Vaesen : Of Stone and Steel : 07
Gottfried stood over the crumpled body of August, his cane sword still clutched tightly in one hand. The runes etched into the blade pulsed faintly with a cold, silvery-blue glow, casting flickering shadows that danced across the walls. His stance was stiff and unnatural—far from his usual composed presence. Each motion seemed slightly off, as if his limbs moved on delay, like a marionette being manipulated by uncertain strings.
“Gottfried!” Sigrid called from across the room, her voice tight with concern.
He didn’t turn. “I am seeking vengeance,” he said solemnly, his voice low and hollow. He nudged August’s corpse with his boot, then, with clinical detachment, doused the body in holy water, watching for a reaction that never came.
Sigrid moved quickly to the doctor, who was lying limp nearby. His face was pale, and blood stained his shirt, seeping from a deep stab wound to the chest.
Celeste limped to his side, her own injuries slowing her. She dropped to her knees, grimacing as she applied pressure to the wound and began dressing it with practiced hands. “He has a punctured lung,” she murmured. “But I’ve stabilized him. He’ll live—for now.”
Across the room, the second guard groaned and began to stir. Before he could sit up, Gottfried was already there.
“My good man,” he said gently, almost fatherly. “You took quite the tumble. Drink this.” He produced a small bottle of laudanum and pressed it into the guard’s hand.
Too dazed to question, the guard drank. He gagged, coughed violently, and collapsed into unconsciousness again.
Turning back to August, Gottfried crouched and checked for a pulse. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Sebastian, check his neck.”
Sebastian approached, jaw set. He lifted August’s head and twisted gently. There was no resistance—just the dull finality of a broken spine.
“He’s dead,” he confirmed grimly.
Gottfried nodded once. “Take him to the woods. Deliver him to Bergs-Erik.”
Sigrid had found another way out—a pair of old wooden cellar doors that led into the overgrown back garden. “Celeste and I will go through the front with the doctor,” she said. “We’ll draw attention. You slip out with the body.”
Upstairs, Sigrid burst into the main hall. Her voice rang with urgency and command. “Housekeeper! August attacked the doctor—he needs help. We’ve handled the threat.” She gestured at two nearby servants. “You two—help us carry him. Immediately.”
One servant glanced down and grimaced. “You’re bleeding all over the carpet,” he said to Celeste.
The housekeeper entered just then, face already contorting with suspicion. “What is going on here?”
Sigrid launched into a concise explanation, but the woman was unconvinced. “Someone fetch the constabulary!” she barked. Then, turning to Sigrid and Celeste, “You’re not going anywhere. Stay put.”
Back in the cellar, Sebastian worked quickly. He stripped Gottfried’s jacket and hat and arranged them on August’s body. From a distance, especially in this weather, it would appear to be the professor.
Timing his move with theatrical flair, he waited for the next rumble of thunder. As lightning flashed, he kicked open the cellar door with a loud crack and hoisted the body onto his shoulder, vanishing into the rain.
Behind him, Gottfried took one last sip from his laudanum flask. The world tilted, and he slumped over, unconscious.
Celeste, moving through the manor’s quiet side halls, slipped out a side door. At a window, she spotted Sebastian. Without hesitation, she followed, catching up with him a few minutes later.
They were both soaked, the rain now pouring steadily.
“Sigrid’s got the staff busy,” Celeste panted. “And Gottfried… well, I’m sure he can talk his way out.”
Sebastian adjusted the body’s weight with a grunt. “Yes. If—or when—he wakes up.”
Celeste blinked. “What?!”
Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Never mind.”
The maid squared up to Sigrid, arms crossed and refusing to let her pass. Her chin lifted defiantly, trying to assert control of a situation spiraling beyond the boundaries of her understanding. Sigrid met the challenge with narrowed eyes and a low, commanding voice. “Move aside. We need help downstairs—now.”
But the housekeeper’s sharp voice rang out above the tension. “Cook, go downstairs and see what’s going on. You,” she pointed to Sigrid, her eyes steely, “stay right where you are.”
The cook returned minutes later, his face blanched. “Three men on the ground,” he said breathlessly. “The doctor is bound to a chair.”
Sigrid didn’t wait. She pushed past them, her boots striking hard against the floor, and descended the stairs. The housekeeper followed, huffing indignantly, refusing to let Sigrid out of her sight. But the moment they reached the lower floor, the housekeeper froze mid-word. Her tirade died in her throat as her eyes locked onto the scene—Gottfried lay unconscious on the floor, two thugs sprawled nearby like discarded ragdolls, and the doctor’s pale body slumped and bloodied in his chair.
“Murder!” the housekeeper shrieked and bolted back up the stairs, her footsteps thudding like warning drums.
Sigrid sighed, weary beyond words, and grabbed a few stunned staff by the arms. “With me,” she commanded, dragging them down to the cellar to help.
Sebastian and Celeste moved quickly but carefully along the tree line that bordered the manor grounds, keeping to the edge of the woods where the foliage offered the best cover. The darkening afternoon cast long shadows beneath the canopy, and the rainfall softened the forest floor beneath their boots. Their path circled the manor at a wide berth, avoiding the main roads and entrances.
Through gaps in the brush, the manor slipped further into the distance—a grand structure silhouetted against the roiling grey sky, growing fainter with each cautious step. Their retreat was silent and deliberate, the forest swallowing the last murmurs of life from the estate behind them. Keeping to the edges of the property, they followed the treeline, circling wide to avoid detection.
Celeste cast wary glances over her shoulder, ensuring they weren’t followed, while Sebastian scanned ahead, guiding their path between gnarled roots and slick moss. Each footfall was muted by the damp earth beneath them, and the sound of falling rain created a constant hush. The trees provided decent cover, though the wind occasionally parted the branches just enough to let glimpses of the manor reappear—an imposing monolith they were desperate to distance themselves from.
They paused behind a thick birch trunk, breath misting in the chill air. Sebastian exhaled slowly. Celeste offered a grim smile, and together, they turned their attention forward, toward the stables now emerging between the trees and the outer wall. Their escape had just begun.
Reaching the stable, Celeste slipped inside and, with swift efficiency, saddled two horses. She led them to the edge of the trees where they both crouched, watching. A servant sprinted by with a man in uniform—not quite a constable, but official enough. They waited, breath held, until the pair disappeared.
Sebastian hefted August’s body, still cloaked in Gottfried’s jacket and hat, and positioned it sat upright on one of the horses. Mounting behind the corpse, he cast a glance at Celeste.
“Let’s go,” he murmured.
They vanished into the forest.
Inside, the household was slowly herded into the seating room. The air crackled with tension.
Sigrid turned to Gottfried, who had somehow managed to recover enough to stand. His coat was askew, and there was a dark smear of blood across his collar.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
Gottfried blinked slowly. “Uh… trust me.”
The officer arrived, brushing rain from his hat. “What is going on here? And where is the doctor? Is he dead?”
“He’s not,” Sigrid replied. “We saved him.”
The officer blinked, confusion clouding his face. Before he could process more, the housekeeper barged in, eyes wild. “There are bodies in the basement! Dead men!”
The officer gave a sharp nod and left the room to investigate.
Sigrid turned to Gottfried, her voice a low murmur. “I hope you have a good explanation, because I’m coming up short.”
Gottfried straightened his coat and smiled. “I got this.”
Moments later, the officer returned, face tight. “There are two bodies downstairs. The maid swears you stormed in and killed the Work Master.”
Gottfried launched into his tale with careful gravitas. “Those two men kidnapped the doctor and August. Celeste stumbled upon them by chance. We intervened and subdued them. August, in a panic, fled the scene.”
The officer jotted down frantic notes, clearly overwhelmed.
Turning to Sigrid, he asked, “And you? How did you end up there?”
“I came in through the front door. Heard a noise, saw the chaos, and ran for help—only to be yelled at by the housekeeper.”
“And why were you even in the house in the first place?”
“We were attending a speech. Shots rang out—we ran inside. You weren’t aware of that?”
“Um… no… what?”
Sigrid’s nostrils flared slightly. She caught the sour tang of old beer on the officer’s breath.
Redirecting the conversation, she said, “The doctor still needs proper medical care. That should be your priority.”
The officer nodded slowly. “Names for the report.”
“Sigrid Nilfsauter. Writer and reporter.”
Recognition sparked in the officer’s eyes. “Of course. You’ll be writing about this town’s brave and efficient law enforcement, yes?”
“Naturally,” she replied, deadpan.
“And you, sir?”
“Professor Gottfried von Kraus.”
With a nod, the officer turned and walked away to speak to the housekeeper.
“YOU WHAT?!” echoed down the hall moments later.
Outside, rain slicked the cobblestones and painted everything in muted grey.
Sigrid and Gottfried met beneath the stables’ awning. They exchanged a look of understanding.
“We need to catch up to them,” Sigrid said.
The stable held only one horse.
“I’ll go,” she added without hesitation. She worked quickly, fastening saddle and tack with expert hands, then mounted and galloped into the woods, her cloak streaming behind her like a banner.
Gottfried watched her vanish, sighed heavily, and turned back toward the warmth of the inn, the rain pattering rhythmically on his hat.
Late in the afternoon, Sebastian and Celeste arrived at the clearing in the woods, their steps slow and heavy with anticipation. The branches above formed a tangled canopy, filtering the grey light of the waning day into streaks and shadows. Rain had already been falling for some time, a steady downpour that blurred the treetops and soaked the forest floor. Thick clouds loomed overhead, deepening the shadows and lending the landscape an eerie, oppressive pall. They paused at the edge of the clearing and called out for Bergs-Erik.
Several long minutes passed in uneasy silence. The woods, dense and ancient, seemed to absorb their voices entirely. Not even an echo returned. There was no wind, no birdsong, no answer. With a quiet exchange of glances, they resolved to carry August’s body to the place where Sigrid had earlier discovered the peculiar bead—a spot that now seemed like a natural altar.
At the top of a low rise, they found the small indentation in the ground, the faint impression of something that had once pressed against the earth. It looked undisturbed, yet alive in its stillness, like a memory waiting to be awakened.
Sebastian laid August down carefully in the hollow. For a moment, he stood solemnly over the body, then straightened his shoulders and tried to echo Gottfried’s solemn tone. “Bergs-Erik,” he called, “we bring unto you August. Do with him as you please.” His voice faltered slightly at the end, but he stepped back with a reverence that carried its own weight.
Just then, the sound of hooves echoed faintly up the slope. Sigrid appeared through the mist, reins taut in her hands, her expression wary.
Meanwhile, Gottfried arrived at the forge. The unmistakable scent of coal smoke and hot iron was thick in the air, clinging to the rafters like a second skin. As he pushed open the heavy door, he was greeted by a rush of heat and the clang of metal.
Inside, workers labored at their stations, focused and sweat-streaked. One of them—Mut—looked up as Gottfried entered and promptly struck the anvil directly with his sledgehammer, producing a sharp clang and a muttered curse.
The forge master turned with a curious expression and gave Gottfried a respectful nod.
Gottfried wasted no time. He pulled a slip of paper and a gold coin from his coat pocket. “I need this made quickly,” he said, “to the letter—and forged from iron.”
The master examined the paper, brows lifting slightly. He passed it wordlessly to Margareta. “This looks like a job for you,” he said with a faint smile, then turned and motioned Mut to follow him, leaving the young apprentice alone with her task.
Sigrid rode toward the clearing and spotted two horses standing motionless on the road. But there was no sign of Sebastian or Celeste.
She called out, her voice cutting through the thickening mist. A muffled response came from further up the hill—Celeste. But the reply was strangely faint, as though swallowed by an unseen force. Earlier in the day, they had spoken across this same distance with ease. Now, the sound seemed distorted, stretched thin across some unseen veil.
Curiously, the closer Sigrid drew toward the figures ahead, the lighter the rain became. What had moments ago been a relentless downpour softened into a misty drizzle, and the oppressive sound of water hammering the forest faded to near silence. Within this hushed zone, she could hear her own footsteps, the soft breaths of the horses—life returned to motion.
Celeste and Sebastian stirred faintly, as if slowly emerging from a deep reverie. Yet as Sigrid paused and stepped back—just a few feet—the rain surged once more, loud and blinding. The figures froze in place again, perfectly still. Testing this boundary, Sigrid stepped forward, and they came to life. Backward—and they were statues once more.
The effect was eerie, like moving through some veil of reality that only parted in close proximity. There was no wind, no birdcall. Just the strange, unnatural balance between movement and stillness, controlled by Sigrid’s presence alone.
Intrigued and alarmed, Sigrid experimented. She stepped backward toward the rain, and in an instant, Sebastian and Celeste froze. The rain roared around her. She stepped forward again—and they moved once more, as if unpaused.
At that moment, Gottfried arrived, the rattling of his goat-drawn cart adding a surreal texture to the scene. He dismounted and called out, but was met with no response. The stillness here was different—not quiet, but hushed. Expectant.
He walked forward, boots crunching against the wet leaves, and only when he stood directly beside them did anyone stir.
He raised his voice, full of iron and tradition. “Bergs-Erik,” he declared, “by the bones of my grandmother, I summon you.”
Celeste, still seated beside August’s body, had begun to chuckle. Her laughter was low at first, almost playful, as she reached out and prodded the corpse’s face with two fingers.
“Life’s too short,” she murmured, almost dreamily. “We should enjoy ourselves more—like savoring the defeat of our enemies.”
Her laughter grew louder, sharper, until it echoed in the still air.
Sigrid stepped forward, concerned, and reached for Celeste’s arm. But the moment she grasped it, she found herself unable to move it in the slightest. Celeste’s arm was solid, unyielding. The strength in it was beyond anything Sigrid had expected from the wiry occultist. It was like grabbing the limb of a statue carved from dark stone.
Celeste only smiled, unbothered. With a sudden, shocking movement, she lifted August’s body with one hand and hurled it down the slope. The body tumbled through the brush, landing in a tangle of branches.
Gottfried did not hesitate. He reached into his coat and hurled an iron ring toward Celeste. She caught it effortlessly.
Her grin widened.
Then, from behind them, came a deeper, older laugh—one that reverberated through the clearing and made the hair on their arms stand on end.
