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At the Gallows

An Erebus Story by Daniel Bayn

I had been in Erebus for a few months, reporting on the many bizarre phenomena of this dark city, when I was offered a chance to accompany a werewolf hunter on one of his hunts. I had already witnessed the hypnotic powers of the mesmerists, and the martial miracles of the vigilanti, but the infamous skinwalkers had so far eluded me. As luck would have it, this rare opportunity would become a once in a lifetime story.

I was introduced to Lord Drake Gallows by way of his trusted assistant, the lovely Hemlock. I heard a commotion outside my apartment in the New City as I was stuffing my evening pipe. Driven by idle curiosity, I rushed to the window. Two men from my building, well known as womanizers of the drunken and inarticulate sort, lay flat on their backs in the street. One oscillated between clutching his throat and guarding his groin, while the other convulsed like a fish on a dock.

Hemlock dusted off her leather-clad hands and looked up at me with flashing, blue eyes. "You Andrews?" she asked. I replied in the affirmative. "Lord Gallows is ready to have you join us, if you haven't lost your courage..." I replied in the negative, grabbed my notebook, and flew down the stairs.

The werewolf hunter was waiting for us in a rather dingy bar on the outskirts of Erebus, where the jungle fills the streets like a rising flood. He sat at a table near the back, nursing a glass of gin and petting a dog that looked like it had leased its coat to several successive generations of fleas. His gaze was fixed firmly on a group of ruffians arm wrestling for money near the bar, but he greeted us warmly enough as we approached.

"So, this is the esteemed Archibald Andrews?" His words scraped over his vocal cords like a whetstone being dragged over a sword blade. "We're about to begin the hunt in earnest, so I hope you came with an ink well at the ready." Before I could furnish a clever retort, he raised one callused hand to silence me. "See the way that gunslinger in the yellow duster just turned one of his empty shot glasses upside down? That means there's one wolfie in the lot. We had best be on the move."

Feeling more than a little like a puppy on a leash, I followed the hunter and his assistant back out. We crossed the dirt trail that passed for a road, circled around behind a two-story apartment, and climbed up onto the roof. Drake pulled a rifle from under his longcoat and began screwing an extended barrel into place. "In a few moments, the bartender will ask our friends to take their disagreement outside. My compatriots will toss a drink on the wolfie, and I'll put this silver bullet in his heart." He held the bullet in question up for my inspection before sliding it into the chamber.

"An interesting choice," I ventured. "But silver isn't strictly necessary, or so I am told. Might an alchemical munition be more effective?"

"No, not necessary, young Archibald," he said while adjusting a set of slides and dials on his rifle sight. "You had better get in position, Hemlock. I'm certain the young man and I will be perfectly safe up here." The blonde nodded and slid off the roof like a snake into underbrush. "Anything that will kill you or I will kill a werewolf just as dead, but silver sometimes makes it harder for them to shift shapes. They find it easier to get away on four legs than two."

The bar door opened and vulgarities spilled out onto the street, bringing with them a group of six locals and two westerners. I couldn't discern the nature of their dispute through the noise and darkness, but the gunshot a foot from my ear brought events into sharp contrast. It only took the span of three heartbeats:

One of the westerners tossed a shot of whiskey on one of the local boys.

Beat.

A thunderclap erupted from Drake's rifle, carrying a tiny lump of silver across the night and between the local boy's ribs. A puff of red mist colored the lantern light from the bar's only window.

Beat.

The westerners pulled handcannons from their hips and shot the two nearest locals. Hemlock appeared as if from the ether, launching a kick to one local's face, putting a complex finger grip on the throat of another, and slicing the throat of the last man before he could pull his sword half way from its sheath.

Beat.

Drake disassembled his firearm while I forced my heart back into the position God had originally placed it. I scribbled notes onto loose parchment as we scrambled down to the street, where the gunslingers kept the locals covered while Hemlock carved up the carcass. A few deft strokes of her blade and it was obvious to all that the fallen creature would not be rising again. She hoisted the carcass over her shoulder, and we headed back into the city. Honestly, I had expected a bit more challenge and drama, but I've heard it said that experts always make these things look easy.

- - -

"I'm sorry there was not time for proper introductions, but I thought you should see that bit of business if you are to properly chronicle this hunt." Lord Gallows was unrolling a sheet of surgical tools on a bench next to the creature's corpse. We had retreated to the basement of what he called his "summer house" in Old Erebus; it more closely resembled a fortress, with two wings, a gated approach, and high walls around the back yard.

"My accomplices from the bar are the esteemed Malik brothers, Robert and William." The gunslingers tipped their hats to me from their card table near the door. "Their sister and her family were killed by a pack of werewolves a few years back. I keep them around for their pleasant company."

"That's one 'L' and one 'K,' Mister Andrews," explained William. "Make sure to mention how I'm the good lookin' one."

"First of all, we're twins," Robert interjected. "Second of all, the only women he does better with than me are the elderly and drunk."

"Strong words from a man who's holdin' a pair of deuces!"

"That all you think I've got..."

They returned to their game. Drake began drawing lines over the corpse's chest and face with a charcoal pencil. "And Hemlock you've already met."

Hemlock practiced her martial arts in the back, a form I've been told is called the Way of the Viper. She had shed most of her leather armor shortly after we arrived so, like a gentleman, I politely averted my gaze. (If you are looking for a layman's observations on the techniques of combat, or a titillating description of a lady's late night diversions, I'm afraid you will have to look elsewhere, dear reader.)

Drake pulled a scalpel from his small mound of steel implements and slid it into the werewolf's chest, pulling it along one black line after another. "Are you also a physician, Lord Gallows?" I asked.

"Not as such, Mister Andrews, but I do know a few things about infernal biology, as I call it. You see, we executed this young man based on a cosmetic identification."

Robert tossed a pair of blue chips on the card table and looked up at us. "He's got the look, ya know. See them bushy eyebrows and the way his index finger is the same length as his middle finger? That's the wolf peekin' out from inside."

"Yes, but such evidence is not exactly conclusive," Drake continued. "Now, see all these tiny lines that crisscross his ribs and sternum?" He pulled a flap of skin away with some tweezers, giving my an unpleasantly unobstructed view of the ribcage in question. "Those are fissures created by years of breaking and healing, each time the creature changes forms. This is unequivocal evidence." He let the skin slap back into place.

"Boys, take it outside and burn it."

- - -

We were talking in the parlour upstairs when Gallows' dog started barking. It seems that they had been staking out that bar for nearly a week, since his dog had caught the wolfen's scent there. Even in human form, they are known to mark their territory in the manner of wolves, he told me, and he had trained his animal to track their scent. However, that was not why it started barking at this particular time.

No, it started barking because of the blood.

It spattered across the window like raindrops, followed by a flash of light and a report of thunder. Honestly, I thought at first it was the weather, but the dog smelled death in the air. Drake knew better, too, being somewhat more familiar with firearms and the sound that alchemical ammunitions makes when they ignite a target.

He bolted down the stairs and to the back door, nearly running over William as he jumped backwards through the rear door. From the top of the steps, I could just make out a quadrupedal form darting away behind a tool shed that had recently become a bonfire. It carried something long, red, and glistening in its maw.

William was screaming incoherently, shoving another charge down the barrel of his handcannon. Drake tried to grab him, but another jet of flame arched out from the gun and streaked across the yard. The bloodburn round slammed into a reflecting pool and set the water to boiling instantly. Drake kicked the door closed and landed a fist to William's chin, knocking him out cold.

"I counted at least three of them dragging the wolfie's carcass off the pyre." Hemlock already had her sword drawn, a deceptively gracile rapier with a serrated knuckle guard. "This is too soon, Drake. Either they've been watching us the entire time... or it's happening again."

"It?" I asked. "Again?"

"Archibald, grab William's legs and help me carry him into the den." We deposited him on a couch as the wolves howled outside, the sound reverberated through the halls until it seemed to come from every room in the house.

"Sometimes, when we kill one of them, the whole pack seems to... sense it immediately. They show up to claim the corpse, as appears to be the case tonight, and lay siege. We are fortunate to be within solid walls. When this happened to us in the Wildlands, we had only a tent for protection. They nearly killed me. Remind me to show you the scar after we've butchered the last of them."

"ROBERT!!!" William snapped upright like a catapult, his eyes wide and unfocused. Drake grabbed him by the shoulders, willing him back to his senses. "Drake, oh god. They bit his hamstrings off, Drake. They came out of nowhere and bit his goddamn hamstrings off! Then they ripped out his throat and... and they started to... eat him. Oh god, he's dead. Robert's dead." His hysterics halted abruptly as the wolves howled again. He pulled another handcannon from beneath his duster and slammed a charge into the barrel.

"And we'll send every one of them to Hell for it, William," Gallows replied, "but not if we play into their hands. We've got to keep our wits about us." The gunslinger's breathing slowed a bit. Tension evaporated from his shoulders, but he didn't holster his weapon. "Now, both of you, help me gather the guns."

- - -

The sound of breaking glass shattered the night, from somewhere on the upper floor. The three of us had barricaded ourselves in the kitchen over an hour ago. Not the most dignified location for a last stand , but it had a narrow entrance from the dining room, a window view of the courtyard, and an easily boarded up rear entrance. And unlike most kitchens, it was presently stocked with enough guns and ammo to arm half of the city. The big, angry half.

"They're upstairs," William muttered. "They're inside." He looked about a hair's breadth from pumping every round of his reloader into the ceiling. "We should hit 'em before they get organized."

Drake Gallows sat on the cutting table, with his back to the wall, tossing back shots of whiskey. "They are already organized, William. Don't fool yourself. They are trying to flush us out, scare us into a vulnerable position. We stay here and wait for daylight." He expected visitors in the morning, and werewolves are generally less inclined to hunt during the day, so all we had to do was wait them out. At least, that was the plan.

Clawed footsteps clicked and clacked on the wood floor above us. Back and forth, back and forth. Something crashed out in the hall, towards the dining room. "There goes your china, Drake." Hemlock flashed one of her rare, sly grins and resumed staring out the kitchen's sole window. She rotated her rapier slowly, drilling holes into the tile floor. I should have known she was nervous, but street predators, as a rule, excel at concealing their fear.

"Shit!" William jumped back from the table we had turned on its side as a makeshift barricade. "Did anyone else hear that?"

"Hear what, William?" The fatigue in Gallows' voice was apparent, and, I gathered, not solely a function of the late hour.

"That scratching. They're scratching at the walls." He crept up to the inside wall, holding his gun before him like a holy talisman. "There it is again!"

"I hear noth..." A slow, ragged scratching sound cut Gallows off, but it came not from the wall. It came from the hallway door.

William leapt back and blasted a round into the door. Fire spewed forth from the barrel of his reloader and slammed into the wood, spraying us with smoke and splinters. He yanked the lever down, loading another round into the chamber, and fired again. The hallway carpet burst into flame.

"Holy Hell, William!" Gallows was on his feet, pointing a handcannon at the gunslinger's head. "Would you mind putting those things into some flesh, rather than my goddamned home?!"

A yellow eye peeked through the whole in the door, replaced immediately by grey fur retreating down the smoky corridor, one of Williams' alchemical bullets nipping at its heels. Oblivious to Gallows and his gun, William kicked open the door and charged after it, unloading one round after another.

Gallows moved as if in pursuit, but something fell from above the door. I heard it shatter just before a bank of fog billowed up, blocking our view of the hallway. I heard a thud, and something that sounded wet. "Works every time, Archibald," Gallows intoned. "They are picking us off one by one."

"Not quite, I think." Hemlock's gaze was cold and dark, as if her soul had recoiled from them to seek shelter deeper within her body. She was watching the yard behind the dining room, where strange shadows flickered across the sculpted hedges and flowerbeds. Gallows and I got to the window just in time to watch a werewolf drag William into view, its jaws sunk deep into his mangled leg. The gunslinger's face was smeared with blood, presumably his own. His screams possessed a desperate, primal quality that my ears had never heard before, but that my mind knew all too well, from its nightmares.

Two more figures came into view, both human and completely naked. The larger one, the male, dragged William upright by his throat. The other gripped the westerner's chin and twisted his head roughly to each side, as if inspecting livestock. I think I heard her say, "Yep, this is the other one," before she slid a dagger into his gut. William's screams began anew, scrapping around his constricted larynx to echo off the mansion's walls. "My God," Hemlock whispered, "They're going to torture him."

We both looked at Gallows, willing him to devise a more proactive plan of action. Instead, he gave us: "They're just using him as bait. We wait here, no matter what horrors they parade before us." The line of his jaw was as firmly set as ever, but my keen reporter's eye detected a slight tremor in his lip.

William's scream turned suddenly to a gurgle, and the woman with the dagger laughed. The unholy sound set fire to Hemlock's eyes. She whirled back to the window. "I can get over there and take out the three of them in ten seconds."

"There are certainly more than three, my dear," Gallows chided.

"Then cover me, sir knight." And Hemlock was out the window, diving into a somersault and coming up at full sprint before I could blink.

"Damn," was all Gallows said. He pulled a long-barrelled handcannon off the counter and took aim, just as a lupine shadow darted into view, cutting across the yard towards Hemlock's heels. Smoke burst from the gun and the wolf's legs slipped out from beneath it. Gallows picked up the next weapon, a massive bolt thrower, and lined up his shot as two more wolves rocketed from the hedges on the far side of the yard. Lightning flashed from its barrel, reducing the one on the left to a convulsing mound of fur. Hemlock slashed the other across the maw, sending it to the ground in a whimpering heap.

The female had liberated her bloody dagger from William's entrails and turned it on Hemlock, but the street predator was already airborne. Her left foot swept across the dagger, knocking it to the side, while her right foot drove straight through the woman's face. Hemlock landed behind her in a crouch, her rapier tracing a wide, red arc across the male's thighs.

He fell on his back and convulsed as if every muscle in his body had contracted simultaneously. Hemlock hoisted William on one shoulder and leapt back to her feet, driving towards us. Gallows covered her with another rifle, but the gunshot that rang out came from above us. Hemlock's head snapped back and her feet flew out from under her. The two of them tumbled to the ground as the sound of laughter floated down to us from the sniper upstairs. The wolf Hemlock had slashed twitched feebly near her inert form.

Gallows shot it.

- - -

We listened to William mutter to himself for well over an hour before he ran out of breath. The werewolves howled for their fallen long past then. The torturers had slinked away, one in lupine form and the other in human, before Gallows could ready another weapon. They howled, scratched at the walls, and smashed their way through the mansion for an eternity. They were wearing us down.

Many times, I convinced myself that there must be an eclipse that morning, or perhaps a cloud of locusts had blotted out the sun. But each time I checked my pocket watch, it was still the same, endless night. I won't lie to you; I considered ambushing Gallows and offering him to the skinwalkers in return for my freedom. However, watching him field strip that bolt thrower of his dissuaded me from such notions. I was there, for better or worse, until the end.

The fire in the hallway had died out long ago, but it must have given the fiends an idea. Silence descended upon the estate around five o'clock in the morning. "They are plotting something," was Gallows' only comment. When the first flaming crossbow bolt sailed through the kitchen window, I ran to the sink and cranked the faucet valves open. Nothing happened.

"Damn." Gallows picked up a handcannon with a blue stripe on the barrel, aimed at the bolt, and fired. The bullet left a trail of frost as it flew across the room. It slammed into the wall a hair's breadth from the bolt, and extended icy tendrils to snuff out the fire.

Another bolt followed its departed brother through the window, skittering across the floor to the frozen wall. I ran over to stomp it out while Gallows reloaded his weapon, but two more bolts headed me off, nearly pinning me to the wall before I jumped back like a frightened hare. Gallows fired another round, but two more bolts hit the pantry and the linen closet, respectively. The entire back wall was set ablaze.

"To the wolves with us, then?" I tried to conceal my terror behind a veneer of flippancy, but Gallows wasn't buying. He stuffed a small arsenal of handcannons into his breeches, tossed me a reloader, fired a shot into the hallway, and told me to run.

I did. The reek of scorched carpet filled my nostrils as I rushed headlong into the dining room. I spun towards the patio doors, but a pair of glowing eyes stopped me cold. Gallows fired over my shoulder, showering the beast with broken glass, and pushed me towards the foyer. More wolves snarled at us from the main stairs and the hallway to the second wing. Gallows fired one gun, dropped it, fired another... leaving a trail of discarded handcannons in our wake. Skinwalkers came and went like wisps of smoke, steadily whittling down our avenues of escape.

"To Hell with it, then!" Gallows ripped open the front door and ushered me out. It slammed shut like the lid of a coffin, sealing our fates. Six wolves surrounded us outside, and the ones inside latched the door behind us. Gallows pulled a pair of handcannons from the small of his back and, for a moment, looked like he might actually try to use them.

Then, one of the skinwalkers started shaking like a leaf in storm season. Its hindlegs extended, the bones snapping and popping as they swung down and back. Its fur fell from its skin in clumps. Its snout retracted into its skull, filling out the braincase. In a few short seconds, a man crouched where the wolf had been. A pair of angry wounds ran across his thighs.

"This isn't your concern," he growled. There was no question he was talking to me. "Drake Gallows is a murderer. The young man he executed tonight had committed no crime, not even by western standards. Drake Gallows hunts us for our blood, nothing more."

One of the wolves growled deeply and bared its teeth. Its ears were folded back against its head in an unmistakable expression of hostility. "I said he can go, Lucinda!" the man replied. The wolf snapped at him and spared me a hungry glance. "Don't make me put another bruise on that pretty face of yours, bitch!" He advanced half a step, and the growling stopped. The wolf rolled over and bared its throat to him.

I looked back at Gallows and levered a round into the chamber of my reloader. Or tried to. The mechanism locked up half way down and refused to budge. I think Gallows took it as a sign. "Go on, Mister Andrews," he told me. "I hope you got your story."

All I could do was nod feebly and shuffle my way past the salivating hounds. I heard two gunshots as I set my first foot upon the black cobblestones of Old Erebus, and the faint echo of lupine snarls as I set my second. Then I was running down the street, pursued by my own skinwalking demons.

No human being has set eyes on Lord Drake Gallows since.

Previews - Fiction - Scenarios - Cults - Miscellany