Chapter Eight

"Malleus Maleficarum"

* * * * * * * * * * *

After a quick, well-needed rest, I expressed my concerns to the innkeeper in a bid to get some information. 

"Ah, she's a bit of an odd one," Beaumont said. He went on to explain that my neighbor was a spiritualist named Lenore Malin. She sold protective charms that were supposed to protect against witches. Supposedly, she had heard about the town's witch problem and came to capitalize.

The dolls must be one of those charms, I guess.

I noted the interaction in my log.

[Log Entry: Creepy neighbor = Witch?]

* * * * * * * * * * *

As I left the inn and ventured into town, I checked my log and compiled the points that were most significant:

[Log Entry: High Inquisitor Alistaire Hawkthorne is in charge of the witch hunt.]

[Log Entry: The town voted Mathus Crowley guilty of being a witch.]

[Log Entry: Only one person, Johan Hendricks tried to vote Not Guilty. They are now dead.]

[Log Entry: The witch can only summon demons at night.]

[Log Entry: The Pale Man marked the butcher's shop with a symbol.]

For now, my only lead was the Pale Man.

Plus, my creepy neighbor, but we'll put her aside for now.

I asked the innkeeper if they knew who the Pale Man might be, but he didn't seem to know anyone that fit the description. "Definitely not anyone in town," he said.

Then they must be a traveler, I thought. 

Luckily, my enhanced trait meant I could track the movements of anybody I wanted, but I had to locate them first and form a handshake. 

I decided, if I could find him in town, I would make a partnership with the Pale Man. If not, I would have to pay a visit to the butcher and try to find out why he might be a person of interest. 

As I traveled to the town square, I passed by the alleyway where the man was killed. The inquisitors had already removed the body, but the bloodstains remained. A crowd had formed around the area. They were too frightened to get near it, but were curious enough to steal a peek.

Just looking at the large red stains on the brick walls made my wounds throb in pain. I remembered how easily the bronze sword had shattered and how unreliable the demon bone was as a weapon.

I have to upgrade to something better. 

Before I hit the town square, I would make a visit to the local blacksmith. I asked a courier passing by where I could find a nearby forge. Wary of speaking to a stranger, the courier simply grunted and tilted his head in a general, northerly direction. I nodded thanks, then followed the path north. 

A few incorrect turns later, I eventually found myself outside a shop with a sign featuring a hammer and anvil.

The inside of the shop was hot from the irons and humid with the salty taste of sweat in the air. The walls were covered with various tools—pickaxes, shovels, horseshoes.

There's a lot of farming tools... I wonder if they're able to craft a weapon.

The blacksmith emerged from his forge and lumbered up to me. His name was Neville Locksley. His body was built, hardened, and strong, but his face was curiously cherubic. He had bright, blue eyes and a squeaky, clean face, free of any facial hair.

"Can I help you?" he asked. The deep, dulcet tones of Neville's voice took me by surprise. 

This guy's a roller-coaster of first impressions.

"I was hoping to buy a weapon," I said. "Can you help me?"

Neville raised an eyebrow, "What do you need it for?"

I remembered the suspicious look the courier gave me. I had to keep a low profile. 

"It's just so scary out there these days," I said in a timid voice. "I want to feel safer, you know?"

The blacksmith nodded in agreement, "I don't blame you. What kind of weapon are you looking for?"

"Something small that I can carry around with me." Then a thought occurred to me, "Actually...I picked something up in another city along the coast. Supposedly it's got some holy properties. Do you think you could do something with this?"

I set the demon bone on the counter. Neville removed a small, magnified lens from a drawer in his desk and used it to closely examine the bone. He made several "hms" and "uh-huhs" before setting it back down.

"I've never seen bone like this before. Where did you say you got it from?"

"A sailor on the eastern coast," I answered quickly. "He said it was from a rare island creature. I took my chances with it." 

"I don't often work with bone. Usually too brittle." Neville said, rubbing his practically sparkling chin. "But this one's got a nice malleability to it. I can try my best."

"How long do you think it'll take?"

"Come back tomorrow." He jotted something down on a note and handed it to me, "This is the down payment. I'll expect the second half tomorrow."

I stared at the figure, dumbfounded, then prepared to haggle.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I left the forge having given up a vintage spyglass and a silver candelabra.

Although the demon bone wasn't the most effective weapon, its presence in my inventory still gave me a sense of security. Without it, I felt vulnerable.

My next stop was the town square, where the market was taking place. Hopefully I could find the Pale Man's identity there. 

When I arrived, the market was in full swing, but there was a tense atmosphere. People spoke in hushed tones, quickly purchasing what they needed and leaving as soon as they could. 

I kept a close eye out for the Pale Man, but he was nowhere to be seen. His white hair would have stood out in the crowd as well. I tried to ask people if they might have seen him, but most of them treated me the same way as the courier, with suspicion. 

As I wandered through the market, I felt the looks and murmurs of the residents. It was a small town, so everybody knew who lived there and who was only passing through. 

On the edge of the square, the execution block loomed ominously over the town. Mathus Crowley's body had been taken down, but the hangman's noose swaying lightly in the wind acted as an ever-present warning of what would be done to residents that gave off even a hint of suspicious activity.

Next to it, I saw a box that I hadn't noticed the previous night. It stood waist-high, made of freshly cut wood with a gap at the top—thin enough that only a slip of paper could be dropped inside. I wondered what it was for, but then I quickly realized.

It's for anonymous tips. So you can accuse another resident of being a witch.

As I examined the box, I heard a male voice bellowing out:

"WE ARE ALL IN HELL!" 

Curious, I followed the voice and discovered a man parading through the square. His face was a mousy one, with two crooked teeth poking out of his mouth. His hair came down to his shoulders, wild and unkempt. He wore a tunic that looked like it hadn't been washed in several weeks, the scent of which seemed to send the crowd swerving around him. 

The man bellowed out the same phrase over and over again, "We are all in hell!"

I mean, he isn't technically wrong.

He passed out pamphlets to anybody that would give him the time of day. And if they didn't, he would force it into their hands or their bags.

One busy merchant took the pamphlet, then threw it to the ground. The mousy man picked it up, brushed off the dirt, then caught sight of me. With a toothy grin, he held it out for me to take, "For the innocent, sir." 

Out of curiosity, I took the pamphlet and gave it a quick read-through: 

Malleus Maleficarum

For the innocent and fearful, a treatise on the Devil's instruments

I. The Wicked walk amongst us

II. Daughters of Lilith are weak to the temptation of the Devil

III. The Wicked will have a mark from which to suckle the Devil's demonic familiars

IV. The Wicked does not drown, for it rejects the healing powers of water

V. The eyes of the innocent may see through the facade of the wicked

The pamphlet seemed to present itself as a factual description of witchcraft and how to identify it. I couldn't get through the entirety of it without feeling sick to my stomach.

"Women are more prone to temptation."

"A good witch hunter will thoroughly check for a Witch's Mark"

I tore up the pamphlet and threw it away. The thing wasn't worth the paper it was printed on. 

As I walked away, I caught a glimpse of a few people reading the pamphlet in earnest. The paranoia in the town of Honeywell was growing.