Stories of Adelwreth

Shadow and Glass: Part I

Glen found himself in a familiar place. The world spun around him and his problems seemed a distant memory. The cold, smooth whiskey warmed his chest. The floor he sat on was hard, and the wall he leaned against was secure. He steadied himself against an upturned chair to his side and finished the bottle. Obscure noises surrounded him—it didn’t bother him; he was safe inside his fortress of drunkenness.

“Podark!” called Harold, wading through the broken furniture. “Dr Podark? Are you here?”

Glen flung the empty bottle away from him, then searched for a new one, crawling and falling to and fro.

“Podark,” Harold said softly as he sat on his haunches by Glen.

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” replied Glen impatiently. “The Whiskey is hiding from me, I must find it, I must rescue it!”

“Podark, I bring word from Mr Thule.” Harold picked up the bottle just before Glen could grab it. “Mr Thule has an assignment for us.” Glen looked at Harold in disbelief and scampered on, on the hunt for another bottle.

“Tell Mr Thule that the doctor is on sick leave.” Harold stepped over shattered glass and grabbed another bottle before Glen could have it.

“Damn it man!” exclaimed Podark. “What is wrong with you?” Harold picked up a chair with a broken back support, turned it right side up and sat forward. Podark felt the Earth attracting his head and wallowed therein. 

“Alright,” he said, standing on all fours, head against the floor. “You give me a bottle, and I’ll listen to this assignment.”

Harold undid the cap from the bottle and took a sip.

“Ah! This is good stuff, Podark.” Glen crawled in reverse towards the cavalryman. His fortress was being invaded; its walls were being attacked.

“We all miss him, Glen,” said Harold.

The walls to his fortress shattered; now his problems didn’t seem so far away anymore. He could see the cemetery; he remembered the chanting and a knife they had missed.

Harold straightened his uniform and crossed his legs, took another sip from the bottle, and unsheathed his sabre. Glen spotted another bottle close to the wall against which he had sat and started towards it.

“Mr Thule says he has a plan as to how to uncover what the hoods are planning,” said Harold, inspecting the blade.

Glen continued towards the bottle. “He had Alexander inspect the texts you had supplied.” Harold curled his moustache. ”Although, everyone admits it would have been much easier with Bleuamar here.”

Glen was so close now. He could reinforce the walls—drive away the sorrows. His wife’s face sieged the walls now. He missed her so much. But she had been proud of him these last few years. These last few years in Adelwreth.

***

How similar this is to how it all began, he thought. He had been home, in Delewreth, drinking away his sorrows, when someone knocked at the door. He didn’t get up—he didn’t want to—but the knock rang and rang. When he finally ran out of liquor and the headache loomed, he couldn’t take it anymore. He opened the door and there stood a young man who could barely speak a sentence in a comprehensible language. He had with him a letter from Mr Thule. Glen didn’t pack a thing but got into the carriage nonetheless. They stopped at the market for some liquor and he continued drinking on the way.

The following day, he awoke to receive the enquiries of a bespectacled, timid young man clutching a book.

“What is your name, sir?” the man asked. “Where do you come from? Did Mr Thule send for you as well?”

His liquor had run out and he had nothing better to do, so he answered all the questions. He wasn’t particularly polite to the young man but that did not seem to matter. This man seemed to be interested only in knowledge and organisation.

They learned a great deal about one another on the way to Adelwreth. Glen learned that this timid man was called Ricard Bleuamar, that he was a librarian and a scholar, and that he was summoned to Adelwreth by Mr Thule after they had been in correspondence. There had been some sort of attacks—a woman and a boy. Both of them—Glen and Bleuamar—had been promised employment to Mr Thule if they could help solve this case. Glen had just started telling Bleuamar the tragedy of his wife when the carriage stopped. Brigands on the road.

Podark didn’t care much, he got out of the carriage and charged the closest one headlong. Bleuamar had remained in the carriage at first, but he stepped out when circumstances seemed grim for Glen and the carriage driver. Glen had knocked out two of them, the cabby had one engaged, and the last one was bigger and stronger than the rest of them. He flung Glen out of the way and was about to strike Cadman when Ricard whacked him with a cane on the cheek. Glen thought he saw Ricard closing his eyes and clenching his teeth as he struck at the man. It was enough distraction to allow Cadman and Glen to get the job done. At the end of the fight, they tied up all four brigands, set them on the chest at the back of the carriage and delivered them to the police office in Sixth Street, Adelwreth. 

For some reason, Ricard tried sneaking into the inspector’s office, only to be reprimanded by the constable. Glen later asked him why he did that. Ricard simply replied that he had read a novel about a spy.

They made their way to the Thule Estate, got supplies and were booked into the Fifth Street Hotel, with Cadman and the carriage at their service. They learned a lot about Adelwreth in the following days. They learned about the rich, the poor, and the gangs of the night. They inspected the bodies, followed up on leads, and found oddities. They experienced the pressure when another attack took another life.

Glen went to the morgue once more, inspected the body, and found a note—a note that would eventually solve the case. It felt like he was solving the tragedy of his wife’s death, in a way. The note contained two names: Manone and Mason. Through investigation, they found the Mason Estate in ruin, ransacked by some creature. Bleuamar conjectured that the Masons’ youngest boy was a werewolf. They visited Manone, Maynard, Whinnox, Wheaton, and almost everyone who knew the victims. Building their case, it wasn’t until the night that the inspector tried to assassinate them when it dawned upon them what was really going on. That was also the first night that Bleuamar had to take a life. Glen saw how a timid, innocent man changed into a fearless warrior.

They had uncovered the truth of Manorell Maynard and the truth about Jimmy Catonby Mason; they had solved their first case.

Glen rarely became drunk after that. Sure, he would drink a few glasses now and then, but his problems and torments seemed far off on their own.

That was until a week ago.

They were investigating the cult that the priest had been a part of. They had learned that the statue in the sewers was a beacon that kept the Maw’s spawn away. There were apparently hundreds of these statues on the island, scattered and hidden. The cult had found a way to nullify their effect and bring the spawn into the city.

  They masqueraded as cult members, wearing black hoods and robes with purple and golden finishes. Everything was going as planned until the group had started with a sacrificial ceremony. 

The group chanted. The congregation was shaking and convulsing. When they brought in the child, Bleuamar intervened. Most of the hoods were in such a trance that they didn’t pay attention to Bleuamar as he struck the leader of the procession. But when the girl ran away and the ritual broke, they all stared at him.

Glen had had the key that day–if only he hadn’t accepted it. Bleuamar fought valiantly, unloading his revolver into the congregation. Glen cleared a path to his friend, but by the time he had reached him, his blood was dripping into the strange grave they had prepared. Glen didn’t notice them leave, nor did he notice them carrying off their wounded and their dead. After a few moments, all that was left was he and the body of Bleuamar.

The funeral was short, the new priest not having arrived in Adelwreth yet. It was attended by Harold, Gilli, the Thules, the Masons, Caddy, Constable, and the caps that knew him. Glen had buried the key with him. He wanted nothing to do with this fighting-in-the-night, secret-society nonsense anymore.

***

“No,” said Glen out of breath, looking at the bottle that Harold had just kicked away. “I will not be going back to mister Thule. I have had it.”

“Well then, at least come and collect your payment,” answered Harold. “We all know better than to trust me or Gilli to deliver money to a person,”—he paused—“especially when there are poker tables on all the routes there.”

Glen thought it over. “What about Caddy? He can bring the money.”

“Think about the poor horses, having to trot all the way back to Thule and all the way back here and back again,” said Harold dramatically. Glen looked up at Harold.

“You really are useless, you know that?” Harold smiled and helped Glen up.

“I know. On your feet soldier, time to get paid.”

***

The carriage ride to the Estate was uneventful. Glen looked out of the window, seeing people go about their daily lives without the faintest idea about the horrors that lurked in the dark. Here and there he saw a cap, keeping a lookout for some secret act. The police force patrolled; the businessmen and ladies and carriages filled the streets. Such a wonderful place… such a disease-ridden place. 

They passed the graveyard where Bleuamar both died and rested now. 

“One day,” thought Glen, “I’ll come to visit you again, my friend.”

Harold just sat, trimming his moustache in a handheld mirror. Caddy was talking to his horses, Mary and Geneveve. The countryside flowed from wheat fields to tobacco plantations and then grazing lands. They passed the piece of road where the brigands tried robbing them. They rolled up the winding road to the Thule Estate. 

Glen got out and dived into the pond as was his custom. A sure way to become sober. He had always wondered about these statues and motifs—angelic beings fighting creatures. He accepted his customary towel from the butler, greeted him, and hopped up the steps. He kicked open the front door while trying to get water out of his ear and walked past the many paintings depicting Adelwreth’s past. 

He saw a familiar face in one of them. An eccentric-looking man with a friendly yet scary face. Blonde, young, and full of pride. The painting depicted the man leading a charge of fiery beasts against the knights and angelic beings. Bleuamar had shown him a portrait of a man that had lived a hundred or so years ago who looked exactly like this man. Glen finished drying his hair, then stepped into the smoking room.

As always, Mr Thadius Thule was standing by the window, smoking his pipe, engaged in thought. He always had a regal look about him. Glen had admired the man since he had gotten here but now he knew that he was just another man. 

“That man,” said Glen, wiping his hands and tossing the towel to a sofa, “leading the charge against the knights, the one on the painting, who is he?” Glen saw the spring-loaded chair Gilli had made and walked past it. He tested the one beside it, then crashed down onto it, breaking its legs. He lay on the floor, chuckling to himself.

“Glen, I fail to see why that always amuses you,” said Mr Thule, then broke his gaze from the window and paced across the room.

“I have been going over Bleuamar’s notes,” began Mr Thule. “This all just seems too much of a coincidence than for it to be separate events.” He cleaned his pipe. “Regarding your question about the painting, I haven’t the faintest idea. My father said it was probably a depiction of man’s evil nature, and I believed him, that is until we discovered those creatures are from THERE.”

Glen caught himself before he got too drawn in. He waved his hands and said, “Anyway, Mr Thule, I’m done, I have just come to collect my money and I’ll be off.”

There was a slight commotion going on outside. It was probably Gilli bringing a new invention. 

“Very well,” said Mr Thule as he stared at Glen sorrowfully and started unlocking the safe. “I must ask you about the key. Unfortunately, it is quite important to our organisation.” The front door burst open, loud voices echoed down the hallway.

“I buried it, it was his after all,” replied Glen. Mr Thule sighed and dropped his head. “Glen, Glen, Glen,” he said, opening the safe. “Will you truly leave us without a defence against the night?” He removed money from the safe. “Seven-hundred and thirty-four Adels, if I’m not mistaken?”

Glen thought it over. Mr Thule and the others didn’t condemn Bleuamar; they weren’t the enemy. The regal man walked over to Glen, money in hand when the door to the smoking-room burst open.

A soil covered Bleuamar stood in the doorway. He smiled when he saw Glen. Out of breath, he spoke.

“I know who he is Glen, I’ve met him!”

Glen and Mr Thule stood motionless. Were they seeing a ghost? 

“I saw you die?” said Glen softly.

“I did!” said Bleuamar, swallowed, then continued. “And I’ll tell you all about it. It’s horrible, but I have met him.” He ran into the corridor with the paintings. Glen and Mr Thule looked at each other, then followed. They stood sceptically watching Bleuamar point frantically at the painting with the man leading the armies of the Maw.

“This!” exclaimed Bleuamar. “This is Wilhelm Wickgen, and he was there.” He looked frightened now. “Something bad is coming, Glen, something horrible is going to happen.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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1 thought on “Shadow and Glass: Part I”

  1. OG (Original Gilli) here.
    I really enjoy this one, The scenic description really contributes towards the readers immersion. Can’t wait for the next one.

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