‘Well,’ he said eventually. ‘It may be an inflammationof the digestive glands under the tongue. I’m going toprescribe you a poultice that should take the color out ofthose bruises-‘Follop gripped the man’s white coat and yanked himforward with what little strength he still possessed. ‘Idon’t care about bruises,’ he rattled. ‘I need to breathe.’The physician recoiled, his wire-rimmed glasses askew.‘Of course, of course!’ He fumbled at his physicstation for some time, rattling glasses and vials untilhe finally produced a small stoppered bottle. Thesmoked glass held perhaps an ounce of liquid andhad a cork stopper. ‘If you put five drops of this in aglass of water, three times a-‘Follop snatched the bottle from the physician’s hand,wrenched out the cork and upended it, grimacing ashe gulped down the foul-tasting liquid. The emptybottle was discarded and Follop leaned back againstthe wall, rasping for air. A minute passed whilethe physician waited awkwardly, but Ermine feltno easing of the constriction around his throat. Ifanything, it was growing tighter.‘How soon?’ he hissed.‘The…the effects should be immediate,’ the physicianstammered.Follop snarled and shouldered past the practitioner,weaving unsteadily out into the corridor. His chestwas working like a bellows now and frothy saliva wasbeginning to accumulate at the corners of his mouth– he could barely swallow and every effort broughtintense pain.What was happening to him? Was he going to die?Was there no respite from this awful affliction? Hisface crumpled with grief as he staggered along thedark corridors, leaning first on one wall and thenthe other as he reeled. The white hand – the whitehand had him in its clutches. He could see it with hiswaking eyes, forming a crushing fist on the floor ofhis office. It had him and it would not let go.Lupita is MINE, a voice snarled in his head.He stopped, clinging to a cabinet for support, hishead buzzing with lack of air.The girl. Was that the answer? Was that the key tohis salvation? That boy – that monster – had wantedthe girl – he had refused to let go until he got thegirl. He had refused to let go until he got the girl.Staggering again, but with new purpose, Follopturned about and headed for the detention cells. Itwas a desperate and forlorn hope, but if releasingthem both to be reunited would save him fromthis terrible curse, he would do it and gladly. Hewould apologize to them both, would make themunderstand how lonely and unloved he was, howwrong he had been to abuse his power – but he couldmake amends. It was not too late.A frail hope formed in his chest even as he stumbledand toppled down the winding steps to the lowestlevels, every breath a struggle now. He clung to therusted iron railing, half-sliding down the stairs inhis exhaustion. They would forgive him – surelythey would! Surely they could see they had beenthe actions of a jealous old fool; he had meant noreal harm. He could give them their freedom, evenmoney if they desired it. They would be together andFollop would be released!He crashed into the detention cells like a marionette– one hand latched around his throat, the otherscratching along the rough stone wall seekinganchorage to prevent him toppling full length on thestraw floor. His face contorted horribly with everyintake of breath, which came as a slow high rattle,like a breeze blowing through something dried-upand dead.The jailer gawped at this apparition, not evenrecognizing Follop until he had gripped the man bythe shoulder and hissed at him through gritted teeth.‘The girl…’ came his faint voice.‘Lawks and truths,’ the jailer whispered. ‘Is…is thatyou, Mr Follop, sir?’‘Girl…’ he hissed again, his eyes protrudingdangerously. ‘Where…’‘Girl, sir?’ The jailer chewed his thumb in thoughtuntil his face brightened. ‘Oh, the girl. That pretty16 © Copyright Wyrd Miniatures, LLC
it of fluff you sent down here yesterday? Well, she’sgone, isn’t she, sir? Off to the magistrate just like yousaid.’Follop made a sound somewhere between whineand sob. No matter, he told himself, no matter. Shewould be days at the court jail before her trial – morethan enough time for the wheels of bureaucracy tointervene.‘Boy…boy…’ he gurgled, making a gripping motionwith his free hand – the other was being used to keephimself upright against the burly jailer.‘Don’t you worry, Mr Follop,’ the jailer said, givingthe Guild officer a wide grin. ‘He won’t be troublingyou no more.’Follop’s face creased with confusion. What was thisfool talking about? Where was the boy?‘Where…’ came the barely audible wheeze.‘He’s gone, sir,’ the jailer said amiably. ‘Dead.’Follop could only stare into the idiot’s puffy unshavenface.‘Died about an hour after they dragged him downhere, sir,’ the jailor continued, oblivious to Follop’scollapsing expression. ‘Noisy bugger. They threwhim in that cell right there and left him. Not for thelikes of him to have his wounds seen to – not afterwhat he done. Laying his hand on a gentleman suchas yourself, sir. Got what he deserved, in my opinion.’The jailer’s voice began to echo and distort. Follop’sknees buckled and he slumped back against the walland then slid down it until he sat facing the row ofbare, grotty cells. There was a large brown stain inthe straw of the cell directly across from him.It was over, he realized with a strangled sob. Therewas now no way to reunite Lupita with her love. Theboy had cursed him. He had cursed Follop with hisfinal moments and there was no way to undo whathad been done.There was nothing left to save him from thevengeance of the white fist.17 © Copyright Wyrd Miniatures, LLC
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