"And here we are, Master," said Zagarolo with quiet excitement, "my humble little manor."
The stone structure before them was only slightly larger than Lord Sanfords, back in Harshel. The stone was quite older too, and vines crept along the sides of which strange bell-shaped flowers grew, so dark a purple that they were almost black.
Scattered around the road to the manor where the remnants of cottages and houses: piles fungus coated, splintered timbers, and masses of rodent-infested straw.
The flames above their heads flew from them to light the torches that lighted old manor's entrance.
"Ah, your beautiful home awaits us," Zag said with a smile and bow.
"My friend, Zag," Wes said with kindness and confusion, "I must ask, why do you call me master? And what do you mean about his being my home?"
"Since you accepted to free me," said Zag, "I knew you were the one I was destined to meet! You are the—"
A scream interrupted the old man.
"Help!" called a desperate voice from within the manor, "Oh Great Father Above, please help! I am in here!"
"Who is that?" asked Wes.
"An intruder, my young master," responded Zag as he stroked his black and scarlet beard, "an intruder indeed."
Inside the manor, in the main hall, a square hole cut into the stone floor was the held source of the frightened voice. The pit was perhaps nine feet deep. Within was a man that Wes, after Zag produced more flames to light up the hall, recognized as the staffer of his village.
"Brando," Wes called down, "is that you?"
"Wes Tenley!" shouted the village staffer with relief, "thank heavens. Wes, get me out of here somehow. I hurt my leg." Brando winced in pain as he tried to stand and muttered a curse.
"Zag," Wes called to the old man, "have you got a rope?"
Zag pulled Wes aside, farther from the hole.
"I believe that would be unwise, Master," said Zag solemnly, "he poses a threat to you."
"How so?" inquired Wes.
"Say we free him. You help him return. Are you not being hunted for freeing a fugitive? They will imprison us and your daughter will not be saved."
Wes saw the reason for this. Yes, of course, remembered Wes, I'm as much a fugitive as old Zag here.
"What shall we do?" Wes asked.
Before Zag could answer, Brando called out again.
"Old man," he said, "I am sorry. I ... I shall return what I stole. I swear, this stone ... it called me. It's so beautiful."
"What is he talking about?" asked Wes.
"The thief," Zag spat, "intended to steal the Fraekli. The Stone of the Midnight Servant."
"So, is it some kind of jewel? Just a pretty gem?"
"Far more than that," Zag said with enigmatic joy.
Marge began to cough and cry.
"We must be quick, Master Wes," said Zag as he went off towards a stairway, "come, come, for your daughter and your greatness, let us make haste."
"But Zag, what about Brando?"
"He belongs here. He may not know it, but he too is your servant, for the stone calls him."
Brando cried for them to come back as they went up to the solar. In a sleeping chamber, most likely the one belonging to the old lord of Brackton, tables decorated with books, vials, jars, and gems of various colors sat. Some of the contents of the jars made Wes feel greatly disquieted.
In one jar floated a severed hand with a red-eye set in the palm looked dead and stared at nothing, yet the fingers twitched quickly like a half-crushed bug that still lived. In another, a grey human brain had been pierced with needles.
A skull that floated in one jar filled with red, clear liquid locked its empty sockets on Wes. No matter in what direction he moved, the darkness within seemed to follow him. Red flesh began to creep from the cracks in the bone. Soon, the skin grew from the mess and swam around, shaping a sleeping face. The eyelids in the newly formed face flicked open, revealing bright eyes that made Wes's heartbeat quicken.
"Milena?" whispered Wes as he drew closer to the head in the jar, "Is that really you?"
The hair was the last to sprout, long black locks that floated in the fluid. The memory of the days when he would stroke the beautiful hair of his first love came rushing into his mind. His fear of the grotesqueries that surrounded him, and even the one he now focused on, faded, and only wonder and love did not forsake him.
Her lips were moving. She was saying something.
"Do you miss me, Wes?" a voice that echoed in his skull spoke with soft and gentle tones, "Oh, do I miss you, my love."
The voice seemed to be living thoughts as if she was speaking to him through his memory rather than his ears. There was a sort of intimacy to it that aroused Wes.
"Do you remember that day," she said in a sultry voice that betrayed the sweetness he once knew, "underneath that apple tree?"
"Yes," responded Wes out loudly, "your skin was sweeter than the apples."
A black cloth fell upon and covered his first love's visage.
Wes, in a fit of sudden rage, hissed at Zag, who threw the rag. Zag's hands were below his, holding up Marge who was bawling.
"I've caught you, little one," Zag whispered to the child.
Wes's mind returned to the realm, and he found his arms stretching out over the jar. The dark, wet rag that covered it reeked of garlic.
"What was that?" asked Wes, quivering in fear.
"I am deeply sorry, Master Wes," the old man said, "I should have remembered to cover that. My studies say it is the head of a queen mantassus"
"A mantassus?"
"Yes, a beast, through seduction, makes you their slave. They take the form of one you miss or lust for the most."
Rose, thought Wes with sadness and guilt in his heart, Oh, my sweet Rose, please forgive me, it is only you that I love. Only you!
"I am weak," muttered Wes.
"Oh, do not be disheartened, young master," said Zag with a hint of casual friendliness in his voice, "many kings, over the centuries, had fallen to her spell."
Wes reached his arms out and Zag placed Marge back into his arms. The old man went back to his business of searching for something in his many little chests.
I can't believe I dropped you, thought Wes, I'll never do that again. I will be strong.
Zag's sudden exclamation made Wes jump.
"Here it is!" the old man roared.
The old man handed him a brazen dagger. It had two prongs, each one a blade whose edges faced away from each other. The strips of cloth that wrapped around the hilt appeared to have small black markings on it. Looking at it closely, they were writings of some kind of foreign language.
Outside, out in the wicked wood, a wolf howled, and many others soon joined it.
"Take it, Master," said Zag, returning to his formal voice, "midnight draws near, and you will receive your reward."
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