The Fall of Arnon

Chapter 16

As he entered the house into the darkness behind, he caught a whiff of something sweet. Not the sweetness of a cake or a freshly cut rose, but a harsh, demanding sweetness, a sweetness that spun the senses. Father Thomas resisted the urge to cough, knowing that he was walking on glass and the slightest move in the wrong direction could mean nothing less than disaster.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, but when he did, he found an almost immaculate room. There  was fireplace to one side, a small bed to the other and a table placed discreetly in the corner. A smudged, dirty old vase hid the stems of three fading flowers atop the worn oak of the table. One small candle flickered against an old pane of glass worn thin but still clean. 

A small catch caught in the priest's throat. He wondered at how much love she must have shown to this minuscule hovel for it to be kept in such pristine condition. Even the bed had been made without a wrinkle or an uneven edge. One time, a long time ago, it must have been a very pretty quilt that graced the tiny bed, but now it looked sadly up to the ceiling, its colors long faded. 

Suddenly, he felt a new resolve. A resolve to find justice for a woman who had dared to bring light into this faded place. A woman who had so lovingly chosen three flowers to grace her small, lonely table. 

He saw a door across the way. Its hinges showed rust and its handle had seen its fair share of dirty hands, but it was the only possible way for his quarry to have gone. He tiptoed across the rotting floor, flinching at every loud squeak that followed him. His hand fell on the door handle and it turned.

As he slid the door open, not a sound could be heard from within. His own heart pounded loudly in his ears. All he could see was darkness as he slid his round head within the small confines of the crack he had succeeded in making through the door. Wider and wider the crack became until he could finally fit his entire body through.  He let the air slowly fill his lungs as he leaned against the wall. 

The darkness here seemed to be an entirely different kind of darkness. There was a potency, a burning realness to the perfect lack of light. Then his eyes were hit by the appearance of something far worse than nothing at all. Only for a second was he blinded by a light, burning angrily before his eyes, then it was gone and there was only blackness, a pure, deep blackness.

                                                                              -------------------------

Sir Ryan raced over the pebble stone walkway, his feet pounding the mud in a rhythmic beat. Sir Storen had set a more reasonable pace and now lagged behind him.  

Sir Ryan let out a sigh of frustration as he slackened his stride to allow for the other man to catch up. He now regretted vetoing the idea of retrieving their horses before the long run back to the scene of the crime. 

Sir Storen's face was set in a line of decided determination or bitterness at being woken at this ungodly hour. His musky black hair flew like soot about his face, deciding on neither one nor the other direction to fly in. Brown, dull looking eyes surveyed his surroundings with little more than an ounce of interest. His large, lanky body flew with a very noticeable lack of coordination, but he kept his footing and that was enough to keep him going in one direction.

Sir Storen and Sir Ryan had never been friends of any sort, good or otherwise. Sir Storen had always merely been a knight of the realm. He believed so wholeheartedly in his own country, he seemed never to think of anything else. Not once had he ever expressed a wish to get married, to start a family of his own, or even to build a nice cottage out in the countryside. He lived for his country, and in his heart, Sir Ryan knew, he would one day die for his country.

But, there were no words spoken that night as the air whistled by their ears. To Sir Ryan, he could almost hear it screaming in his ears to hurry. Something inside of him began to dread that something evil was at that moment happening, and soon his feet moved freely beneath him, carrying him with swiftness he had not known before. He felt nothing as his arm brushed the outstretched cup of an old woman nor did he hear the jingle as her few coins danced out into the street. He barely missed a stride as an intoxicated man lurched in front of him. Soon he veered into the alleyway and was greeted by the sickening stench of death.

"Thomas," he gasped. "Father Thomas." There was no response. He looked up. His heart had been pounding but now it stopped. 

Like a pesky fly, Sir Storen flew up behind him, his own breath coming out in strange, short bursts. "This... is... it?" He questioned, barely getting the words out. 

Sir Ryan made no reply. Barely recognizing the dead body, he stepped over it into the room behind. There was no need for his eyes to adjust. He could see it all at a glance. He bit back a cry of anger. "No.," he said softly. "No. Not him, not now." 

"What do you think you're doing?" Sir Storen's voice felt like a distant memory recalled in the mists of night. "Is this it? The body? Looks like a woman, a whore I'd say." Slowly Sir Ryan began to comprehend the heartless words of his compatriot. 

"Not now," he stated quickly. He had already begun walking swiftly back into the street again. 

"Not now? Why did you bring me here? So that I could follow you all night on some sort of awful scavenger hunt. We need to get this body out of here. The boy I sent should be here soon with the men to take it away. But, first, we must search the scene of the crime. Wait. Isn't this...?"

"Shut up!" Sir Ryan turned with glaring eyes to Storen. "Shut up. I need to think."

"Think about what?" he demanded.

"My friend! My friend, he's gone. I have to find him." 

"You mean, you brought a peasant here with you to the scene of another crime in the middle of the night?" He crossed his arms over his disordered shirt.

"You'll never see, will you? You'll never see past your own stuck up nose?" Sir Ryan felt the anger and resentment begin to rise within him. "Fine, you stay here, and I will go. I pray that this does not cause you too much discomfort." 

At that moment the whinny of horses caught both of the men's attention, and the cries of men split the silence of the night. Lights began to burn along the end of the street, but no man or woman living there dared show their face to the ones who deliver justice, and it remained empty but for the cavalry cascading down. 

Sir Storen turned to Sir Ryan, but where the broad-shouldered man had once stood, held only the dim reminder of him.

He was gone.