” Old Ellis gave Tathal a watery look. “It’s like a damn family member, that sword. They love and polish it. I don’t see them parting with it, if that is what you are thinking.”
“I have a way of being persuasive.”
Old Ellis fingered his second coin. “Aye, you do.”
“How do you know of it?”
“The sword?” Old Ellis croaked a snort. �
�Let’s just say Eleanor and me had a thing going. Until that bitch dog Cora helped end it. Said I drank too much. Convinced her sister I was no good. Screw them both, I says.”
Tathal nodded. “Well, I believe you have been very helpful.”
“Piss off then,” Old Ellis growled, emptying his pint, ready for another one with his newfound fortune. “And tell that old bitch Cora I’ll see her in Hell.”
Tathal stood and walked away. He would not follow Old Ellis’s request. Honey caught more flies than vinegar.
And old women loved to be flies.
He made his way back to the bar. And waited.
“What can I get you?”
Tathal turned. Robin Lindholm stood behind him, bar apron tied tightly over round hips and a scarf trying its best to hide her ample bosom. It failed. With his eyes, he traced the curve of the woman’s lips and smiled. She had eyes that did not flinch from the death in his. Women were like that sometimes. They courted death for the excitement. She was no great beauty but that did not matter. When his future called, Tathal answered.
And she possessed knowledge he needed.
“Good evening. Miss?”
She showed her wedding band. “Married. But you knew that already.”
“It is always wise to check before falling too hard.”
“A charmer, huh? Just my luck. And here I thought tonight would be boring,” she said with a short laugh that took a decade off her face. “You are not from South Cadbury. A tourist here to see the Camelot and all of its glory?”
“No, although if my instincts are correct I will be walking there this night to see what might be left.”
“It is a pleasant evening for that.”
“It is a pleasant evening for many things,” he said, winking.
She blushed but barely. She was too far from maidenhood to turn crimson. “What can I get you?” she repeated.
“The world. For now though, you will suffice.”
She chuckled. “A charmer indeed. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I’ll bring you a water and a list of what we still have available tonight.”
Her hips swaying with an exaggeration he had not observed earlier in the night and undoubtedly her husband had not seen in many years, she left him then. Tathal watched her go and grinned, amused.
Ever since he had been a boy, the universe had put possibilities before him. It took boldness to seize those moments and use them to whatever end he desired.
And he had gotten good at squeezing the life from them.
Robin Lindholm was one. She too would die, of course.
And like the rest in the village of South Cadbury, all too soon.
* * * * *
He was waiting for Tim Becket when the boy stepped free of his home.
After delaying in order to be the last patron at the Camelot Pub and seducing the barmaid on the very table where he had sat with Old Ellis, Tathal had spent the rest of the night wandering South Cadbury. It had been many years since he had done so, and much had changed. Newer buildings had been built among the old. The population had grown, if barely. The people were as proud as ever—in their care of the small village and one another. And when the morning began to chase the last of night’s darkness west, Tathal sensed the universe had chosen that the village should die before it saw another dawn.
Leaning against the dilapidated home, he watched Tim Becket creep out the door, the snoring sounds of his grandfather, Old Ellis, rumbling from within.
The boy startled like a fawn and froze when he saw Tathal.
“There is no need to worry,” Tathal said. “I am a friend.”
Tim Becket looked at him like the dogs had. Not surprising, he thought. Fresh bruises darkened the other’s right cheek. The boy knew physical abuse at the hands of family, the slowest kind of death.
“I understand you know South Cadbury better than anyone,” Tathal said. “And I am in need of a guide.”
“I should go,” the boy said, already reaching back toward the door.
“Where to?” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “Back to a beating?”
Steel and a flash of anger entered the boy’s eyes. They vanished quickly and the meek child returned. Tim Becket stood between two worlds, uncertain, but he did not flee. Tathal admired that.
“I have been hit. Many times,” Tathal continued. “Often as a boy even. I had a mean father. He hated me. Still don’t know why.”
The boy remained quiet, eyes still wary.
“What is your name?”
“Tim,” the boy answered. “Tim Becket.”
“That is a strong name. And a prouder surname in these parts,” Tathal said, looking up into the morning sky. “Becket is the name of one of the most powerful archbishops in the history of the Catholic Church. He was Thomas. A defiant man. Murdered by knights of the King of England. For believing he was above the law of the throne, his law being that of the Church.” Tathal paused and smiled. “Ironic that the God he put before all others did not come to his aid when the swords bled him of life.”
“I am related to him in some way,” Tim Becket said, frowning. “Not sure how.”
“Are you ready to be strong? Like your forebearer?”
Tim nodded, though his eyes still held mistrust. “What do you want?”
“As I said earlier, I have been told that you know South Cadbury better than anyone,” Tathal said. “I am here to see an older woman named Cora. She has a twin sister named Eleanor, I believe.”
“The widow Cora?” the boy asked. “She lives not far from here.”
“Can you show me?”
“What’s in it for me?”
Tathal had to suppress a grin. The boy was quick. World smart. The kind of intelligence that came from a lifetime of pain and misery. In another century in another village, Tathal might have even spared the boy’s life. After all, he had taken on a number of apprentices over the years, often young boys and girls who could be molded into whatever instrument Tathal needed to fulfill his long quest. But that time had long since vanished and the needs of his immediate future did not require a henchboy.
Instead, he reached into the folds of his long jacket, pulled forth a vial, and showed it to the boy.
“Do you know what belladonna is?”
Tim Becket shook his head.
“Do you wish to be free of his fists? Free of the pain? The tears?” Tathal didn’t have to say whose fists, whose pain, whose tears.
The boy gazed at the vial and its contents, the dark liquid within negating the sunlight that had just risen high enough to be felt.
“What will it do?”
“You know what it will do, Tim Becket,” Tathal insisted. “Do not be coy with me. You are too smart a lad to do that.”
The boy stepped near. He took the vial. It was a dark stain of menace in his pale hand. In many ways, Tathal thought, the vial’s color matched the death that marked Tim Becket’s swollen cheek.
Sometimes even death had a sense of irony.
“I leave it in your capable hands to choose,” Tathal said. “Now. Show me where Cora lives. The morning passes and the day will not wait.”
Tim Becket hid the vial in his pants pocket and turned. “This way,” he said.
Tathal strolled after the departing boy, easily keeping up with him. He marveled at the resiliency of those in pain. The human soul was capable of surviving suffering of the greatest sort. But few possessed the courage to throw off pain’s shackles. That too was a part of the human condition.
Tathal had given Tim Becket the key to undo those shackles. But the boy still had to place the key in the lock and turn it.
Tathal thought he would.
Old Ellis would likely not live out the night.
And unlike the rest of the people in South Cadbury, his death would not be at Tathal’s behest.
* * * * *
Widow Cora lived in the middle of South Cadbury, in a home as old as the village’s origins.
After T
im Becket had shown him to the proper door and left with his vial of poison, Tathal knocked. And waited. He heard stirring on the other side but it was soft, like old bones moving beneath a heavy quilt. When the door opened, Tathal found he was staring into the blue eyes of a woman who appeared to be as old as sin. She did not have much time to live. Long months. Or short years. White hair sat bundled in a ratty bun upon her head, and wrinkles had eroded her thin face toward hollowness, her lips pursed in a permanent state of distaste and disappointment.
Hunched against her own mortality, she glared at Tathal as if the seconds he had already stolen from her were her precious last.
“Yes?” the old woman asked impatiently.
“Are you the Lady Cora?”
“I don’t know about the lady part. But I’m Cora.”
Tathal brought the charm to his smile. “We don’t know one another, bu—”
“Of course we don’t know one another,” she snapped. “I would remember you. Yes, yes?”
“Direct. My kind of woman,” Tathal purred, hating her but hiding it. “To the point then. I am here in search of a very rare sword. I have long known about its existence but not its location. That search has brought me here, to your very door.”
“There is no sword here,” Cora said bitingly. She moved to close the door. “Now good day to you.”
Tathal stopped the door with a swift arm. “I saw a flicker of knowing in your eyes, Lady Cora. You know the sword of which I speak.”
Fury filled the crone’s face, an anger that shook her wrinkles.
“How dare you try to intimi—”
“Stop being an old bitch, Cora,” a tired woman’s voice said from inside the house. “You are being rude by not inviting him. So do that. Hear him. Then kick him out.”
Cora’s thin lips pulled back from yellowed teeth in a kind of snarl.
“Now, Cora,” her sister insisted.
Clutching her blanket closer, Cora opened the door wide enough for entry. Tathal followed her into dim light. It was small and quaint like most old homes in this part of England—a lifetime of photos, paintings, and ancient-looking embroidered tapestries hung on the walls. A number of crosses also pointed at Tathal, while a large painting of Jesus Christ upon his killing cross hung over the fireplace. No sword was in sight. It was plain to see that these sisters were the devout. The pious. The righteous religious.
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