The butler did not mention the impoliteness of their open-mouthed
stares, but with the selective discretion common to the greats of the butlering
profession turned instead to his primary objective: the font. He took a swift
glance towards the door, checking that it was holding; the wood was by now
creaking ominously, and the beasts behind it were beginning to howl with
bloodlust as they sensed they had nearly achieved their goal. Noticing the
bottles on the floor, he picked one up and, his back to Maxwell and Lydia,
dipped it into the foul-smelling water of the font. Luckily, the bottle was
already green, so at least the trio were spared the unedifying sight of holy
water staining clear glass.
Presently, Lydia found her voice. “Crichton...”
“Yes, milady?” Crichton answered, busy filling up another bottle.
“Crichton... what the hell is going on?” Lydia asked.
Maxwell decided he would let the blasphemy go, this time, since he himself was
thinking a similar thing.
Crichton turned back towards them, a bottle in either hand.
He still, they noticed, had the rope tied around his waist, and he proceeded to
untie it and let it fall to the floor. His voice, as ever, remained smooth and
even.
“Well, milady, as you have no doubt observed, the manor is
under attack by the newly-raised dead, which is, of course, most undesirable.
As the chief member of staff, I feel it is my duty to rid the manor of unwanted
guests, and so I have proceeded here with all haste to procure some holy water,
which I believe can be used as effective weaponry against the gentlemen
outside, however ancient it may be; and I am using these glass vessels in order
to transport this water to the other parts of the manor that have been occupied
by the acquaintances of our... ill-mannered visitors, if I may use so impolite
a term, milady.”
“Sorry... newly-raised dead?” Maxwell asked apologetically. “Is
that what they are?”
“I believe so, sir. Raised, if I am not mistaken, by our
late gardener, whom I have suspected for some time of having certain immoral
depths which the eye could not readily see. His employment, fortunately for us,
has already been terminated. I do not wish to be rude, sir, but would it be
permitted for me to continue filling these vessels whilst we converse? I fear
there may not be much time.”
Recognising this, Maxwell and Lydia picked up some bottles
of their own and rushed to join Crichton in scooping the fetid water from the
depths of the font. As they filled each bottle, they tucked it away into one of
the folds of their clothing; Lydia, of course, found this the easiest, arrayed
as she was in her highly impractical dress, whilst Crichton and Maxwell, as
might be expected given their various uniforms of office, had any number of pockets
in which to secrete items of this shape and size.
“Well, at least we know what we’re facing now,” Maxwell
said. Lydia did not reply, as she was trying not to breathe, but Crichton
nodded politely.
“Indeed, sir.” They hefted the last three bottles in their
hands as they turned back towards the door. The howling from outside rose in
intensity as small clouds of stone dust rose from around the now twisted and
deformed hinges; the moment was almost upon them. They stood in a line facing
the door, bottles held ready to throw as the old wood finally started to
splinter under the blows of the reanimated dead. The howls grew still louder,
joined now by the sound of tortured wood and the screech of breaking metal.
Maybe five more impacts, four...
“Are you sure this will work, Crichton?” Maxwell asked out
of the corner of his mouth.
“Well, sir, if there is any place where a miracle might
happen...”
The door gave way. The first three screaming corpses leapt
through the newly created gap, shadows trailing around them as they bounded
towards the three companions. Crichton, Lydia and Maxwell aimed carefully at
the approaching monstrosities, cocking back their arms as they prepared to hurl
their blessed if foul-smelling missiles. Each fought a battle with their own fears
as the howling, bloodthirsty fiends from the nether dimensions sprang forward, ever closer, until, as the
beasts bent their knees for the final violent lunge, the trio let fly.
The crazed howling swiftly turned into screams of agony. The
three bottles flew straight and true, smashing into their intended targets with
as much force as their owners could muster; each broke apart on impact, coating
the three monstrosities in shimmering green fluid. Where it was touched by the
water, their grey skin turned brilliant white, the shadows that played over
their bodies chased away by the purity of the liquid; and then, with a strange
sucking sound, it sank into their skin, and the monsters seemed to crumple into
themselves, imploding as the fabric of their hell-forged being was destroyed by
the blessed substance. The two warriors behind, seeing the demise of their
comrades as they themselves began to sprint through the door, halted, their
surprise mixing with their sudden terror and stopping them dead in their
tracks; two more missiles from Crichton and Lydia meant their hesitation was
fatal, as they too were dissolved by the holy water, leaving behind only
streaks of off-white dust that mixed with the broken glass and dirt on the
chapel floor.
Exultation swept over the trio. Maxwell and Lydia leapt, breathless,
into each others’ arms, causing the bottles concealed in their clothing to
clank and clatter; Crichton, of course, remained impassive, but if one watched
very, very closely one could see even his mouth quirking ever so slightly. At
length, Lydia and Maxwell released each other, and turned towards Crichton,
ready for further action.
“So, what are we to do next?” Maxwell asked. Before Crichton
could answer, Lydia jumped in.
“We kill the rest of these fiends, of course,” said Lydia
fiercely, her eyes flashing. “They deserve everything that’s coming to them
after what they did to Mother. And we need to find my sister, as well.”
It was clear from her tone she would brook no argument; not
that Maxwell or Crichton, in their present triumphant state, would have wanted
to disagree in any case. Smoothly, Crichton said “Certainly, Milady. May I
suggest that we proceed to the wine cellars? On my way here I ascertained that
the majority of them had congregated around the alcoholic beverages; I believe
we have an ample supply of the font water to clean them out.” With a firm nod,
Lydia swept out of the chapel, dress billowing behind her as Maxwell and
Crichton followed, ready for any possible trouble on the way.
There was none; the only other people they saw were Berenice
and Bridget, sprinting, or at least rapidly waddling, after a pair of grey
warriors who had run past the trio too quickly for them to react. The trio
shared a swift glance of disbelief but, after the events of the day, nothing
would surprise them too much; and so, courage bolstered by their success and
their desire for revenge on the creatures that had caused them so much
heartache.
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