Inhabitants of the Marsh-Wold Holdings were yesterday thrown into a fresh state of terror by the advent of another grisly discovery amongst the normally placid fields of their pastoral refuge. The victims on this occasion were the entire Shrivemill family, numbering three adults and six children, together with several employees at the family estate located in the heart of the Wold. Loyal readers will know this to be the fourth such outrage in this holding in as many weeks, bringing the total number of victims to thirty-six, at least half being of the managerial class.
The terrible events at Shrivemill Manor closely follow the same pattern of previous massacres; the main residence and lesser buildings reduced to cinders whilst those who had escaped the fires are found strewn about the grounds in various states of evisceration. Most of the injuries suffered by these unfortunates are too gruesome to detail at length but one witness to the aftermath of the Shrivemill atrocity described to an Intelligencer correspondent “a tree, made up of bodies, all smashed up and twisted together . . .” At this point the witness became so distressed by their recollections they were obliged to disgorge their breakfast.
The nature of these crimes has inevitably led to assertions that they are the work of a rogue Blood-blessed, a figure quickly grown to the status of dark legend in the vicinity, having earned the grim pseudonym of the “Blessed Demon.” The suspicion that these atrocities may be the work of a Blessed hand is given further credence by the fact that all the high-status households so far targeted for destruction were known to keep private stocks of product on their premises—a fairly common habit amongst the managerial class since refined product does not spoil and can be counted on to retain its value regardless of the vicissitudes of the market. Could it be that this foul agent of death is as intent on thievery as they are slaughter? The Protectorate Constabulary have been quick to play down such suspicions with several officers—who did not wish to be named—voicing allusions to foreign-born brigands or members of the labouring class banding together under cover of darkness to pursue a bloody vendetta against those of managerial status. So far, however, no suspects have been arrested and such theories continue to arouse scorn from the Protectorate’s critics.
Miss Lewella Tythencroft, recently elected Chair of the radical Voters Rights Alliance, has dismissed the notion of low-born agitators as “utter tripe of the worst kind.” In a letter to the editor of this periodical Miss Tythencroft stated: “The Protectorate Constabulary is attempting to avoid the consequences of its own incompetence whilst fostering fear and discord between the social orders. It should be plain to even the most addle-brained buffoon that the people of the Marsh-Wold have become targets for at least one insane Blood-blessed, most probably some poor wretched soul driven to delusion by service in one of the Ironship Syndicate’s ceaseless wars, the recent Arradsian disaster being the most likely.” Miss Tythencroft goes on to demand the appointment of experienced detectives from one of the constabulary’s urban precincts and the deployment of specially contracted Blood-blessed to capture the elusive “Demon.”
In the interest of balance, it is this correspondent’s duty to point out that Miss Tythencroft’s views may be influenced by the tragic news that her fiancé, Lieutenant Corrick Hilemore, an officer in the Maritime Protectorate and decorated hero of the Dalcian Emergency, is currently listed as missing, presumed dead following the recent unfortunate events in the southern hemisphere. It should also be noted that the constabulary has doubled the number of officers in the Marsh-Wold and instituted regular mounted patrols. Their task is not an easy one, the Wold being a difficult terrain to police with its myriad water-ways and culverts. Added to these obstacles is the fact that witness reports have provided scant clues as to the true culprit’s identity.
As ever, it is the nature of cases such as this to generate a plethora of false reports and unlikely tales from the erratic or drunken mind. This correspondent has been gravely assured that the atrocities are the work of a wild drake somehow transported from Arradsia and set loose upon the Wold by Corvantine agents. A more spectral suspect arises in the form of “Billy the Burner,” a famed arsonist hanged for his crimes some two centuries ago and now apparently risen from his grave to wreak vengeance. Added to this are various fables regarding resurrected gods from the Shadow Age and the curious figure of “Scarecrow Annie,” a more recent addition to the canon of local ghosts said to take the form of a skeletal woman in a burnt dress many swear to have seen wandering the marshes at night whilst spouting a continual diatribe of gibberish.
Whatever the truth of these fables, it is clear that the danger posed to the people of the Marsh-Wold is very real and, given the holding’s proximity to Sanorah itself, the prospect of even worse carnage cannot be discounted. The Intelligencer urges all its readers to remain vigilant and report any relevant suspicions to the constabulary forthwith.
Lead article in the Sanorah Intelligencer—13th Rosellum 1600 (Company Year 211)—by Sigmend Talwick, Senior Correspondent.
CHAPTER 17
Sirus
The Islander screamed out a war-cry as he swung his axe. Like most who made their homes among the Barrier Isles he was tall and fair of complexion, long blond hair trailing as he sprinted into battle, blood streaming from the many cuts to his muscular torso. Sirus’s first impulse was to shoot him, as he had shot three other Island warriors this morning, but he could sense the White’s growing dissatisfaction with the death toll. Dead enemies were of no use if it was to build its army.
So, as the axe came round in a blurring arc towards his head, Sirus ducked under the blade and brought the butt of his rifle up to slam into the Islander’s chin. His new Spoiled-born strength was enough to lift the attacker off his feet, sending him to the sand, limbs limp and face slack in unconsciousness. Sirus crouched, touching a hand to the man’s chest to ensure he still breathed before binding his arms and legs with a length of cord. His first live capture of the day and his tenth of the week.
He straightened as Morradin’s thought-command reached him, as terse and grating as any spoken word: They’re massing at the village. Circle round to the north.