Salem's Witches (Neitherlands Book 1), page 23
She wanted to save Howard.
She couldn’t tell anyone, because that would be the end of her little group. Her followers, all of them, hated Howard more than anyone else… But she… She just knew Howard was a good man. After all, he had been her father, so how could he not?
“I just want to minimize the bloodshed. We need to find a way to—”
A loud noise from the ceiling brought the discussion to a sudden stop. It was then quickly followed by three masked men entering the warehouse through the conveniently stuck opening. They were followed by five more men, all of them carrying swords, who then threatened those present.
“If anyone moves so much as a hair, the maid loses her head,” said two of the men, standing to the left and right of Annabella.
None of the members of the inner circle moved a hair, although the wind threatened to cause such movements for a moment. Luckily, it thought better and behaved itself as the situation required.
The assailants[36] divided the twelve followers into two groups, and two stood by the side of each. “We’ll be taking the maid, and if anyone dares to resist, we’ll let you all know what we think of you,” said the apparent leader. Meanwhile, the remaining two men went to the door and opened it.
Several horses waited on the other side.
Unceremoniously the men tied Annabella up, placed a bag over her head, then grabbed her and removed her from the warehouse. They then put her on the horse.
The six remaining men were then allowed to have all the fun, which here means they gave each of the maid’s closest collaborators a beating of epic proportions. They broke a few bones, gave a few black eyes, made sure some of them wouldn’t be able to walk for a while, and even scalped[37] one of the twelve.
Only two of them didn’t end up with long-lasting injuries. The first one, perhaps due to sheer luck, perhaps because he was a dirty little rat who’d been in the service of the Church of Quackology all along, was Mr. Pyritepot. He barely got roughed up at all.
The second one was Morrìgan. She was the last one scheduled for a beating and, while she allowed the attackers to tie her up, once they were to hit her, she let them know doing so would be a really bad idea. One glimpse of her shiny red eyes convinced them and made them take a few steps back then run away as if they had seen a demon.
They had seen something worse.
Their fear, while enough to make them want to stay away from the Morrígan, wasn’t enough to keep them from fulfilling their duty. Before leaving a single man, shivering and fearing for his life, returned. Trying to stay as far away from Morrìgan as possible, he threw down a pouch with thirty pieces of silver. Said pouch landed on Mr. Pyritepot’s lap, who acknowledged the man.
The invaders left, with the horse carrying the Maid of New Wakilork leading the way.
Just moments later Mr. Pyritepot undid the very loosely knotted rope that had restrained him, grabbed his money, and got off the floor. He then kicked every single member of the maid’s inner circle, because why not, except for the Morrìgan because she looked as if she’d literally chase him to the end of the world if he did.
He then took a long look at the group, each of them visibly angry and wishing him death, and noticed the city had suddenly become much too dangerous for him. Without saying a word, he ran away, hoping to catch the midnight caravan going anywhere.
13
It is known that nothing ever travels faster than light. Even the idiots at the College of Wizardry, as a certain scientist would call them, don’t dare dispute that claim.
Except for one exception.
Gossip—the one thing that’s known to travel faster than light and spread among people in a downright dangerous manner. Its speed has baffled many a scholar through the ages for a few reasons: First, it isn’t constant or predictable. Gossip will travel at its own pace, along its own path. Sometimes it’ll stay put, not moving or interacting with anything for years, then one day it will be everywhere at the same time. That’s just the way it is.
Second, because nobody knows how it travels. It doesn’t ride astride a horse or in a carriage. It doesn’t run through cities and it has never been seen flying through the air. It was once believed that gossip traveled by invisible little animals that clung to people, but then it was confirmed gossip will even reach people living secluded in a cave. Scholars then came up with a theory that gossip is a human creation, a fable parents use to get their children to keep them from picking their noses.
The third special thing about gossip is that it seldom travels alone. It’s often seen on its own, but it really enjoys traveling with rumors, its feisty younger sibling with a penchant for drinking while driving, who is sometimes thought of as a pathological liar. Rumors, in turn, is involved in a sordid love affair with news, its distant cousin, and sometimes convinces gossip to let it join them. This is why, although notably slower, rumors and news can travel just as fast as gossip can, if it wants them to.
Gossip, rumors, and news had traveled together all over the city, but their effect was seen most clearly in the courtyard of the Quackologist compound.
When the captors arrived with the Maid of New Wakilork, completing what was supposed to be a top-secret operation, the courtyard was filled with people celebrating its success.
They stopped in front of the gates and one of the captors removed the bag from Annabella’s head in order to let her witness the impromptu reception the church had for her. With one glance she was greeted with booze, dancing, drunken singing, and fistfights taking place there.
They had indeed been throwing quite the party.
The crowd parted to let her horse pass through and, as it entered the courtyard, every quackologist present went silent as they raised their silver bars toward her.
It looked like an impressive signal of respect, and it would have been, had those people actually had any respect for her.
A member of the crowd then thought it would be fun to throw their amulet at her. As often happens in such crowds, somebody else saw the aggression and tried it as well. A third, fourth, and fifth then followed suit.
Soon enough, Annabella was being bombarded by countless little metal bars, unable to defend or cover herself in any way thanks to being tied up. The constant blows and cuts the amulets dealt her left her bruised, bloody, and in pain. The ordeal only ended when her horse wearied of the attack and started trying to escape. It threatened to buck her off its back in that way only horses can.
Consequently that’s very much terrifying if you happen to be the one riding such a horse, and even worse if your hands are tied.
Perhaps understanding the event could end with a dead maid, denying them the chance to try her and thereby potentially triggering Antoine LeFlay’s anger, her captors encircled her, and ensured that anyone who wanted to throw anything at her would have to attack them first.
The attack ceased, but the screams didn’t, and while walking through the courtyard Annabella was exposed to some of the most colorful insults in the New Wakilork lingo. They went from the relatively tame, such as comparing her to a dung beetle, to…well, let’s just say there was no ceiling to the virulence of those insults and leave it at that.
After all, some things just cannot be legally printed.
Speaking of things that shouldn’t be legal, Antoine LeFlay stood in front of the doors to the main building, ceremoniously waiting for Annabella’s horse to arrive while holding his staff. He wore a dark ceremonial robe and smiled at Annabella.
It was the kind of smile that betrays a lot of good feelings, all of them for evil reasons.
Annabella’s horse reached the entrance and stopped in front of LeFlay. The men in her entourage dismounted and helped her down. They then retreated, along with the horses, leaving her alone with LeFlay.
Who, by the way, was still grinning.
On noticing the inbound confrontation, the crowd’s cheers grew quieter and eventually settled down in near-absolute silence. It was likely nobody wanted to miss the confrontation, although it is also possible some of them were just afraid LeFlay would skin them alive if they made any noise that ruined his victory.
After all, he was known for being exactly what he was; he was not really the kind of man to wear masks, for they were uncomfortable and made his skin itchy.
“Kneel,” said LeFlay.
Annabella stared at him. She also didn’t kneel, for she had no reason to.
“Kneel.”
Annabella considered maintaining her silence. “Maybe if you were Peter Howard,” she said, once she figured out there were better ways to hurt than ice-cold silence. Then she spat on LeFlay’s feet for good measure.
LeFlay’s grin didn’t leave his face. Instead of throwing a tantrum, he slapped her face with his right hand then raised his staff and struck the back of her knees. She managed to withstand the first blow, but the second sent her to the ground, kneeling. Sort of.
“There are people whose only purpose in life is destroying anything good,” said Antoine, addressing the crowd. “Annabella Bostwick is one of them! Everyone give it up for the Maid of New Wakilork!”
Cheers came from the crowd while LeFlay walked again in front of her, not without first smacking her back with his cane a few times. Annabella tried to get up, but each time she did, he hit her harder, sending her back to the ground.
“Now, I know what we all want. What is it we want?”
A chant came from the crowd. At first Annabella had trouble understanding it, but once she thought of the only thing LeFlay could be demanding, it was quite obvious what he was going for.
The crowd was chanting “Stake!”
“But first, we must follow proper procedures and give this little street rat of a woman a proper trial. For we Quackologists do things right, don’t we?”
LeFlay put the tip of his cane under Annabella’s chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “Now, please tell us, maid…how do you declare yourself in face of the multiple allegations levied against you by myriad good Quackologists?”
“This is no court…” said Annabella, gasping for air and staring at LeFlay’s staff, afraid he would bring it down on her again, “And you are no church!” she exclaimed, her previously barely audible voice now heard through the courtyard.
When she said this, two things happened: Some members of the crowd took personal offense and had to be restrained from lunging at her. Also, LeFlay struck her again with the staff, this time on her neck.
She lay on the ground, crying and gasping for air. Her lips were bleeding and multiple bruises were visible on her face. Blood oozed from a nasty gash on the left side of her head.
Meanwhile LeFlay stood in front of her, regarding her as if she were an insect. “You may not be in the courtroom yet, but worry not: You will face our court soon,” he said, forcing Annabella to raise her eyes once gain. “The Whore of New Wakilork, falling to Quackology just as her crusade starts. What a ridiculous track record.”
He poked her with the staff, both helping her to get up and hurrying her to do so.
“From this moment on you are a prisoner of the Church of Quackology,” he said. “Under our ruling, as you already know, you will be tried and sentenced inside the church for the crimes you have been accused of. This list includes, but is not limited to, criminal conspiracy, infiltrating the church as a spy, and murdering fellow Quackologists.
“You shall remain in our dungeons for the duration of the trial and until your sentence is carried out. The trial will begin this very week, for this matter demands no delays whatsoever. Any crime committed by your group while you are held in captivity will be added to the list of crimes you are accused of.”
The crowd cheered.
“And just so you know, you and I will be having a lot of fun over the next few days,” LeFlay whispered then licked his lips. “I can hardly wait.”
He motioned for the guards to send her in and, when she started walking, he hit her again on her lower back. She stumbled to the ground, where he struck her twice while people laughed and cheered. If there was anyone in the crowd who maintained a stance against the gratuitous display of violence, they were either too scared or too apathetic to express it.
“Let this be a lesson for anyone plotting against Quackology or considering to,” he said, addressing the crowd. “We are the force that will deliver the Neitherlands from the evil that is Xianuu, and we are not afraid to fight a war if you force us to. We yearn for peace, but do not fear waging war to attain it. Anyone that does not submit to the might of Quackology in our mission to eradicate Xianuu will be considered an enemy of ours. Do you all hear me?”!
“Get her to the dungeons,” he added, then entered the building.
Had he stayed outside for a moment longer and stared at the sky, he would’ve seen a peculiar bird with huge, black wings flying around and littering the city with what looked like pamphlets.
Alas, he didn’t.
Of all the places where Laura thought a revolution could gestate, the backyard of a brothel was so far off the top it wasn’t even on the list.
Therefore, judging by the events of the past few months, it only made sense when a piece of paper fell from the skies, straight into her hand, inviting her to such a meeting. Her friends had, upon learning of Annabella’s capture, left for the church, leaving her alone to witness whatever it was the resistance planned.
She didn’t expect much. Most groups didn’t live long after their leader was taken, and she expected at the time most followers of Xianuu would be waiting for a miracle, hoping for divine intervention to save their leader.
The backyard of House Xantiplam was a lush, beautiful garden that clashed with the overdecorated insides of the house. Even the overbearing smell of perfume and permanent noise that characterized the brothel were gone, replaced by the smell of roses and few sounds other than the wind. Even the hundreds of people gathered there did little to make the garden feel uncomfortable, an unlikely feat in a city where most gatherings quickly devolved into brawls or riots.
There were more people than usual: The workers of Xantiplam House seemed to have joined the group, or at least the meeting. Other than that the usual people were present, including a weird, blue-haired guy and Sister Theresa, who always hovered around the meetings.
The only group who wasn’t there yet was Annabella’s inner circle. Laura looked around, trying to find them among the crowd to no avail. Still, if she was right…
The murmur from the crowd became silent all of a sudden. Laura turned and found the maid’s inner circle had arrived, only now they were a member short, and instead of Annabella, they were being led by Morrìgan.
Just as she expected.
Morrìgan walked through the crowd, paying people no mind, and got onto a makeshift stage at the end of the garden. The rest of the higher-ups followed, but it was clear she was the one leading them.
“People of New Wakilork,” she said. The usual cheers from the crowd didn’t come, perhaps due to a sense of mourning over Annabella’s capture or perhaps because, unlike Annabella, Morrìgan was just too terrifying to cheer for. “The time has come to get serious about overthrowing the cult that has taken over our lives. Our leader has been captured, and it falls to us to release her and cause the Church of Quackology the mortal wound it deserves. How many of you are willing to fight for us, sacrificing life and limb for the greater good?”
There wasn’t much of an answer. As it turned out, most people weren’t willing to give up life and limb for a deity they weren’t sure existed. Even if they knew for a fact of Xianuu’s existence, your average New Wakilorker would ask about the perks they’d receive after the battle and demand a good life insurance policy before joining. The fact that it was a god asking for sacrifice didn’t exempt them from offering the most basic retribution for their efforts.
“I expect the silence comes from an inability to express all the joy this proposal causes you,” said Morrìgan. Then she grinned. “Does it not?”
It seemed to Laura that everyone started applauding at the same time, although the applause and cheers seemed stronger near the stage.
Instead of applauding, Laura was taken aback: Had the woman’s eyes flared up for a moment when she grinned? She was almost sure…
The applause stopped abruptly as even more people arrived in the backyard. This time it was a stout man we know as Leggy followed by what looked like Dominion guards. Hundreds of them.
“I brought help!” he said, sounding anything but convincing. It was almost as if he wasn’t sure his help was help at all. “Sorry I’m late, but I had to gather them and—”
Morrìgan stared at him, which he noticed then shut up.
“I’m grateful for the help,” she said. “And everyone who wants to help is welcome. But first, we must come up with a plan to raid the headquarters of the horrible cult once and for all.” She paused and seemed to study different points in the crowd.
Had she glanced at Laura for a moment?
“The War Council will meet in the same warehouse the maid used for her meetings. If it was good enough for her, it shall be good enough for us,” said Morrìgan. “Anyone willing to help should come see me. Anyone with information should come see me.” Morrìgan stared at Laura again. “Anyone who can help from the inside should come see me. I’ll call for those of you whom I know can help us. And if anyone refuses, we’ll consider that an act of treason.”
Laura took a step back. Did Morrìgan know something about her? About her friends? What was going on?
A cawing made her jump. A crow had just landed on a window by her side. This wouldn’t have been all that uncommon, considering the city was lousy with crows, if it wasn’t for one detail: The crow was carrying a note on its beak.
Laura grabbed it, knowing what it would say. And knowing where she had to go.
