The Book of Shaddowe part i

The Black Heart of Winter

A thief fan story

By

Taliesin

Author’s Note: I’ve been a big fan of the Thief games ever since the original release of Thief:TDP. Like a fool, I never knew about the extensive on-line community that had grown around the games until late 2001. Since then I have rediscovered the joy of the Thief games through the medium of the fan mission (much to the relief of my Bank Manager – after all why buy a new game when home programmers are building missions which are often of higher quality?) Being a person who is always thinking and dreaming I came up with a fan mission idea, unfortunately the concept of Dromed eludes me. Therefore I decided to translate my concept into the media I am most familiar with – the written word. I decided on a lead character other than Garrett to give me more freedom in the storytelling. If any FM designer wishes to translate all or part my written vision into a mission please feel free. All I ask is that you tell me of your intention – send me a message via TTLG forums or Thief Underground Forum – and give me a concept credit.

“It is only the Darknesse that can give trew Forme to our Work and trew Perspective to our Fabrick, for there is no Light without Darknesse and no Substance without Shaddowe…”

		Peter Ackroyd – Hawksmoor

The following was transcribed from the journal of a petty criminal named Shaddowe:

I love the winter. As a season I find it the most… ah… profitable. Snow, of course, is one of the biggest drawbacks of the season. The delicate white crystals seem to amplify each footfall and reflect the illumination of the spluttering torches, worse still are the telltale tracks, which follow your every step. Some might suggest that I am mad, that someone employed in an activity which necessitates the outdoors as much as the warmth of a mansion should resent the icy breath of the north-wind, which marks the season. No, I reply to those doubters of my sanity, for when your greatest ally is the darkness you quickly fall in love with the season that brings the velvet of night in such abundance. Even the bitter breath of the north-wind is more friend than foe, gnawing into the bones of the watch and guards alike, so that only the most obstinate or masochistic will refuse the weakest of excuses to remain huddled around a fire rather than observing their patrols, searching for people like myself. These were my musings as I listened to the conversation of two such guards. 

My name is Shaddowe, or so I tell people. An overly melodramatic name perhaps, but how could I reveal my true identity to the calibre of taffer with whom I associate with? True, they had originally called me Debutante, a name granted with the derision reserved for a rich young gentleman turned thief. I had, for a short time, been a joke, a mild amusement at the tavern bar. But as my reputation grew, the jokes ended and soon I was only called Shaddowe. Once or twice a taffer had tried to discover my true identity and social standing, but to no avail, for like a shadow I left no trail in the burning light of the morning sun.

My real name? 

Alexander Truart. 

You see… Even you have bristled with the merest mention of my accursed surname. Yes, I am related to the sheriff, albeit distantly. Let me assure you now that I have absolutely no family loyalty towards that dog. My father is his cousin thrice removed, and has himself little or no respect for the braggart. Indeed our respective branches of the family have not seen eye to eye for generations.

In some respects that is why I decided upon my career in thievery although, in honesty, no decision is so simple. My family have nothing like his wealth, gained I can assure you, through such dubious means that he is much more the criminal than I. Yet we have a comfortable wealth from importing Yvesdril’s Blood Wine into the city. I do not steal out of any kind of financial necessity, though the gains I make serve to bolster my modest allowance. More so I steal to make Truart and his hired thugs look bad, to turn the nobles of the city against him and drive the bastard into poverty.

Why not simply kill him, you ask? Firstly, poverty would cause him such suffering, much more than the split second of pain that comes when a spirit flees the failing flesh. Beyond that, I honestly don’t know if I could do it, not in cold blood. I’m a thief, not an assassin. I have killed on rare occasion, but only out of necessity. Cornered by a guard who wishes to split your gizzard, with nowhere left to hide, you have little choice, kill or be killed. I have not, however, murdered anyone. Not in the premeditated sense. We all have lines we will not cross, no matter how immoral we are, and that is mine.

My crusade against the sheriff had reached a hiatus of sorts. There had been a crackdown on crime in the city; a crackdown so heavy handed that only Truart could think it fair. Anyone caught on the streets, once the sun had set, was fair game. It didn’t matter to the watch if you had a reasonable excuse. Many were the servants of nobles, simply doing their master’s bidding, who had found themselves in Cragscleft. The noble would be upset, at least for a moment, and more for the interruption of their business than the loss of a servant. Truart would quietly point out the drop in crime and, if the servant were of some value, the noble would likewise point to a bag of gold, thus ensuring their release. Servants of no value where left to rot and soon the night washed streets became deserted, with the exception of the odd taffer haunting the shadows and the braggart swagger of the guards on patrol.

Worst still was the split within the Order of the Hammer. A new cult had emerged, the Mechanoids… no, that’s not it… the Mechanists. Somehow they had fashioned faces of metal that could actually see you and then summon the guards. All those rich enough where having these faces installed into their homes, thus making my job all the more difficult.

I had spoken to an acquaintance by the name of Garrett, a thief of no small repute. He had just pulled off a warehouse job and informed me that they had even installed the faces in one of the buildings.

Things were getting tricky, and no mistake. It was then that my thoughts turned to the family business, and no I did not think, even for the merest second, of going legit.

As I have said, my family’s wealth came from the importing of Yvesdril’s Blood Wine into the city. You’ll be familiar with the wine itself. If ever a taffer breaks into a home, you can guarantee that it is the only wine that will be stolen. It is a very refined and expensive tipple, of that there can be no mistake.

The wine itself is produced on a large estuary island called, unsurprisingly, Yvesdril. The island itself is a strange place, the soil is perfect for the growing of vines and as a result that is the only crop grown on the island, the population relying on trade with various towns and cities for their food and other goods.

I had visited the island as a child, when my father had first negotiated his trade agreement with the Duke of the island. He had taken me along, with the idea that exposure to his business would encourage me to follow in his footsteps. In many ways his notion might have been accurate, were it not for me also bearing witness to the extortion he was then subjected to by his own blood.

The eccentric habits of the island’s inhabitants made it impossible to discover anything of value regarding the island, despite my youthful curiosity. The main town itself is walled off, leaving the only sight that of the imposing towers of the Duke’s castle jutting up behind the buttresses, like the fangs of some terrible beast tearing into the sky.

No outsider was granted entry into the main town. Even my father was forced to stay in the single inn nestled amongst the few buildings before the wall. The other buildings comprised of several holding buildings, to prevent the spoiling of newly arrived goods, and a trading post.

The foreign quarter, as this area was affectionately called, was positioned by a fairly secluded bay, but the rest of the island was surrounded by a veritable maw of jagged rocks, the river swirling into turbulent eddies. Nature, it seemed, had conspired with the builders of the town wall to make the main island virtually impregnable.

The most vivid memories I carry of the island centre around the common room of the inn. I remember that room as though it were yesterday. The burning logs spewed smoke from the fireplace, as though the chimney had refused to expel it as designed. The smoke would become thick enough to leave a taste in your mouth and a sting in your eye, its slight muskiness mingling with the spices from the warm mug of mulled wine my father had given me as a particular treat.

More than that I remember the stories told by the variety of traders, who wove their tales like wraiths which intertwined with the tendrils of smoke. All their stories seemed to be about the island and its mysterious ruler, the Duke De’Yvesdril. No one ever saw the Duke himself, but it was well known, it was said, that he had in his possession a golden sceptre, mounted with the carving of an eagle, cut from a rare stone as black as sin.

The people of the island were remarkable, revealed one storyteller, due to the unnatural pallor of their skin. Another would then explain that the Builder had cursed the people due to their worship of Mithra, from what I understand a nature God not unlike the Trickster of the pagans. Worse, another would confide to the room at large, when the Order of the Hammer had wished to found a church on the island, not only had the Duke refused them, but he had even refused them permission to build one in the foreign quarter for devout visitors to the island.

The Duke’s castle was said to hold riches beyond belief, yet at night you could hear the screams of the damned floating from the high towers, chilling the very bone.

“Legends,” My father later told me, “Nothing more than myths and stories to while away the night.”

Perhaps he was correct, for I cannot recall being wakened from my dreams by the screams of the damned, and yet… When the Duke’s man came to negotiate with my father I was struck by the unnatural whiteness of his skin.

I asked my father of this as we prepared to leave the island; an agreement having been reached. In answer he simply shrugged and said to me, “Alexander, If the stories were true. If that man lived with his Lord, listening night after night to the screams of the damned. If the Builder had truly cursed him for the heresy of loving another God, would he have been a man filled with as much joy and happiness as you have witnessed?”

He was right, so I thought; the Duke’s man was indeed jovial, I might have even guessed at euphoric. To further prove his point my father walked me to the town gates, so large that a doorway had been built into them to allow easy exit. He introduced me to the guards who patrolled tirelessly before them.

As we walked back to the foreign quarter he whispered to me, “Now Alexander, you saw Benny and his mate. They both reside in the town, born and bred on Yvesdril. Did you notice that they were no more pale of skin than you or I. This curse business is nothing more than a traveller’s tale, a ghost story to while away the long nights. Lose no sleep over it my son.”

In fact, it was my mother who brought these memories bubbling back to the surface of my consciousness. I had been sat in the family home, contemplating the best way to spend my time until it was safe to resume the full force of my campaign against the sheriff.

“The next ship sails to Yvesdril tomorrow.” Her comment was not polite conversation but part of her ongoing, and not too subtle, attempts to persuade me to do my “duty” and start working for the family business.

The answer to my dilemma became suddenly clear. There was a way to escape from Truart’s heavy-handed crackdown for a while and prove whether the legends of Yvesdril were true or not. I would to break into Yvesdril town, and more specifically the castle.

The thought almost caused me to laugh out loud. I could finally discover what was truth and what was myth, and, more importantly, if the sceptre was real…

It was perfect. No other taffer had ever broken into Yvesdril. To my knowledge none had ever tried, not even Garrett. Best of all there would be no damned mechanists and their metal faces, after all, if the Hammers couldn’t get a foothold in Yvesdril then their bastard cult most certainly couldn’t.

It could be a sort of coachman’s holiday, a trip to a place last visited as a child, a chance to leave the city behind for a while and the opportunity to really enhance Shaddowe’s reputation as a master thief.

During the time that I had allowed my vendetta against Sheriff Truart to unfold I had also ensured that the reputation of my immediate family remained untarnished. The fact that I was branching out into a new town would not alter that. I could have feigned interest in the business and persuaded my father to let me sail on his ship to the island, but my presence on the vessel may have been connected with any subsequent robberies. Easier to stowaway on the ship and let it ignorantly carry me to my destination.

Breaking into father’s warehouse was child’s play. There is neither skill nor challenge in breaking into a building when you are intimate with the layout, especially when you can check out the latest patrol routes from the comfort of your family home.

Space was soon made in a crate, but necessity forced me to carry nothing but the bare minimum of equipment. Lock picks of course, my short bow and two water crystal arrows and, of course, my trusty blackjack. The only other thing I carried was a little food and water for the trip, anything more would have been impractical in such cramped quarters.

Before long the ship was loaded with it’s cargo and the captain set sail. It was a testament to both his experience and skill that the journey was so smooth. The gentle rocking of the ship carried me peacefully into the arms of sleep for the majority of the journey. If only my dreams had proved as tranquil as the journey. Instead my sleeping self was visited by a montage of horror, punctured by visions of the pallid faces of the damned, their shrill screams piercing my soul like the smooth blade of a stiletto as it pierces flesh, all the while trapped within the shadow of the fang towers of Yvesdril castle.

Sleep was mercifully interrupted as my crate was manhandled off the ship and into a holding warehouse. My dreams had left my heart hammering in my chest and I fought hard to calm the clamouring within me. I finally regained some control as the crate was dropped heavily to the ground, a resumption of business allowing me to push the dreams from my mind. I pulled some wading from a knothole in the side of the crate, to allow myself sight of the outside world. My timing was perfect; the last vestiges of evening twilight were visible through the warehouse door. Then blackness smothered the warehouse as the giant portal closed; the resounding echo of the metal door was like the tolling of a bell, which summoned me into action.

I waited a few moments, allowing twilight to fully melt away and ensuring that night had fallen across Yvesdril, and then it was time for me to go to work.

My eyes quickly adjusted to the warehouse’s black interior, allowing me to perceive the shadowy forms of the cases that had been stored haphazardly through the building. I crept slowly towards the door, the soft leather soles of my boots letting out only the most muffled of footsteps, my memory of the island telling me that a watchman’s entrance was placed just to the side of the massive goods door.

I dropped suddenly behind a crate as a circle of light appeared within the darkness. The light moved slowly through the warehouse, the movement marked with a bobbing motion and serenaded by the discontent mutterings of a night watchman. I watched closely as the light spilled from his lantern, revealing his slow patrol.

The crate protected me from the light, guarding the secret of my presence, until he had moved past me. Experience and practice allowed me to keep my footsteps to the barest minimum as I bore down upon him. The sound of my blackjack making contact with his skull was a dull thud, he let out the briefest of strangled gurgles, protesting as his consciousness fled and his body fell to the hardened mud floor. The lantern’s flickering flame was quickly extinguished and the key on his belt just as quickly lifted.

Within seconds I was out of the warehouse and once more in Yvesdril’s foreign quarter.

The sound of laughter drifted through the night air, emanating from the inn. The temptation to warm myself by the fire, to move unseen amongst the guestrooms, to fill my pockets with trader’s gold, was less than fleeting. The crew of my father’s ship would be in the inn this evening, I could not risk being seen, being recognised. Instead I fixed my gaze on the one building in the foreign quarter which I would visit that evening: the trading post.

Instinct told me to avoid the front entrance, despite the generous shadows that shrouded the door. Experience told me that it would be locked with a mechanism of the highest quality, better to find an alternative way in. Instead I ghosted the edge of the building, silently searching for a rear entrance.

The lock on the rear door was of a relatively simple design. I turned the lock pick slowly, the click of the barrel swivelling, as I persuaded it to yield to me, was music to my sensitive ears. Soon the door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

I was about to step over the threshold when I heard a man’s sonorous voice. I dropped to a low crouch and peered into the dark shop. I couldn’t see him, but the voice continued. Suddenly I realised that it was coming from upstairs. I lowered my head as I let out a silent laugh, mocking my own jumpiness, a loss of cool brought on, no doubt, by my disturbed dreams. My downcast eyes rested upon a section of floor, which sat slightly above the level surface.

A pressure plate.

Looking more carefully, I saw the wire running the wall from the floor, I traced its path and my eyes came upon a light fitting and amplifying shell, an alarm.

The pressure plate was easily stepped over, and I was inside. To my right was a stairway, leading to the upper floor and the voice which continued its monologue. First things first, I didn’t want to be disturbed whilst “shopping”.

The door at the top of the stairs pushed easily open. The fat proprietor stood with his back to me, reading out loud from a book. It sounded like old pagan poetry, his sonorous voice making various references to the Woodsie Lord. I crept across the bare wood floor towards him, my eyes fixed upon his gargantuan body, noting the rivulets of sweat that trickled down his neck, watching for any sign that he was aware of my presence. I moved quietly, the fact that a man of his proportions could snap the willow of my body with his bare hands, heavy in my mind. Closer… Closer… Then my blackjack flashed through the night and the floorboards rattled as his huge mass hit the floor, throwing a thin cloud of dust into the air.

The lock on his safe proved trickier than I would have imagined, forcing me to spend longer than I would have liked as I coaxed the door open with my trusty lockpicks. Eventually it yielded and thankfully proved worthy of the attention I had bestowed upon it.

With my purse considerably heavier I descended back into the shop to peruse the goods on offer. The trading post carried several moss and a few water arrows, and a good number of standard broadheads, there was even a rope arrow. All of them ended in my quiver. It was my hope that I would not have to use the broadheads, as I have already stated, I am no assassin. Yet there is something to be said for despatching an enraged burrick from a safe position, a good distance from its feted, rotting breath and angry jaws.

After picking up a couple of flares, and remembering to step over the pressure plate, I left the shop and continued towards the main town.

Before long I was crouched beneath the main walls, my instincts on fire as the distant footfalls of the archers, who paced along the high wall, floated on the icy breeze. I stayed perfectly still, experience allowing me to block the steady footfalls from my consciousness as listened to the conversation of two guards who stood sentry before the gate.

“So what’s happened to Friar McIntyre?” asked the smaller of the two.

“Beats me.” Came the curt reply of his companion.

“But it’s true though, what they say?”

“Oh aye; up’d and left about a month ago. Booked passage on one of Truart’s ships… said something about the answer being in the city…”

“Dariell told me he had a fearful look in his eye,” came the conspiratorial whisper of the smaller guard, “Like the Trickster himself was after him, Dariell said.”

The larger man guffawed, “Don’t be believing a word that Dariell says, stupid taffer’s got his head up his own arse.”

The smaller one joined in the laughter, “True enough,” he chortled, “True enough.”

They fell silent for a moment, then, his voice suddenly serious, the smaller guard asked, “So… What d’you reckon the Duke’s gonna do about it?”

“More’an probably send a letter to the abbot, get us a new priest… with the feast of Mithra approaching an’ all. McIntyre’s timing couldn’t be worse though, what with the funeral.”

“Aye,” The Guard’s voice sounded strained, upset even, “The poor bitch… The Duke’ll sort it.”

“Let’s hope so.”

They fell silent, an almost awkward break in their conversation.

It was here that I began my tale, as the guards parted company, the smaller trudging towards me. He was oblivious to my presence, cloaked in darkness as I was, and all I could think was how much I loved the winter season. More specifically the long winter nights. Of course, ultimately, I was to break into the castle, but time was on my side. Time enough to take a small detour and visit the church. Churches always did a good line in gold candlesticks and valuable statuettes. More than that it was definitely a church of Mithra. As far as I knew the religion was virtually unheard of in the city. They must have some kind of holy book and rumour had it that Garrett still had contacts within the Keepers. I might be able to persuade him to try and sell such a tome to the order. Even if they were aware of the religion and did not want, or indeed already possessed such a tome, there were plenty of collectors of rare books who would pay handsomely for it.

The guard trudged past me, breaking through my musings, unaware of my presence even as he fell unconscious to the ground. I grabbed his feet and pulled him deeper into the shadows before turning my attention to his larger friend.

The second guard was moving away from me, I quickly ghosted up behind him, and rather cheekily, lifted the gate key from his belt before despatching him into the black land of sleep.

With key in hand I slipped unnoticed through the gate and into Yvesdril town, truly believing, in my heart of hearts, that a legend was in the making.

The town was not dissimilar in appearance to many of the suburbs of the city, if you discounted from your vision the vineyards, which flanked either side of the town, and of course the imposing castle, larger than most buildings in the city. Discounting the castle, however, was not an option, dominating the rear of the town, brooding in the moonlight. Houses clustered together, as though they coward below the massive structure, forming shadow filled streets and black alleyways. It was, in truth, a thief’s paradise. Spluttering torches were dotted around, but few and far between.

I tried a door, but found it to be bolted from the inside. The windows, I discovered, were nailed shut. Damn, if the ordinary folks were this security conscious, what would the castle be like? Oh well it would simply make the robbery a greater challenge.

I made my way through the streets, keeping to the shadows and darting through the rare pools of light.

The twists and turns of the streets eventually brought me to a low wall, the boundary between church and town. I mantled over the brickwork, dropping silently into the graveyard and pausing to regain my bearings.

Beyond the neat rows of graves was the church itself, silhouetted before the full moon. Next to it was a cottage, probably the priest’s home. In that case there would be no one at home.

I made my way towards the buildings, keeping low as I passed amongst the headstones, a precaution in case the graveyard formed part of a guards patrol route. The light of the moon was captured by small crystal veins embedded within the hewn rock of the gravestones, causing them to appear to be draped in shimmering spiderwebs of silvery light.

As I neared the buildings I heard a crashing coming from the cottage. A freshly dug grave was to my left, awaiting the arrival of its permanent occupant. I was sure whoever was destined to occupy it wouldn’t be too upset at me taking temporary lodgings within it.

The grave was dug to the standard six feet, deeper, therefore, than I was tall. Luckily for me, the gravedigger had been kind enough to leave his ladder propped against the earthen wall. I climbed the first couple of rungs, just enough to allow me to pop my head out of the gaping maw and spy on the cottage invisibly. Just in time to see the door to the cottage fly open.

The figure was dressed in black, the hood of his cloak hiding his features in a well of darkness. The only clue to his sex coming from his large body mass. The only part of his body actually visible was a single hand, which for the briefest second seemed to claw at the night. The flesh was white as snow, as white, came the thought, as the Duke’s man had been. Almost the bloodless pallor of dead flesh.

But it was not the physical aspects of the figure that chilled my blood and froze the very marrow of my bones, rather it was the noises which issued from the black abyss that was his hood. The creature released guttural growls, peppered with high-pitched shrieks, screams born from the heart of frustration. Noises so strange and loud in the quiet night that I felt sure the guards would soon be bearing down upon us. Recognisable words swelled up through the animalistic cacophony.

“Make them pay… Brought the curse they did…”

The figure began to stalk towards the town, his noise quickly quietening and then ceasing before he moved out of earshot, as though he suddenly realised that his mad cries would alert the sleeping town to his presence.

The creature, man, living nightmare, I did not know how to classify him, vanished into the night. Strain as I might I could no longer see him, and yet I waited in the grave for a goodly length of time, my knuckles white as I clutched the ladder tight. I told myself that I was ensuring he had gone, but the truth hammered in my chest and coursed through my veins in waves of adrenaline. He had scared me.

Eventually I eased myself out of the grave. I paused for a moment, casting my eyes at the headstone and reading the name Marie Du’Preze, a young woman according to the dates. Instinctively I whispered a short blessing for the unknown woman to the Heavens before making my way, cautiously, to the cottage door. 

The inside of a cottage had been ransacked. The sparse furniture had been overturned, much of it being smashed in the process.  Pictures had been torn, canvasses ripped from frames still clinging to the wall, like dying men tenuously holding on to life. The work of the mysterious figure, no doubt, but whether the destruction was due to a frantic search or mindless violence, I could not tell for certain. One thing looked certain, however, little of value would be found in the priest’s home. Never the less I searched each room, checking the debris strewn over the floor for anything of value. As I searched the bedroom a floorboard shifted slightly under my foot. It slid easily up, revealing a hidey-hole, containing a book and a key. Perhaps these had been what the figure had searched for.

The book appeared to be a journal. I opened the front sleeve, disturbing the dust that had layered the leather binding, and, by the moonlight which spilled carelessly through the window, I started to read.

“The journal of Friar Iain McIntyre, bound in love to the Lord Mithra.

“It has been the proudest day of my life and yet one laced with bitter disappointment. The day I was ordained into the Order of Mithra ~ His name forever be blessed ~ the day His light shone into my soul and I was blessed with His divine presence. Yet also the day I was assigned to the parish of Yvesdril.

“I protested the Abbot’s decision. I explained to him that I had sought missionary work, to spread His divine name and to take the Word of Mithra to the unenlightened. I used my most persuasive of words.

“The Abbot told me that a position of such importance in one of our long established, and most Easterly, of parishes was a great honour. I protested again. Then he told me that missionary work was not what I believed it to be. That, in a land so devoutly pledged to the Hammer, the missionary was more the diplomat or politician. I again protested. So it was that the Abbot informed me, in words of the bluntest nature, that my superiors considered me to lack the stability and maturity necessary for missionary work. Again I protested.

“My protests fell on deaf ears and so I go to Yvesdril, a prayer on my lips, begging Mithra to show the Abbot the error of his ways and reconsider my petition.

“I am now in Yvesdril and I feel like a prisoner in this place, though I am told that I may leave at any time.

“I asked the Duke for permission to allow those potential worshipers of Mithra, whom I found in the so called “foreign quarter”, leave to enter the town so that they might attend service within the church. He refused, with no more explanation than foreigners were not permitted past the town gate. His decision had undone the much good I had already achieved with the visiting traders. I cannot understand why this place should be so insular, but feel that something is very wrong here.

“It has been a month since I last wrote in my journal and I struggle both with questions and fears. Why does the Duke refuse to come to my daytime services? He claims to prefer the night services, though I see not why. It is as though he is nocturnal, perhaps explaining why his skin is so pale.

“Another month and I am truly afraid, but of what I cannot say. The town’s folk are a happy sort, and the only one who feels dread seems to be me. I am sure that a malignant darkness rests behind the seeming normality of Yvesdril. Why can’t anyone see it but I? Does my close proximity to the consecrated grounds of the House of Mithra protect me from this illusion of happiness?

“At last another sees the darkness which presses on the very periphery of vision, or so I believe. Marie Du’Preze has lost the false joy which permeates this town and become shrouded in melancholy. I will speak with her and subtly discover if she too feels the pressing blackness.

“Disaster. She knows not what I mean, although perhaps my questions were too subtle for her gentle mind. No, I am sure that whatever fogs the minds of the others still holds her in thrall somehow. I am convinced that the Duke knows of this, perhaps knows what the source is. The way he looks at me, his eyes burning with distrust. Perhaps the Duke himself is the source?

“I can no longer stand it. I must move from the cottage into the church itself for I feel safer in its blessed arms. One of the statues, Mithra the merciful, catches my eye so often. I do not know why….”

The rest of the pages in the journal were blank. A shiver ran the length of my spine as I gently placed the book on the floor. Du’Preze, that was the name on the grave… and the priest had gone away, his cottage ransacked by someone or something. Had the figure been searching for something? The macabre cries I had heard sounded like cries of frustration, as though the object searched for had not been found. The only thing it might have been was the journal. I picked up the book again and slipped it into my backpack. If it had been the object of his destructive searching then I felt sure that he should not find it.

The Priest had suggested that the source of his fears may have been the Duke himself, but to believe him was to rely upon an assumption. A good thief avoided assumptions; a good thief found as much out about their mark as possible. I laughed out loud at the irony. Here I was, exploring a town with no knowledge of what secrets lay behind the stone barrier that for years had kept the outside world at bay. I told myself that all the things the priest had written of, as well as the nightmare intruder to his house and the death of the girl, were born of coincidence, and yet somehow I was not convinced.

There could be no debate, I would have to enter the church. The priest might have left further evidence in there, more information which could perhaps help me to understand what I had allowed myself to fall into.

The key I had found in the cottage turned easily in the church door’s ornate iron lock, and the door swung open. Moonlight spilled through the stained glass, causing weak patterns of pastel light to pool on the floor. A statue, a huge bull and silent warrior, guarded by flickering torches, dominated the church. The light from the torches caressed the muscular flanks of the bull, giving the illusion that its granite flesh moved. As my eyes moved upwards, passed the look of serenity, which the skill of the sculptor had somehow imbued within the bovine features, I realised that the warrior held a spear, pushing it into the bull’s back. If the serenity on the face of the dying bull was strange, even stranger was the emotion captured in the warrior’s stony features. I perhaps had expected anger, or at least an expression of physical exertion, but the face portrayed only a profound spiritual love.

I walked along the aisle towards the giant bull. Further statues flanked the walls of the church. Different figures, striking very different posses, yet all bearing the face of the giant warrior. This, I guessed, was Mithra.

There was a door to the left of the statue. I approached it cautiously, pressing my ear to the wood, yet heard nothing coming from beyond the portal. The door swung open revealing a small chamber. I opened a wardrobe, to reveal ritual robes. The priest’s preparation room, undoubtedly. A picture of Mithra hung on the wall, it’s line not quite straight. Moving the picture revealed a small safe. A few deft flicks of my lockpicks and the safe door was open. The chalice went straight into my backpack. There was also a book, a cursory glance at which revealed it to be an ornate tome entitled “The Teachings of Mithra”. Just the sort of things the Keeper’s would love to get their hands on.

There seemed to be no other doors. The interior of the church had failed to cast any light on the happenings in the town, nor the fears held by the priest. Then I remembered what had been written in the priest’s journal, “One of the statues, Mithra the merciful, catches my eye so often.”

I started examining the statues, searching their length and the areas around them. The search was fruitful as my hand caught a tiny lever behind the base of one of the statues. As it clicked into place I heard the sound of gears shifting and watched the statue slide across, feeling a sense of satisfaction that was almost like a bell chiming in my mind.

The statue had shifted to reveal a narrow stairwell, heading under the church. The sense of satisfaction quickly faded away. I had been in this game long enough to realise that hidden passages and chambers in churches, temples and any other place of worship invariably led to one thing - undead. I hate having to deal with the undead. Occasionally I’ve actually turned down a lucrative business venture, because it’s meant having to fight the undead. Please do not get me wrong, I am not a coward and have had many a brush with living corpses in the pursuit of my business. It has also seemed to me, however, that the fighting of monsters is best left to warriors, not thieves.

I looked around until I spotted the font. I emptied my water flask and filled it from the basin, ensuring a goodly supply of holy water. Then, cursing myself for the situation I found myself in, descended the steps, thankful for the occasional luminescent mushroom, casting a dim light onto my path.

The stairs ended at a rough-hewn tunnel, I stooped slightly in order to follow it. My hands ran over the rock, my kidskin gloves thin enough to let me feel the coarse texture. The tunnel seemed to go on forever, I walked on until a dim light was visible ahead, a goal.

The tunnel opened into a cave. Torches illuminated the area; born of magic they cast light without flame, and revealed two large whiteback spiders scurrying over the dusty floor. Careful aim and a couple of broadheads ensured that they would not bother me.

The walls of the cave were filled with pictures, painted directly onto the rough stone. It became clear they told a story…

Here they revealed some form of demon, a monstrous bat creature, with a face of a man, albeit twisted and deformed. They showed how the bat attacked people. It seemed that the demon had a taste for blood, feeding from the necks of its victims. Then it showed those same victims raising from their graves. Some had transformed into bat demons, others kept human form. The next picture showed Mithra, the God was blessing His priests. The priests met the demons in battle, but despite their holy blessing the demons seemed to press the advantage. Finally it showed one priest offering prayers to the heavens. The clouds which covered the night sky parted to his prayer and a shaft of light, as though it were from the sun, struck the demons, melting their flesh and destroying them.

I didn’t know quite what to make of the mural. It was obviously one of the religion’s myths, but why keep the story hidden here, below the church. There was one thing I was sure of, myths and legends normally had at least a grain of truth. I had never heard of anything like the bat demons, but their victims were undead, I knew that much.

Another tunnel lead away, this time much shorter in length. I followed it and came to another cave, open this time to the outside world, or more accurately the estuary. I had found a secret way on and off the island, but who, other than a madman, would use it. The violence of the estuary was plain to both see and hear. Yet someone was mad enough to brave the rocks and violent waters, for a small boat rested on the shingle that marked the border between cave and river.

I was about to leave, to head back towards the town, when I noticed something behind some rocks. A parchment. As I opened it, I immediately recognised the handwriting of the priest… It seemed he had found the caves and then continued to write his journal.

“The continuation of the journal of Friar Iain McIntyre, bound in love to the Lord Mithra.

“I continue on this parchment, having left my journal in my home. It sickens me that I cannot summon the base courage that should be the very mark of a priest of Mithra. I am too scared to venture out and retrieve my journal. Yet venture out I must and in writing down that which has happened, in gathering my thoughts, I hope I will also gather the tattered vestiges of my courage.

“I had been living in the church for almost a week, when the revelation was given to me. Some of the parishioners had offered comment on my new habit, but I cared not, I felt safe. Most were appeased when I explained that I was performing a ritual of Mithra that necessitated my presence in His house as often as possible.

“The statue still drew my eye, and I often knelt before it praying. Then one day I found the lever, and revealed the sacred room below. 

“The cave has spiders but they seem uninterested in me, so I have spent a week studying the murals, looking at both their surface meaning and the deeper symbology hidden within the artist’s bush strokes.

“They are old, I know that much, but how old I cannot tell. I suspect they date from the conception of the church.

“I was also aware of what they depicted, the creatures are called strigoï in the language of my province, or more commonly they are known as vampyre.

“The vampyre, prince of the undead, blood sucking immortals crafted from a fusion of corpse and pure evil. These are not your mindless zombie or your predictable haunt. I’d thought them legends only, thus my knowledge of them is patchy at best and built on the shifting sands of folklore tales.

“The vampyre can pass for human, especially as it has a gift for mesmerism. It fears the sunlight, and the mural suggests they may even be destroyed by it, thus is pale of skin. It feeds off the blood of good folk and I recall one legend, which talked of piercing its withered heart as a means of final destruction. It is even said that they caste no reflection, whether in glass or metal or still waters.

“It had quickly become clear to me that what I saw depicted, the destruction of the vampyre by the son’s of Mithra, from the bat-like demon, which I took to be their source, to the newest raised from their unholy graves, had not been a total victory. One, at least, had survived. The Duke of Yvesdril. The creature had lived through the aeons, keeping his people trapped on the island like cattle, forcing euphoria into their minds by means of his black arts. I didn’t understand why such a creature would have a church to Mithra within his lands. To keep his enemy close perhaps, or as a means of disguise? How many of our order had served this devil unknowingly?

“Knowledge did not bolster me however, for my knowledge was incomplete. So I must summon my courage and leave this sanctuary, I must travel to the city, to the Hammer library. There is no love lost between the Order of the Hammer and the Church of Mithra, we are rivals after all, but there is an understanding at least. They will surely let me use their library, the best stocked in the region I am lead to believe. Within the tomes I will complete my knowledge. For knowledge is power and I will need such power if I am to rid the world of this evil.

“May Mithra have mercy on my flock whilst I am gone.”

Shit. I knew that I was going to run into undead, I just knew it. I had never heard of these vampyres, but one thing I did know, I’d never come across an undead which could survive more than a couple of water crystal arrows filled with blessed water.

Perhaps I was being too glib. After all, the priest was sure that these creatures were powerful. I quickly convinced myself that running into the vampyre a second time was highly unlikely – despite the fact that my destination was likely its lair. More than that, I rationalised that, even if our paths crossed, I had avoided its attention once and could do so again. If the worst came to the worst, if our paths crossed and I could not avoid the creature, then I actually believed holy water would save me.

It was all a lie. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Its clarity is akin to a mechanical eye, pin sharp and zoomable! I may have convinced myself, but the actual truth was more base. The truth was, my ego would not let me leave. I had broken into Yvesdril, I had succeeded were no other thief, not even Garrett, had and my ego would not let me return home until I’d stolen something which could prove the fact definitively. Something like the legendary black eagle sceptre.

I checked my quiver. I only had five water crystals. I had not known an undead that could resist more than three, in fact most were destroyed by two. I couldn’t rely on that though. I decided that I would have to save them all if possible, but at the most I could only use one in an emergency. I didn’t want to meet the vampyre again and discover that an extinguished torch was to cost me my life.

Before long I had retraced my steps through the tunnels, left the church, exited the graveyard and plunged myself once more into the shadow drenched arteries of the town. I moved swiftly and silently, always heading in the direction of the imposing castle.

A scream ripped the night, echoing through the narrow streets. The piercing noise caused lanterns to spring to life, their light leaking through cracks in the wooden shutters, which remained conspicuously closed. 

I peered cautiously round the corner. Before me was the creature from the graveyard, the vampyre, his back turned to me. Facing both the vampyre and myself was a woman, framed in moonlight. The silvery light highlighting a dark stain, which coated her neck, seeping slowly over the fabric of her white nightdress. Her arms were held out, warding the creature away.

She screamed again, desperate rage mixing with terror, and lunged forward. The creature stumbled backwards, momentum forcing him to the ground. The woman turned and ran; I could not imagine her getting very far, not with the wound in her neck still bleeding profusely. 

I pulled a water crystal from my quiver. Dextrous fingers took the water pouch from my belt and flicked the lid open in one swift movement.

At the same time the vampyre climbed up onto his feet and chased after his victim. His turn of speed ensuring that I could not seed the arrow with blessed water and get a shot off in time.

I quickly re-corked my water pouch and followed them. I really don’t know why, I’m not a hero by any stretch of the imagination. Yet I couldn’t stand idly by and let this woman die, and death would surely come if I did not intervene.

As I ran, I noticed a door left open. I had already passed it when I realised that it had not been damaged. This creature had not broken down his victim’s door. She had opened it for him. Had she known her attacker? Perhaps the priest had been right about the powers of mesmerism, could he have forced her to open her portal with the raw power of his mind? Then again, which town person would refuse entry into their home when their Duke came to call?

I slowed as I reached a corner, careful to peer round it, only to face the vampyre charging blindly towards me. I pulled back and pressed myself against the wall, as deep into the shadows as I could. The vampyre ran straight past me, disappearing into the maze of twisted streets.

I looked back round the corner to see that the woman had collapsed by the castle walls. Two guards bent over her. It seemed that the vampyre had been interrupted. I could hear snatches of conversation as their voices floating on the night breeze.

“…Another attack…”
“At least this one’s alive.”
“Have to get her to the apothecary…”
“… Will catch the bastard…” 

They lifted the woman, and between them carried her through a side door. The door remained enticingly open.

Within seconds I turned from would be hero, back to thief, a mantle which, I must confess, I feel more comfortable wearing. I looked through the door, my eyes quickly adjusting to the bright interior lights. The guards were disappearing through a distant door, raising the alarm as they went. The wide hallway before me had marble flooring and the three doors leading further into the castle were some distance away.

It was all too obvious that the place would soon be crawling with guards. Then I spotted an alcove that was drenched with shadows. That would do for now, I decided. I let my bow drop from my shoulder, and fired two moss arrows, creating a carpeted path to the alcove.

I darted over the moss and into the alcove, not a moment too soon, as the far door reopened and a troop of guards entered the hallway.

“What the Hell!” The captain’s voice was filled with anger, “The stupid morons!”

“Cap?”

“They’ve only left the taffin’ door open,” The anger in his voice grew, causing his words to crescendo.

“So…”

“Holy Mithra preserve me… Am I the only one who can carry a thought in his head? The killer could be inside.”

I shook my head, a perverse mirth filling me as I watched the dawning realisation illuminate the faces of the other guards. These guys were not the brightest brooches in the jewellery box.

“Right,” barked the Captain, “You six out on patrol, see if the bastard’s still out there. George…”

“Yes Cap?”

“Lock that door behind them. The rest of you taffers start searching the castle. Until the killer’s caught assume we have an intruder and assume he wants to bite your throat out. Well… what are you waiting for… Get to it!”

The Captain’s order caused the troop to scatter chaotically towards their assigned tasks. I waited patiently considering, as I did, this latest turn of events. I was in the castle, certainly, but the castle was on high alert. That didn’t concern me, not having witnessed the calibre of the guards. I doubted that most of them would be successful at catching a cold. That said, if one of them were to get lucky they would automatically assume that I was the killer. I didn’t know how Yvesdril justice worked, but I couldn’t imagine it was much different to the justice in the city. That is to say, justice came as swiftly and easily from the sharpened point of a sword, as it did from a judicial proclamation.

What of the killer himself? The words of the priest and the wound in the girl’s neck, so much like the mural in the cave, left me in no doubt that this was a vampyre. Could it be possible that the Duke was really this creature? The priest had been right so far, but if the Duke were undead his guards were as ignorant of his true nature as the townsfolk. They didn’t even use the word vampyre, only killer. That would explain why, if the creature were the Duke, he ran from the attack when the guards appeared, he didn’t want to be discovered and his true nature revealed.

A look at my surroundings, however, told another story. The marble floor was swept and polished. Rich tapestries adorned the walls. The castle had an air, even in this side-entrance hall, of opulence. If the Duke were the vampyre then these creatures were very different from the undead I had previously encountered. I thought of the dirt and squalor in which one normally encountered the living dead, the buildings they inhabited falling into disrepair, and the thick stench of the charnel house which accompanied them. No this creature was very different to any other of his kind. 

The guards had now left the hall, all except for George, who having locked the door now stood by it, his back turned to me. I retraced my steps over the moss, moving swiftly behind him. Within moments George’s unconscious form was propped up in the alcove and I had a key to the castle side door. Having gained a means of egress, and quickly firing two more moss arrows so that the entire hallway was easily traversed, it was time to venture deeper into the castle, and to further line my purse.

The castle proved to be as large and complex as I had imagined it should be. Whoever designed and built the structure seemed to have exchanged logic for desire, creating something that might be described as a practical folly.

I left one or two unconscious guards in my wake, but in the main concentrated on avoiding them altogether. Despite their amateurish display earlier, this was not the easiest of tasks. They were out in force and searching for a killer.

I must admit that I loitered longer than was absolutely necessary in the kitchens, after ensuring, of course, that the servants still working would sleep long and wake painfully. The rich aroma of roasting meats, baking bread and the succulent flesh of the various fruits proving too tempting for a man who had eaten the bare minimum for the last couple of days.

From the kitchens I strayed down into the wine cellars. I never stole Yvesdril Blood wine when I was doing a job in the city. The fact that we imported it made a mockery of stealing it for my own pleasure. Plus, it felt wrong somehow, a bit like emptying my bowels on my own doorstep.

That said, I was not in the city and the Duke had vintages that were simply unheard of, a special reserve he obviously refused to share with the outside world. I selected a single bottle, although I could happily have taken crate after crate. It was a particularly ancient vintage that my fence could easily sell on to any connoisseur with more money than sense. The bottle itself with caked in a layer of dust and cobwebs, which I reverently cleaned away before placing it in my backpack. 

Other than the valuable wines I had found little else worth stealing. One or two semi-valuable statuettes and a couple of gold goblets had found their way into my possession, but that was all. This part of the castle obviously did not house the Duke’s treasures.

There was only one corridor that led deeper into the castle, it’s length flooded by darkness. I was uneasy. The design of the castle might have appeared chaotic, but it was obvious that there was purpose in some of the design. The architect had created a satellite wing that was obviously used for the day to day running of the castle and, judging by the sumptuous décor of some of the rooms, receiving what few guests visited the castle. The architect had allowed only one way into the inner sanctum of the castle, making it easily guarded.

My instincts clamoured and my nerves were on fire. Every facet of my body, mind and experience cautioning me against the dark corridor. The torches in the room before it had even been placed in such a way that their light did not spill into the corridor. Something was hidden within it.

I pulled a flare from my belt, twisting the handle. There was a barely audible click, and the flare sprang to life, drenching me in a ghostly pool of green luminessence.

Cautious steps took me along the corridor, my eyes actively searching every surface. I froze. The ceiling up ahead had changed. No longer smooth plaster, but row upon row of razor spikes. I could enhance my reputation for the melodramatic at this point. I could describe the dried blood and rotting flesh, which clung to the metal fangs. I could go on to describe the slight smell of corrupting flesh that now offended my senses and how I noticed that the floor ahead was no longer simply stone, but was a mosaic of bone shards. In truth I would be lying. The spikes were obviously sharp, but clean and polished. The only change in the floor was a pockmarking of the surface, where the spikes had obviously met the hard stone, convincing me that once below them the ceiling would drop to the floor.

The spikes went on for some distance, too far to jump. I might have been able to sprint the distance, but without knowing the speed of decent It was not a risk I was willing to take.

The earlier room had housed some crates. Dropping the flare as a marker, I doubled back and selected one that had a good weight to it.

The flare was beginning to dim as I returned. I had a plan. It was not elegant and certainly not subtle. It was guaranteed to bring a horde of guards down upon me. But, it was the only one I had.

I threw the crate, which landed further along the corridor with a crash. Suddenly I was glad that I had not attempted to sprint the corridor. The ceiling crashed down, the cacophony like a mountain falling to earth.

The ceiling was now a raised block before me, creating a walkway of sorts. I mantled onto the stone and ran through the darkness, emerging into a well-lit room, overlooked by a balcony. Several doors led out of the room. No guards had reached the room, though it would not be long. I couldn’t risk any of the exits and could find no shadow into which I could melt.

I sprinted across the room, knowing I had perhaps seconds before the doors burst open. As I ran I pulled the rope arrow from my quiver. It flew true and buried itself into the ceiling by the balcony.

My bow was back over my shoulder and I was climbing the rope, then leaping onto the balcony. I leaned over the balcony wall and grabbed the rope, pulling it up, hiding it from view. Once done I slumped down, my back against the wall, the sound of my heart hammering in my head, so loud it almost drowned out the noise of doors bursting open below.

“Well he’s got past the crusher… look he triggered the dye trap.”

Dye trap?

“Yeah, his trail leads to this wall and then vanishes.”

Trail? I looked at the soles of my boots. Shit. A viscous substance, vivid blue in hue, clung to my feet. Wherever I walked a trail would be left.

“Do you think he went up to the balcony, Sir?”

Oh Hell.

“How’d he do that then? Fly?”

Thank the Heavens.

“Dariell, use your brain for once. He’s a canny one this one. He knew he’d triggered the dye trap, so he’s left us a trail that vanishes in the middle of the room. Took his boots off, and got through a doorway. Probably sneaked away in the confusion.”

I silently laughed. These guys were giving me way more credit than I was due. Fair enough.

“Okay I want a full security sweep of this floor, and guards on every stairway. I expect you taffers to be on full alert ‘til we catch this guy.”

The guards seemed somewhat less enthusiastic than their Captain, and despite the urgency of his orders some of them still milled around below me, but I had more pressing problems, namely the dye on my boots. I pulled a rag from my backpack and tried to wipe the vibrant colour away, to no avail. It seemed the viscous coating would not be so easy to clean off. I would have to wash it away, but the only water I had was the blessed water from the church.

Not quite true, I realised. I also had the water crystals, but I would need them to deliver the blessed water, if I crossed paths with the vampyre once more.

I laid the five crystals before me. The crystals have a small, open reservoir crafted towards the rear of the crystalline tip. That’s how blessed water is delivered, poured into the open reservoir and quickly fired. The added water mingles with the water contained within the crystal on impact, but unfortunately soon spills, hence their being only a small window of opportunity in which the arrows can be fired.

The main water is sealed behind a sealed hatch built into the crystal itself, the hatch causing a weak spot which allows the crystal to breach on impact more easily. It is technically possible to open the hatch, however, without breaking the crystal. Once open the water can be poured out, even replaced and resealed.

My quickly determined plan relied on this. I would open each crystal in turn and use the contents to clean my boots. I would the refill the main chamber with the blessed water, carefully resealing the crystal. In this way I could remove the dye and still have a weapon with which to fight the vampyre. Unfortunately it was a delicate job.

I took the first crystal, and with my slimmest lockpick, began worrying the hatch. After some delicate work the crystal hatch popped open and poured the water over the sole of a boot, wiping at it with the rag. I realised it would take at least two crystals to completely clean my boot. I lay the crystal onto the soft carpet and picked up a second. Eventually the first boot was clean.

As I worked at the hatch of the third crystal my hand slipped, I watched helplessly as cracks spread from the weak point and spread through the crystal, quickly opening like gaping wounds and allowing the liquid to spill uselessly onto the carpet.

Two crystals left, I couldn’t afford another mistake.

Eventually both boots were clean and I began the equally painstaking job of refilling and sealing the crystals. If the hatch were not closed properly the contents would leak into my quiver. Too much pressure and the crystal would break. The work seemed to take forever, but eventually I finished, without further disaster, and was left with four blessed water arrows. There was a little of the blessed water left in the pouch. I supposed that, if worst came to the worst I could always physically pour the contents over the vampyre’s head.

I peered over the balcony; two guards remained in the room. It was only a matter of time, however, before the security sweep of the lower floor was completed and the search was moved upwards, if it hadn’t already. Time therefore to move on to somewhere that at least provided places to hide.

I eased the door to the balcony open, revealing a darkened corridor. The only other door on the corridor opened into a bedroom, empty of both occupant and loot. I moved silently onwards and came to a turn in the corridor, the sound of voices drifting towards me. “Master Roderick, I do not care what the Duke said…”

I spied round the corner. The woman who had spoken was hidden from view, obviously inside a room. A guard stood before the open door, plainly visible in the light that spilled out of the doorway.

“But my Lady, I have my orders.”

“And I want my privacy. I’m sure the Duke will deem me guarded well enough if you stand outside my room. I will not have an armed soldier in my room.”

The guard thought about this for a moment and then nodded his ascent. He quickly lit two gas lamps, one either side of the door, which then slammed shut.

The corridor remained bathed in thick shadows that clustered jealously around the interlocking pools of light spilling from the lamps. I edged slowly towards the guard, ensuring that I did not stray too far forwards. It would not have done to emerge from the shadows too soon.

The Duke had sent a guard specifically to this woman, which meant one of two things, she was his wife or his mistress. Either way I wanted into that room.

Quite obviously, my visit to Castle Yvesdril had not, so far, proved that profitable. Certainly the meagre haul did not compensate me for the time spent cramped as a stowaway, not to mention falling ceilings and vampyres. A woman favoured by the Duke, whether wife or mistress, would be certain to have jewels bestowed upon her by her Lord.

More than that though, a woman in her position would be privy to secrets. I had lost count of the number of times that the pages of a wife’s diary or the memoirs of a mistress had revealed the location of a treasure or pointed to a network of secret tunnels and passages.

It also struck me that the writings of a woman so close to the Duke might reveal more of his true nature, laying his secrets open before me.

Master Roderick stood alert. I knew that I could not get out of the shadows and close enough to strike him without feeling the cold bite of his sword.

The gas lamps were too close to him for me to douse with a water crystal, even if I had one spare. Even a sleeping guard will awaken and hunt you down if a shower of water falls onto their face. I’d been made aware that the Master Fletcher Sledge was developing arrows that replicated the wind, strong enough to blow out torches and lamps, but without such an arrow in my possession the thought was redundant. It was times like these that I felt a true pang of jealousy for Garrett, jealous of his Keeper training. But I’ve always thought jealousy an ugly colour, and though I might not be able to walk unseen in full view, I am nothing if not resourceful.

I pulled a coin from my purse and tossed it down the corridor. The guard did not see it as it flew past his legs, but certainly heard it as it clattered against the corridor wall.

“What was that?”

The question remained unanswered as he peered into the gloom, his back turned to me.

“If anyone’s there then show yourself.”

He dropped to the floor, darkness enveloping his prone form as I switched the lamps off and then reached for the door handle.

The bright bedroom lights had been switched off in favour of the shimmering light of candles, seated in elaborate candlesticks upon the dressing table. I watched the Duke’s woman as she sat, her back to me. She brushed her long hair, the silver handle of the brush sweeping through her velvet hair in a luxurious arc. The silver captured the candlelight and sparkled against the rich midnight of her long locks.

I could see her face, captured in the frame of the gilt-edged mirror. She was of a classic beauty; her face designed to be captured by the artist’s brush. Possibly in her mid-twenties I assumed she was the Duke’s mistress.

Her reflection… I remembered McIntyre’s words, “It is even said that they caste no reflection, whether in glass or metal or still waters.” That meant she wasn’t one of those creatures. Strange, an undead creature that used the living as a consort, what manner of creature was this. The image of this beautiful woman lying with a corpse passed before my mind’s eye, causing me to shudder involuntarily. Some might accuse me of hypocrisy, to be disgusted by the thought of the living dead laying it’s corrupt flesh across her supple form, and to then lay her unconscious form across her bed. What manner of knight in shining armour renders the fair maiden unconscious? Indeed, what Cavalier would even contemplate the striking of a woman?

I am no knight, however. I am not a man tied helplessly to the code of chivalry, or even honour for that matter. I am thief and striking her down was part of the business at hand.  Sleeping with the undead on the other hand, as far as I’m concerned that’s necrophillia. As I’ve already said, there are lines…

The brush was indeed silver, and slipped easily into my backpack. The candlesticks also seemed worthy of my attention, but on examination I decided that their weight necessitated me leaving them. Also on the dressing table was a jewellery box.

I opened the lid, the contents of the box sparkling in the candlelight. I lifted a diamond necklace out, holding it to the light. Glass. Cut and polished glass. It was nothing more than costume jewellery. I checked the rest of the box’s contents. All the same. This was getting beyond a joke. There was wealth in Yvesdril, I had witnessed enough sent in both goods and monies over the years. Where was it hidden!

I opened the draws in the table, searching for her diary, but found nothing but her most private silks.

The night was just not working out the way I had envisioned it. Then I noticed something poking beneath the valance of her bed.

The diary was ornate, with a silvered clasp across the front that was locked. I made a very quick search for the key but, given my run of fortune so far, was not surprised when I didn’t find it.

I started to open the mechanism with a lockpick, when suddenly my hand froze. Something wasn’t right. I used the lockpick to push against the mechanism, almost jumping as the needle sprang out. Had I been holding the diary, rather than working it with a lockpick on the dressing table, it would have pierced my hand. I lifted the diary and sniffed at the needle, I could smell poison. Builder, this woman was serious about her privacy. A quick flick of the lockpick and the clasp sprang open. It was time to see what secrets she valued so much.

The opening page gave her name – “Katerina De’Yvesdril, by the grace of Mithra wife of the Duke Stefan De’Yvesdril.” So, she was his wife then, not his mistress. I turned the page and read on.

“It seems like my heart might burst with joy, were it not for the dark shaft of cynicism which spears my soul.

“The shame I feel for allowing that cynicism to take root. Shame now that I am sure it was born of falsehood.”

“When the Duke came to me, when he told me of his intention to marry me, it was all that I could ever wish for. I was carried on the wings of his charm, and his overtures quickly caused my heart to swoon into surrender.”

“Yet there was always cynicism, the terrible thought that he did not truly love me. That, as the years caught him, he sought not love, not a bride, but a vessel in which he might allow his seed to quicken and produce an heir.

“That dark thought, therefore, is my shame. For once we were married he came to me, as a husband will to his wife, and he told me that though he desired that our union would give him a son it would always be my choice. He told me that he married me because he fell in love with me from the moment he saw me, bewitched, as he put it, by my beauty, and if I am unwilling to bear him a child then it matters not.

“He even intimated that the apothecary can produce a powder which, if taken each day, can stop the seed taking root in the fertile soils of my womb.

“Oh, the agony I feel that I could let even the slightest doubt mar my joy. Of course I will bear him children. It is the natural thing for a wife to do for her husband.”

I flipped through the diary, my eyes scanning her elegant script. The pages seemed filled with naught but romantic musings. After a while, however, the normal minutiae of life overtook the romantic words.

“My darling Stefan has bought me so many beautiful things and yet insists that I keep them in the treasury. I questioned him, wanting to know why. After all, our little duchy is idyllic, we know nothing of the crime I know to be prevalent beyond our town wall.

“He then told me that he kept spies on the mainland who reported to him on all manner of things. His spies had reported various crimes, thefts more daring than the normal petty crime that plagued that Godless place. He mentioned several names, but made particular mention of a thief named Garrett. This criminal seems to steal as much for reputation as he does for gain. A thief such as Garrett, he explained, might see Yvesdril as a challenge. I bow to Stefan’s greater wisdom, but insisted that a Lady should have some beautiful things in her room. He has therefore given me costume jewellery of the finest quality that I might keep it near me. Stefan warned me that such imitation jewels would not fool a man such as Garrett, but I believe he worries too much. I cannot conceive of the manner of man that could actually break into Yvesdril, let alone find his way into my chamber.”

I laughed quietly, oh beautiful, naïve Katerina. Welcome to the real world, a world populated by such men as Garrett and Shaddowe. I continued to peruse the lady’s diary and  suddenly struck the motherload.

“My jewels are still in the treasury, as Stefan commands, and though I may see them at any time it pains me, for I must walk through the throne room. It is unfair that I disturb Stefan as he conducts his important business for the female vanity of looking at my jewellery.

“I told Stefan of this and he conceived a solution. He has ordered the construction of a secret path from my room to the treasury.

“Once built, all I need do is flick a switch, that will be placed behind my wardrobe, and a concealed door will open in my bedroom that will lead directly to the treasury.”

I smiled as I cast my eye to the wardrobe. Voila, one fast path down to the riches. My joy quelled a little as I read a fairly recent diary entry.

“The secret path to the treasury is broken. Whilst the lift buttoned from my room work perfectly well, allowing me to both call the lift and descend, the controls in the treasury have ceased functioning. This means that I must again leave the treasury via the throne room, disturbing Stefan.

“When the problem came to light I must admit to feeling panic, as weak as that might make me appear. When I believed myself trapped I felt a clamouring in my heart and actually felt that the walls were closing in on me.

“Luckily Stefan had reason to enter the treasury and opened the main door.

“My husband tells me that it will be at least two weeks before the craftsman can return to fix the problem. In the meantime he has left a key to the treasury door in the room so that I might leave at any time I wish.”

Not the greatest problem I’ve ever faced, of course, but it would have been so much easier to leave the treasury by the same route I entered it, rather than venture through unknown rooms. 

The remainder of the diary seemed of little interest until one name caught my eye. Marie Du’Preze.

“Marie is dead.

“The sheer horror of it makes me weep. Not only because a crime as ghastly as murder should descend upon our town, a crime unheard of since Stefan’s ancestor banned foreigners from our midst, but because Marie was a friend.

“Just to think that she had been so depressed of late. Her relationship with Judd, the son of Elrand the vineyard manager, had fallen apart, their betrothal broken after harsh words.

“She cried upon both my shoulder and Sharla’s. I even believe that Friar McIntyre had tried to talk with her, though she could make no sense of anything that the strange little man said.

“The problem had been solved eventually and Marie seemed the happiest girl in the town. If I am to be selfish I must record that I was greatly looking forward to her wedding.

“And now?

“To be slaughtered so young.

“I pray that Stefan captures the culprit and asks that Mithra guides his hand to justice, for I know that I would seek naught but a terrible revenge.”

There was no mention of vampyres or of strange goings on. If I’m honest I almost thought to dismiss the priest’s theories as madness, except for all that I had witnessed. The murals and the creature both.

As it was I remembered that McIntyre had written of the creature’s great power of mesmerism. I could only think that the beautiful Katerina was in his thrall.

Were I the hero, I guess I would have vowed to save her. If I were chivalrous and not the kind of man who clubs young women down in the sanctuary of their bedroom I would have pledged there and then to hunt the creature down.

As it was I reached behind the wardrobe and released the switch, smiling with satisfaction as a portion of wall opposite slid silently down and thinking only of the wealth a short journey away.

The concealed door revealed a lift. I stepped gingerly onto the metal plating aware of the noise my boots upon the surface could make. The control panel was fixed into the wall; it was positioned in such a way that I knew I would not be able to see it from the bottom of the shaft. That certainly precluded being able to reactivate it from the bottom with a broadhead arrow. Just as well, I thought to myself, when I had finished in the treasury I could not be certain as to whether there would be anyone near Katerina’s room who might here the sound of the arrow crashing into the mechanism.

The lift trundled slowly down, eventually halting in a large room, lit by electric lights and crammed full of valuables. It was choice time, there was no way I would be able to carry everything.

I started filling my backpack, my purse and my pockets with those things that seemed the most valuable. That included the sceptre, no longer legendary and now in my possession.

Once I had loaded myself with treasure, I removed a sharp knife from my pocket and walked to the display cabinet that had previously housed the sceptre. With a deliberate hand I carved an ornate letter “S” into the wood. The mark of Shaddowe and the calling card I always left behind. After all, what type of reputation can be built if no one knows your name?

The key to the treasury door was left on full view. I turned off the lights and opened the door.

The throne room was an impressive room. The treasury door opened into a sidewall flanked by giant marble pillars that stretched up to the high ceiling, thus bathing the doorway in darkness. The room was well lit towards the only other door, my exit, making it impossible for me to leave unseen. The lighting grew sparse further down the seemingly vacant room.

It took me a few seconds for my vision to penetrate the darkness that cloaked the far end. Eventually, however, I could see that there was a raised dais on which sat a throne. On the throne sat a figure. The Duke, I presumed. The vampyre.

I could feel my heart hammering hard against my chest, my mouth quickly drying. It had come down to this, I had to face the vampyre, to escape the room, to escape Yvesdril I had to face a creature born of nightmares.

I pulled one of my modified water crystals from its quiver, and notched it in the bow.

A prayer to the Builder, no more than a silent breath, escaped my lips.

I pulled the bowstring, feeling the tension stretching the catgut, the barely audible creaking of the wood sounding like a cacophony.

I took careful aim and released the crystal. My hand already pulling a second crystal from the quiver.

Suddenly the world crashed down around me. I had expected many reactions, I did not expect a vaguely familiar, resonant voice to address me.

“What manner of man tries to assassinate with water?”

As he spoke two figures stepped out of the shadows opposite. The guards’ bows aimed towards me.

“Step out of the shadows.” The voice was full of authority, and with the bows aimed at me I knew I had little choice. 

As I stepped into the light, one of the guards lowered his bow and strode towards me whilst his fellow continued to hold me in his sights. I also noticed that the figure of the Duke had stood and was walking out of the shadows. As he walked he continued to speak.

“I know you boy. You’re older now, but I most definitely know you. Yes… you have grown to look so much like your father, Alexander Truart.”

My heart almost stopped, I peered hard trying to see his face, watching, amazed, as he stepped more and more into the light. It was not the Duke, but the Duke’s man. Shit, no wonder the holy water hadn’t effected him.

I thought of warning him about his master, telling him that evil lived in this castle, but the words would not come.

The main door opened and a guard walked in, moving quickly towards the Duke’s man.

“Duke Stefan.”

The words were lost on me for a moment. Slowly the significance came to me. The Duke and his man were the same person. He kept his true identity a secret from foreigners I realised.

“What is it Captain Strell?”

“The girl has regained consciousness and identified her attacker… It’s the priest.”

McIntyre, the name reverberated around my thoughts at the exact same moment as the Duke spoke it.

“So Truart, you are not our murderer, so what are you…”

By now the bowman had reached me and was relieving me of my possessions. He opened my backpack and removed the sceptre, holding it up to the Duke.

“A common thief then. What is it, does your father think he does not receive a fair trade with me? Does he send his son to relieve me of my treasures?”

My voice sounded cold; “My father knows nothing of this.”

The Duke turned to the Captain, “Strell, take this one somewhere and guard him well. Make sure you fully search him. Then find me the priest.”

As I was lead away I shouted back, “Check the passages below the church. The statue of Mithra the Merciful. His boat is there...”

*

I sat in the room for hours; two guards flanked the door, watching me as though their very lives depended on it.

Eventually the door opened and the Duke walked in. “Truart… I may have a job for you.”

 Footnote by Keeper Saval: It was at this point that the Keepers became interested in Shaddowe. Whilst known to us before that point we have little interest in petty criminals. Shaddowe was little more than a footnote in the story of Garrett, a vague acquaintance. Not long after the attempted robbery at Yvesdril I was assigned to watch Shaddowe. Recently his journal came into my possession and I have decided to front the Book of Shaddowe with this extract, so that he may introduce the volume about himself.