Chapter Text
Guernon grinned and stepped forward, small drops of blood spattering the floor as he walked. The knight stretched, cracked his neck, and leaned his sword on his shoulder, joining his brother-in-arms.
The trio continued down the last corridor. Their boots left prints in the dust on the floor: looking down, Paix saw that there had once been a richly embroidered carpet covering the floor. Now it was torn and stained, marked by the unholy movements of the estate’s new occupants. The entire estate followed the same fashion: once priceless paintings and artefacts torn and scratched beyond recognition, grand staircases layered in dust and decay, every room stinking of rot and corruption. Paix sniffed, turning up her nose in disgust. In her travels she had visited unpleasant places before, but never anywhere so blatantly malevolent as the mansion and its surrounding acres.
Banquemare froze, and turned back to the group. “Did you hear that?”
Paix frowned and began to reply, when a blue light began to fill the hall. From around the corner came an enormous silhouette: a tall, fluttering pillar of yellow cloth, accompanied with a strained, wheezing moan. Upon sighting the adventurers, the bundles of fabrics seemed to ripple: at its crown, assorted clothes slid back to reveal a rusted cage. Within was a skull, twitching and staring at the three warriors facing it. Its jaw slowly slid open, and a thin, cracked growl echoed out.
The knight slowly stepped back, holding his sword at the ready. The flagellant smirked, stepping forward and unwinding the barbed tines of his flail. The antiquarian simply stood and held on to her censure, watching with horror as the spectre approached them.
The skull hissed again, and this time an accompanying chorus of moans, whispers and cries rose up to join it. The blue flames in the skull’s eye-sockets seemed to focus on the knight and, with a sudden moment, the robes split and stretched open like the wings of a great bat. Underneath the party was greeted with a horrific sight: scores of heads and skulls, lined in neat rows. Each head was in varying stages of decomposition. Some were practically fresh, others were just beginning to sag in decay. Others still were just skulls, with some strips of skin and flesh to show that it was once alive. And as the robes opened, every head began to call out. Screaming, moaning, whispering in monstrous harmony. Paix could not tear her eyes away at the sight.
From somewhere within the collector’s cavernous folds, three heads exploded outwards. One was old and worn, but possessed the battered eyepatch commonly seen among the militia in the hamlet. Another was destroyed from the nose down, dangling tongue and spinal cord making a gruesome mockery of a highwayman’s skull. The last was most terrible of all: a face that seemed almost untouched, with only pale features and the absence of a body to reveal its undead nature. It bore the hood and wraps of one of the sacred sisters of the church.
At this last sight, the knight faltered. His sword slowly drooped down, and he spoke in a stunned whisper.
“Sister Machault?”
The head said nothing. Its eyes glowed with the same cold, blue fire that lit the collector’s skull. It simply moved in turn with its fellows, floating by its master. In the blue glimmer, an incorporeal body seemed to form underneath the head: possessing a crude resemblance to the vestal’s armour and robes.
“It is a lie, Banquemare.” Guernon snarled. The grim priest stepped up to the crusader’s side, swinging his flail from side to side. “Machault has long joined the Light. This beast has seized her form to mock us, to make us fear to strike. Let us destroy it, in her name.” The knight nodded, and stood straight once more. He raised his sword and growled.
“In her name.”
He had raised his guard just in time. The spectral highwayman’s eyes blazed, and he struck, a vicious blow aimed at the knight’s eyes. Banque managed to parry it in time, blocking the glowing knife with the flat of his blade. Guernon seized the opportunity and swung his flail at the tall spectre: the spiked chains lashed at the screaming heads under the collector’s robes, drawing blood and causing the spectre to fall back, hissing in rage. The flagellant grinned in satisfaction, then spat an oath as the undead man-at-arms moved to protect the monster. The flickering form placed itself between Guernon and his intended target, raising its shield and staring at him in silent challenge.
Paix held up her censure and whispered to the skull set into its lid. She then smoothly swung back and forth: causing noxious green fumes to leak from the skull’s eyes. Animated by some unseen force, the poisonous cloud coursed towards the spectre. The man-at-arms moved to intercept it: the gas flowed against the disembodied head, causing its skin to blister and pop. If it burned, the creature gave no sign. It simply set itself back in front of the collector, intent on blocking any possible attack.
Paix scowled in frustration. “Banquemare! Deal with the militia man!” The crusader nodded, and charged. He slammed the pommel of his sword into the man-at-arm’s head, causing the lights in its eyes to flicker and its spectral armour and shield to partially dissipate. His strike came at a cost: the highwayman, seeing him distracted, took the opportunity to strike again. His glowing blade bit deep into Banquemare’s side and the knight stumbled back, cursing. Paix began to speak the skull again, seeing to heal the injured knight, when the former vestal’s eyes flared and her spirit held up a ghostly mace. The mace blazed with light, and the antiquarian was blinded by the sudden flare. She cried out in shock and clawed at her eyes, trying to blink away ghostly blue aftereffects. She shook her head, clearing her vision, and looked up.
The collector towered over Banquemare, whose shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The spectre glared down at the crusader, blood dripping from its robes, and slowly lifted one hand. Paix tried to call out a warning, but before she could, a burning light shot from the collector’s eyes and seemed to spear through the knight. It coiled around his form and roughly yanked him forward. Even as the knight slid to his knees, the bleeding wounds on the myriad of screaming faces within the collector’s robes fused together, healing at an unnatural pace. Paix simply stood there, mouth open in shock, as the knight lay slumped on the floor.
Then she heard it: a faint sobbing.
Paix’s heart sank. She knew what she was going to see: she had seen it before. Brave men, proud men, ruined and reduced to shambling wrecks by the horrors of the estate. Banquemare was a stalwart and valiant knight, who had fought beside them and guarded them since they had first met. But even such a hero could not last forever. She sighed, and bowed her head. And from the corner of her eye, she saw the knight slowly stand up. And she heard the whimpering turn into a growl. The holy warrior picked up his sword, and stood up straight, staring the collector dead in the eyes. The growl turned into a roar and, in a voice booming like a bell, Banquemare screamed in defiance:
“My every step sanctifies this unholy earth!”
Light seemed to pour from him: his faith, made manifest, seeping from every joint and gap in his armour. With a wordless shout of rage, the knight charged, sword blazing like a torch. He pierced the spectre at the shoulder of its robes and with a snarl of satisfaction, cleaved one of its arms from its body.
The collector screamed in pain and anger, and the assorted ghosts seemed to flicker in agony. The flagellant let out a burst of cackling laughter and charged forward, slamming the stunned highwayman with his flail. The barbed wires tore skin from flesh and flesh from bone, ruining the head’s features. Whatever unholy force kept it afloat could not keep up, and the light finally faded from its eyes. It fell to the ground, rapidly rotting and dissipating into a fine ash.
Meanwhile the knight continued to swing at the collector, accompanying each vicious strike with howled prayers and enraged oaths. The once fearsome monster seemed to shrink within itself, its shrieks of anger transforming into a whining mewl of pain and fear. With one steel boot, Banquemare pinned the writhing ghost underneath him, and raised his sword.
“You are an abomination, and not fit for this world. Return from whence you came.”
He stabbed the sword deep into the collector’s torso, and in a final scream, it exploded. The metal cage at its peak bent and shattered, the skull crumbling. The faded yellow cloth that constituted its robes rapidly rotted, leaving Banquemare standing surrounded by stinking rags and mouldy silk. He breathed heavily, leaning on his sword for support.
Paix turned to the other two ghosts, only to witness a familiar scene. The blue light glowing from their eyes flickered and winked out, causing each head to silently fall to the floor, where they also rapidly turned into ash and dust. She stared, and fell to her knees in relief. Banquemare had turned the tide and saved them. She silently swore to buy all the contents of the inn’s cellar to reward him. She felt a tap at her shoulder, and looked up to see a familiar grinning face. Guernon offered a hand and pulled her up.
“I believe what you have just witnessed was a moment of enlightenment, sister Paix”.
Paixdecour shook her head, smiling grimly. “Perhaps.”
The exhausted trio limped forward to the last room, where all they found was an abandoned sitting room, filled with worn chairs and dusty carpets. The heir declared their work done, their trails finished. They could return to the hamlet. Paix sighed, and stretched. After this, maybe she would join Banquemare at the inn.
Or, perhaps the church.