Blood.” The shadows call to him, “Blood and death.”
He runs, as he always does; with the shadows all around him, clawing at him, trying to pull him back into the darkness that threatens to devour his soul.
He reaches for his sword, but his hip is bare, as it always is when the shadows come. His bright blue eyes shine with fear, and sweat drips from his long black hair. He splashes into the shallows of a slow moving river.
“Blood!” The shadows cry, and so it is. Soon he is up to his chest, pushing through, knowing the other side cannot be for. Hours pass, perhaps days, and still the river does not end, it only grows deeper.
He’s swimming now, his long muscular arms and legs pushing him through the warm liquid.
So tired, he thinks to himself, so very tired. Perhaps I’ll rest a bit. He slows, and begins to sink. The blood begins to fill his mouth, his nose, and his lungs. He tries to cough, but it does no good.
“Blood!” The shadows scream once more.
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A scream echoes through the inn, and the sound of feet running down the stairs shortly follows. Daerik wrenches the dagger from the wall not three inches from where, only moments before, the innkeeper’s poor daughter had stood.
Not again, he thinks to himself, pretty soon I won’t be allowed in an inn west of Elsidor. He slowly closes the door and moves across the cold stone floor to the only window in the room.
The day is new, and the sun has just begun to rise. Children are playing in the streets, oblivious of the evil that plagues the world. He smiles a lonely smile at a half forgotten memory.
Daerik dresses quickly and makes his way down to the kitchen to attempt an apology, but the young girl is nowhere to be seen.
“I sent her to the market, she will be fine. No harm done.” The fat bellied innkeeper says with a smile, as he bites into the golden coin Daerik gave him for the trouble.
“FATHER!” The door to the inn slams against the wall, and the innkeeper’s young daughter comes running in. “Father, they’re here.”
“I’m sorry.” The innkeeper lowers his head, as five town guards enter the room. They draw their weapons and slowly begin to surround Daerik.
“Only five?” Daerik says with a dark smile. The next few moments are a blur of blood and death. Daerik’s blade leaves a trail of gore across the inn’s brightly painted walls.
He steps over the corpses of those who had thought themselves his equal, and into the light of the town square. The guards in the inn were a mere fraction of those that wait without, and as Daerik expected, He is leading them.
“So The Huntsman has returned.” The man on the horse says with a cold smile. “Have you come to beg forgiveness Daerik?”
“I have already begged God for forgiveness, no need to beg the Devil.” Daerik’s hand tightens around the hilt of his shining long sword. “The Preacher has asked me to send you back to Hell, and I intend to oblige.”
“The Preacher?” The man on the horse begins to laugh. “That one is more of a coward than even you, it would seem. Why did he not come himself?”
“Who says he hasn’t?” Daerik pulls a small wooden amulet from beneath his shirt.
“Ah, so The Huntsman has added another soul to his collection.” The man’s cold black eyes are filled with rage. “Do you think by joining the soul of that one to yours you will be forgiven for your sins, Soul Eater?”
“The Preacher gave it to me, for the battle to come he said.” Daerik’s eyes watch the crossbowmen as their fingers tighten on their triggers. Most would wait for the command, but there is always one trigger-happy guard wanting to make a name for himself.
Which one is it going to be? Daerik watches each one carefully. THERE! The bolt leaves the bow as Daerik’s eyes meet the guard’s. The poor boy doesn’t have a chance; the bolt goes wide as Daerik charges.
Daerik’s blade connects with the guard’s stomach in an upward slash that cleaves his nose in two. The guard falls to the ground in a red mist. The next two fall before any know what has happened, but the third has time to draw his sword. Daerik’s blade takes off his arm, then his head.
In the end the square is filled with the bodies of city guards, and Daerik pulls a single bolt from his shoulder.
“Which way did he go?” Daerik is screaming at the innkeeper, huddled in the doorway. “I know you saw him ride off, so tell me, NOW!”
“N…n…north, m..m..my lord.” The fat bellied innkeeper says as the smell of urine reaches Daerik’s nose. “He rode north, toward Visendy.”
“Do you know who it was that paid you to help ambush me?” Daerik says with ice in his voice. The innkeeper shakes his head. “That was Ilsid, leader of The Followers of Yr. I assume you know who they are?”
“Y..yes, m’lord.” The innkeeper starts to cry. “I had no idea, he offered me good gold.”
“Of course he did.” Daerik says as he jumps into the saddle. “Don’t be to upset that I took it, he would have done the same, after killing you.”
Daerik feels light headed as he rides through the town gates. The voices of the dead scream in his mind. To many, Daerik thinks to himself, to many dead. I should have tried to spare some.
“It is not your fault.” A voice says beside him. He looks over to find The Preacher riding a snow-white mare. “Ilsid corrupted their minds with darkness. Only The Huntsman could free their souls.”
“Free their souls?” Daerik did not understand. “How did I free them, they’re trapped within me, as are all those I’ve killed.”
The voices of the dead sometimes grow so loud they drown out all else. This is one of those times, either that or The Preacher was an assassin in another life. Nobody rides up on The Huntsman without notice.
“That is true,” The Preacher says with a sad smile. “But they are no longer corrupted by darkness.”
That is little consolation to Daerik, but he nods his head and slips into silence, as is often the case when he rides. Dusk finds them long before they reach the towering city of Visendy, so they dismount and set up camp. Daerik falls into a troubled sleep.
************************
“Behold!” Ilsid cries. “The Huntsman, seeker of souls.” Daerik is kneeling before him, cold steel resting on his shoulders. They stand before an army; The Followers of Yr. Ilsid’s long black cloak blows in the wind.
“Your prey shall be the souls of men,” Ilsid is saying. “With each you take your strength shall grow. You shall bring death, Huntsman, Blood and Death. Let the world tremble before us. The night falls and The Followers of Yr shall bring darkness to the world of men.”
Daerik feels a soft warm drop against his upturned face, and opens his eyes to stare at a crimson sky.
“Blood!” The shadows cry. “Blood and Death!”
************************
“How could this happen.” Daerik asks, ash running through his fingers. “How could an army arrive unnoticed at the very gates of the mightiest city in the kingdom?”
They had arrived at Visendy around midday, and found the mighty city destroyed. The fires had burned themselves out, and the ashes were cold. Whatever battle had taken place had ended long before they arrived.
“I think the bigger question is; why are there no signs of a battle?” The Preacher asks as he scans the area. “Other than the ashes there is nothing. No weapons, nor armor; no tracks of man nor horse; no bodies; no signs of any kind… Very strange.”
“Preacher!” Daerik is on his feet and running before The Preacher even notices what he’s seen. A man slowly stumbles his way between the burned skeletons of empty homes. He looks up at them, his eyes empty, and falls.
Daerik slowly lifts him from the dust covered ground, and wipes the blood from his face.
“I’ve seen this man before.” Daerik says as the dirt and blood wash away. “He is the king’s seneschal. Ilsid would not have left him alive by accident.”
“No…” The Preacher said, putting his water skin to the man’s mouth. “I’m certain Ilsid left him with a message. All of this is meant to be a message. ‘Look at me, Huntsman,’ he says, ‘I am stronger than you.’ This is meant to be an example of his power.”
“Uhn…” The seneschal moans and coughs. “Daerik, are you Daerik?”
“I am,” Daerik steps into the dying mans vision. “How did this happen?”
“He…he…he came to us in peace.” He says almost in a whisper. “We knew not who he was, only that he was powerful. He said he was a nobleman from the east, and the king greeted him as a prince. It was soon after that the curse came.”
“Curse?” Daerik looked at The Preacher, who seemed as lost as he.
“Yes…” The man coughed, blood running from his mouth. “Darkness seemed to fill the hearts of everyone in the city. Overnight the crime seemed to double, brother murdered brother, father murdered son… but that was not the worst of it.”
The man stopped for a long time, and Daerik feared he had died, his story still untold.
“Go on.” The Preacher said, “What was the worst of it?”
The man moved his head, as though he only now saw The Preacher.
“The bodies…” He whispers, “The bodies did not stay dead. They rose… and…and killed the one that had killed them. Then both turned to ash.”
“That explains the lack of bodies,” The Preacher says, once again scanning the sand.
“Yes,” Daerik stares into the eyes of the dying seneschal. “But brings up far more questions than it answers. When did Ilsid’s power become so strong? He could always find the darkness within someone’s heart and magnify it, but nothing like this.”
“No.” The Preacher says sadly. “I am afraid we are dealing with something, or someone, far more powerful than Ilsid. Come, let us bury the seneschal and follow Ilsid’s trail before he is lost again.”
Daerik looks down and realizes the poor man had passed sometime during their conversation, but as he rises to assist The Preacher in digging a grave the body slowly melts into the sand.
They stand in astonishment, gazing at the ash as it is carried away on the wind, then turn, and mount their horses.
Dusk finds them exhausted, confused, and no closer to their goal, so they dismount and The Preacher begins building a fire.
---------------------
“When this is finished.” The Preacher says. “When Ilsid has fallen; I shall release you of your burden. But for now we need the strength the vanquished souls give you.”
“Release me now.” Daerik begs, his mind racked by pain as the cries of the dead fill his ears.
“I cannot.” The Preacher replies sadly. “Neither of us is strong enough to bring Ilsid down without them.”
Daerik tries to reply, but pain once again slices through his mind, he faints.
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The Preacher laughs, “And where, pray tell, does the mighty Huntsman see himself when all this is behind us?”
“Somewhere quiet.” He says, his eyes growing distant. “Like a cottage in the hills, where I can sit and fish in a nearby stream and just enjoy the silence.”
“Silence….” The Preacher smiles, “Yes I suppose for someone who constantly hears the voices of the dead, silence would be a wondrous thing.”
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“Fool!” The Preacher laughs. “You have been a mere pawn since the first. Your faith was growing weak, but we needed you to awaken Lord Yr.”
“Why me?” Blood runs down his face as he struggles to stand. “You could have killed me and found another vessel for your collection.”
“Found another vessel?” The Preacher’s laugh sends chills down Daerik’s spine. “You cannot even begin to fathom the amount of power it took to make you what you are. To create another Huntsman would have been impossible. Far easier to simply fan the flames of righteousness and use them to our ends, and it worked... In truth you were a far better murderer when you believed it was for a righteous cause.”
“So why tell me now?” Daerik says his eyes scanning the ground for his sword. “Why not just kill me and be done with it?”
“Ah, yes.” Cold hate wells in The Preacher’s eyes. “In truth, I told you for the simple pleasure of seeing the realization in your eyes. To watch as the last light of hope burns itself out. Then when the light goes out; you, like the world you thought to protect, shall fall into shadow and chaos.”
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“Still just a pawn.” The Preacher smiles as his eyes grow dim. He slides off Daerik’s blade and blood begins to pool around his body.
“BLOOD!” The shadows scream. Daerik’s mind is ripped asunder as the voices of the dead scream in his ears. His vision begins to cloud with a soft red mist and reality turns to chaos.
The walls of the castle begin to crumble to dust and every shadow seems to move. They walk toward him, slowly taking the shapes of men, and women, and children.
“Blood,” they call to him. “Blood and death. Shadow and Chaos!” They begin to melt together, forming a single entity.
“Yr!” Daerik cries as the shadow fills the room. He looks at his hands as they begin to fade away. So this is how it ends, he thinks to himself, all I have done has been for naught.
His last thoughts are of a small cottage in the hills; then all is swallowed by the darkness that has grown within him.