Sir Wulfric and The Missing

“Welcome, Sir Wulfric,” the stablemaster said, bowing his head. “Young Master Harlan.”

The knight and his squire each nodded in return.

“We thank you for coming,” the stablemaster continued. “Dark and unusual times are upon us. We pray you can root it out.”

“Let us hope,” Sir Wulfric said, his voice rumbling rich and gravelly. “Come, Harlan. Let us waste no time.”

The two left their horses in the stablemaster’s care and made their way toward the village square.

They walked in silence beneath the gray but rainless skies and, though pulling their cloaks tighter, resisted the urge to shiver at the cold winds that would sporadically sweep through the village.

“As we have done before,” Wulfric said, breaking the silence, “see what you can learn from those at the inn and drinking house. My presence may silence tongues just as much as ale may loosen them.”

“Should I find you after?”

“Aye. Wexford will provide lodging should we need it.”

Harlan nodded, and the two split off on their separate missions.

Wulfric returned each bow and curtsey from what villagers were milling about with a quick, but not unfriendly, smile, until he eventually found Wexford’s door.

“Sir Wulfric,” the maid said, bowing deeply after she had opened the door in answer to Wulfric's three loud knocks. “If you please.”

“My thanks, Edith,” Wulfric bowed his head and entered the home.

Edith hid her pleasantly surprised smile at hearing her name and closed the door behind them.

“I shall fetch Master Wexford,” she said, then hurried off to do so.

Wulfric took a deep, patient breath, though he did not have to wait long.

“Wulfric, old friend! It has been far too long.”

Wexford shook the knight’s hand, the healer’s smile and eyes bright beneath beard and head of fully gray hair.

“Though I wish your visit were under far better circumstances.”

“Aye,” Wulfric nodded.

“Come.” Wexford motioned for him to follow.

“There has been a change in the time since I sent my letter,” Wexford continued as they walked. “As you must recall, I wrote of the two lads and two maidens who went missing after complaints of restless nights. That was about a fortnight after the first maiden vanished from her home. Well…”

Wexford opened the heavy wooden door that connected his home to his infirmary.

Beneath the wool blankets of one of the beds, a wan and hollowed young woman of no more than twenty winters trembled fitfully in her tormented sleep.

“Fenna,” Wexford nodded toward the young woman. “She was the first to disappear."

“When was she found?”

“Two days ago,” Wexford sighed. “In a field just outside the village. On her side. Naked and ailing as such.”

“Any signs of who may have returned her there, or from which direction she wandered back?”

Wexford shook his head.

“She was found in a small circle of stalks, neatly pressed and unbroken, with no clear path to where she lay.”

“Is she fit to answer questions?”

“Her mind seems as murky as her words, but you may try. Just do not press beyond what she may bear.”

Wulfric nodded, approached, and sat down on the stool next to Fenna’s bed.

She had been bathed and dressed, and a fresh bandage was wrapped around her upper right arm.

“Fenna,” Wulfric said soothingly.

She stirred, and he repeated her name.

Fenna opened her eyes, passing them over Wulfric’s countenance, though it seemed she did not truly see him.

“Where were you?” Wulfric asked.

“Lights… lights…”

“What happened to you?”

“Took… others… they took…”

“Who did this to you?”

“They… they…” Fenna began to thrash as fear crept into her voice.

“You are safe, Fenna,” Wulfric reassured her, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “Rest now. You are safe.”

As Fenna fell back into a slumber, Wulfric stood, rejoined Wexford, and the two men retreated to the main hall and sat by the hearth.

“The bandage on her arm…” Wulfric said as he stared at the fire, and absentmindedly rubbed his thumb and forefinger on the faces of the iron medallion of St. Michael the Archangel that hung around his neck.

“Edith felt something solid beneath a scar on Fenna’s arm. The scar appeared old, yet the skin surrounding it seemed recently irritated. I thought perhaps whatever was there was contributing to her current state, so I removed it.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Aye,” Wexford nodded and retrieved a small wooden coffer, which he placed beore Wulfric. “I thought to destroy it, but supposed such decisions best left in your care.”

Sir Wulfric opened the coffer, unfolded the cloth within, and carefully lifted out the object.

“‘Devil’s Fingernail’ Edith calls it,” Wexford remarked. “Never seen such a thing as that.”

Sir Wulfric grunted at the name and inspected the pinky-nail-sized, wafer-thin item he now held between his forefinger and thumb. He squinted at the strange, tiny metalwork housed within the translucent shard.

“Do you have mortar and pestle?” Wulfric asked. “Or a hammer?”

Wexford stood, retrieved the former, and handed the bowl and grinder to the knight, who promptly made what powder he could from the item and tossed it in the fire.

“What was it?” Wexford inquired as he took and returned the mortar and pestle to their place.

“Of that, I am uncertain. But it cannot have been something good.” Wulfric scratched at his jawline with the back of his thumb.

“Some commonality must bind this group together,” Wulfric thought aloud. “How well did they know each other? Were they close in friendship?”

“We mostly all know each other here, though I do not know any of the missing to be close companions. The only true common bind I am certain of would be their ages.”

“Which would be?”

“No younger than twenty and no older than three-and-twenty. Though others of that age have not gone missing or made mention of disturbed sleep.”

“Hmm.”

“What shall you do then?”

“Wait for my squire to report back what rumors he may learn, and sift out what truth I may.”

~~~

“Speak your mind, boy,” Sir Wulfric’s voice broke through the silence that had hung heavy like the cold damp that clung in the air of the forest.

“Sir?” Harlan responded and he squirmed slightly in his saddle, and looked about as if he had just been awakened from a deep slumber.

“Your tongue hath been still since we left the village.”

“Aye,” Harlan nodded.

“From page to squire have I known thee, and I know when various matters weigh upon your mind. So speak.”

“Could this be the work of devils or faery? Sounds and colors most unusual. A cave that speaks, and smells of wyrd. A lake where the birds and fish do not act as they should. ‘Tis all so strange.”

“We serve both Church and King. And as such we must prepare ourselves to face all manner of foe. Do not disregard the possibility of such forces, but do not underestimate the wodnesse and evil of man.”

“That is most wise, Sir Wulfric.”

“Most wise indeed,” Wulfric laughed.

They pressed deeper into the woods.

Some hours later, Harlan, looking at his hand after calming his horse, spoke again.

“Sir Wulfric…”

“I feel the prickling too,” Wulfric reassured him.

Not long after, they sat upon their halted horses and looked upon the mouth of a cave.

Beyond the cave entrance, the trees thinned, their tops bent and scorched, and the shore of the lake of which Harlan had been told lay visible in the far distance.

Wulfric dismounted, and Harlan followed suit.

After assuring his brigandine, and belt and scabbard were secure, Wulfric affixed a lantern to the belt and took a deep breath.

“Harlan,” the knight spoke, not taking his eyes off of the opening in the earth. “If I have not returned by the time the sun has begun her descent, then you are to make your way back to the village with both horses.”

“But Sir Wulfric…” Harlan had begun to protest.

“Heed me, young squire. While I have no doubts of your bravery, or skill with a sword, I would not have you face alone what dangers man, beast… or devils… may pose once the light is gone.”

“Aye, Sir Wulfric.” Harlan hung his head.

“Good lad. Keep in watch, keep in prayer, and, with God’s blessing, I shall return in haste.”

Sir Wulfric strode into the cave, and began his journey into the depths below.

The lantern cast long and strange shadows down the cramped tunnel, and echoing drips of water accompanied the sounds of Wulfric’s footsteps and crunching and tumbling of displaced stones as he walked over them.

As Wulfric continued further underground, he was certain he could hear faint humming and whirring now beneath those other sounds. He paused for a moment, trying to listen closer and determine the source, though the humming and whirring were unlike anything he had heard before.

He pressed on, and the growing intensity of the prickling, and the new faint smell of Heaven’s fire and burning, convinced him he was on the right path.

Sir Wulfric concentrated on keeping his breathing steady as disquiet and discomfort began to seep in.

“O Lord, Christ,” Wulfric began to pray in a whisper. “Be with your humble servant. Steady my hand and my resolve, O Lord.”

The strange, insistent humming grew louder as Sir Wulfric followed the natural curve of the tunnel and found the way forward blocked by a silvery-white substance.

It protruded slightly, the curvature mildly distorting Wulfric’s reflection as he approached the obstruction before him.

With a hesitant hand, the knight reached out and tapped the barrier, which rippled like quicksilver in response.

Wulfric unsheathed his sword and methodically eased it up to the cross-guard into the silver wall, meeting no resistance and leaving no apparent damage upon its withdrawal.

After a kiss on the medallion, and a gaze upward in silent prayer, Sir Wulfric advanced into the silver barrier.

The knight found himself in a hall that extended in a circle to his left and right, and a flat, seamless, unadorned wall before him.

The hall, wide enough for five men to walk abreast, was unnaturally silent, and illuminated by some unseen source of light.

Wulfric turned to face the direction from which he had entered, and though he could see into the tunnel, removed a small pouch from his belt, knelt, and placed it in front of the entrance.

Sir Wulfric stood, turned his back to the entrance, looked down both directions of the hall, the two having no discernible difference, and pressed the medallion to his lips.

“St. Michael, guide me,” Wulfric quietly implored and, for no other reason than a guess, headed down to his right.

He stayed close to the inner wall to his left, proceeding stealthily, listening for any sounds beyond his own inhale and exhale that seemed to billow in his ears.

Sir Wulfric gripped the handle of his sword tighter as he continued down the maddingly repetitive corridor, when he felt a subtle tug at the medallion.

He stopped, took a step back to where he felt the pull, removed the relic from his neck, and watched as the dangling medallion was drawn toward the inner wall.

With no better option, the knight reached out, tapped the wall, and a door-sized section ascended faster than an arrow loosed from a bow.

Undeterred, though taken aback at the speed of the opening door, the knight stepped into the now open room.

The room was lit by white light that emanated from thin cylinders that ran the length of the ceiling, as well as the green glow from rectangular panels on a humming machine at the center of the room that displayed outlines of bodies, strange symbols, and twisted ladders.

Wulfric ignored the machine and approached six clear, coffin-like chambers that lined the right wall, and three smaller versions at the far wall.

Within the four occupied chambers, the missing villagers appeared to be asleep, as their naked bodies were periodically bathed in quivering strands of blue light, while an infant lay in one of the small chambers.

Wulfric pressed his hands against the side of the clear surface and opened the chamber closest to him, which responded with a hiss.

The villager stirred, and Wulfric encouraged her in her awakening, and quickly stilled her initial fright.

Wulfric left her, seated, though groggy, to free the others.

As the knight opened the fourth chamber, a door opened upward, and Wulfric turned to face who was entering.

A slender, hairless figure of gray skin, no taller than a youth of twelve winters, stared at Wulfric with its large, black, almond-shaped eyes set above a snake-like nose in its oversized head.

A warbling, buzzing hum began to fill Wulfric’s ears as a numbness and rigidity crept through his body.

Sir Wulfric’s shaking, defiant hand swam against the tide, attempting to reach for his sword, even as his mind was assailed with thoughts of sleep and despair.

God of the Angels and Archangels, deliver us by Your might from every influence of accursed spirits, from every snare and deception, and keep us from all harm, through Christ Our Lord. Lend Your humble servant Your strength, O Lord, that I might return those of Your tender flock to their home.

Wulfric’s will snapped free.

His hand found the sword’s grip, tore it from the scabbard, and drove the blade into the creature’s skull.

The gray thing collapsed, brownish blood pooling in a murkish puddle on the floor.

Sir Wulfric hurriedly retrieved the infant from her chamber, noting that other than her slightly oversized eyes and head, she looked like any other child.

Infant cradled in his left arm and sword gripped in his right hand, Sir Wulfric implored the four rattled villagers to hurry, and guided them back to where he had first entered this loathsome place.

“Forward!” Wulfric encouraged the four. “Make haste as best you can!”

Aiding each other as they stumbled through the cave passage, they emerged unharmed, save for a few extra cuts and bruises.

“Harlan!” Sir Wulfric commanded the startled, concerned squire. “Our cloaks and blankets for them!”

Harlan sprang to the bags and helped cover the four as Wulfric fetched his own blanket to swaddle the infant.

“Sir Wulfric!” Harlan cried out and pointed toward the lake beyond.

An enormous silver orb had risen from the water.

As they watched, it shifted into the shape of two kite shields laid back to back, and then departed in incomprehensible haste.

“Christ protect us,” Harlan made the sign of the cross, and then looked to Sir Wulfric.

“I will tell you all of what I have seen once we have returned,” the knight promised him. “But let us see these poor folk to safety first.”

Harlan nodded in understanding, and they began the journey back to the village.

~~~

“Is that all of them, then?”

Sir Wulfric absentmindedly rubbed the medallion between his thumb and forefinger and glanced up from the fire at Wexford.

“Aye.” The healer held up the stone bowl in his hand.

“To the flame with them, then.”

Wexford emptied the bowl into the crackling flames and then sat.

“How fare the returned?” Wulfric inquired.

“I believe, with time, medicines, and prayer, they should all return to good health.”

“Hm.”

“The infant you returned with,” Wexford continued. “What is to become of her?”

“If none lay claim to her or wish to raise her with care, then I will take her with me and bring her up as my own,” Wulfric answered. “The circumstances of her birth are no fault of hers, and I will not see her mistreated.”

Wexford nodded in silent agreement.

“And what of those that took our young folk?” Wexford asked. “What were they? Do you think they will return?”

“To that, I have no certain answer, my friend,” Wulfric said with a sigh. “Yet you would do well to keep watch upon the skies.”