Judgement
Posted: 2003-05-26 10:35pm
Sorry for yet another fic with 'Judgement' in the title but here is the fourth and final story in my Quest for Glory fanfic series.
Judgement
Mark Shantz
Not so long ago, the lands of central Glorianna were stricken with a terrible plague of witches. The Daughters of Baba Yaga they were called and they ravaged the land and its people with sickness, famine and creatures of unspeakable evil. At the height of these dark times a Paladin, Morden Brighthelm, immerged to challenge the power of the Daughters. He became known in all lands as the Witch Hunter. Only those with evil in their heart had cause to fear him, but fear him they did.
***
Goblin blood covered the clearing floor in crimson pools, dying a rainbow’s array of wildflowers into a monochrome hue. Those flowers that hadn’t been trampled into mud that is. The nearby trees showed the tell tail signs of carnage as well. Red life’s fluid streaked them like the brushstrokes of an angry child, the darkened bark making stark contrast with the pale nicks that also riddled the trunks.
Small, grey-green bodies arranged themselves in piles and pieces. They had fought well, that much should be noted, but that didn’t exactly make it any better for the ones that remained. The surviving warriors of the tribe growled with inarticulate rage as they fingered their weapons and slowly advanced.
“Ok, chief,” the object of their concentrated ire spoke between gasps for much needed breath. “I think you should take your people and move on before anyone else has to die. You’ve been in this land too long. Follow the herds like you always have and go.”
The statements might have had more effect if the speaker hadn’t been propping himself up with his twin shortswords. Swords that glowed with their own ethereal fire.
He was no more than twenty three winter, with pale skin and blonde hair cut in a short military fashion. The slim build under his armour plates was athletic but not obscenely muscled and every movement seemed to quiver with exhaustion. Grey eyes flashed as a battered and useless helmet was tossed to the ground.
“Not this time, human.” The goblin chieftain’s thick accent did not stop the young man from understanding. “We will no longer be driven at sword point from every land we enter. We are staying. There will be plenty of food for us once we are finished with your kind.” The small being spat the words from his place of safety in the tree line.
The paladin rose shakily to his feet and centred himself in preparation for the next battle. “I’ve given you every chance to leave peacefully and you have rejected them,” he spoke softly. “If you feel you should be the one to rule this land than I must be sure you’ve learned the lessons of mercy and temperance. You’ve already met them today,” the man raised the sword in his right hand, “Mercy,” he then raised the matching blade in his left hand, “and Temperance.”
Chaos reigned throughout the forest clearing as the last of the goblin warriors charged in as one. The paladin set his booted feet and crossed his weapons, thankful that he faced his opponents during the day, when their eyesight was too weak for arrows. He waited for the last possible second before dropping to one knee and swiping out to either side with his swords. Three monsters died instantly, sliced cleanly in two by the flaming blades.
To the right, another enemy stabbed out with a rusty and pitted spear. The paladin rolled under the attack, straight at the goblin, and came to his feet too close for the spear wielding foe to defend. As he rose, one blade cut the creature from crotch to skull cap. The other sword was busy parrying the strike issued from one of the falling corpses companions.
The goblin attacker struck again and again with an immense speed and viciousness. The paladin countered, matching the monster blow for blow. The exchange went on for what seemed like an eternity, but could only have been a few seconds, until the creature paused for a split second to look beyond its victim. The young man knew all too well what this meant and took the opportunity to stab both forward and back, killing his known enemy as well as the one that had been behind.
There was little time to pull the blades free before yet another aggressor tackled the man from behind. A jagged knife scaped against his breast plate as blood flavoured dirt spilled into his mouth. The weapon narrowly missed again. With a sharp elbow to the head, the monster was persuaded to momentarily relent, but its fists were soon back in action.
The paladin rolled hard to the right, hammering the goblin on his back into the ground. It was enough to make the creature finally let go in a daze. With a swift double chop its life was over and the defender was scrambling to his feet once more.
Now the monsters had circled their victim, each one growling and jabbing with their worn instruments of death. “You have great courage and power,” the goblin leader gloated. “I will be sure to save your entire heart for myself.”
The paladin answered only with action. Lifting his weapons over his head, he closed his eyes and clashed the twin swords together. At the moment of their touch, the fire engulfing the blades joined and flared like a second sun. Screams of pain echoed around the man as the goblins’ sensitive eyes were blinded by the flash. An instant later the razor edges of the weapons were biting flesh and bone.
The battle was over. There was no one left to fight. In seconds the ghostly flames had consumed the blood coating the paladin’s swords. He sheathed them as he scanned the trees.
“You have no more warriors,” he spoke sternly. “Take your children and leave before you have sacrificed everyone who can provide for them.”
There was no response. The young soldier of honour took that to mean the goblins had taken his advice this time. That was good. The people of this area had been troubled by this tribe for far too long. Now they were one step closer to a peaceful life. He looked down at his battered armour and wondered at the number of cuts and scapes that littered his body and limbs. He was one step closer to death. He needed to rest and to heal. But not here. Wolves or worse would soon pick up the scent of this display and come to feast.
Exhaustedly searching the bodies for anything of value, the man gathered his treasure and hobbled off in the direction of town as best he could. Looting bodies was an ugly business, and certainly not the portrait that a noble paladin wanted to issue, but even a noble paladin needed to buy supplies.
***
The celebration that the town of Devoron threw raged on for three days about as hard as the fighting had. People gathered from all around the countryside to catch a glimpse of the hero, Eric Von Draco, and thank him for ‘driving the goblin band from out the land.’ Not to mention to have their share of the ale that flowed freely.
And freely it did flow. At an almost constant rate, at that. Every tap in the rejuvenated hamlet spilled its contents in a river of liquid happiness. The food, as well, was freely produced. Table after table had been set up in the heart of the town for all to partake of. Amongst it all, music, songs, and dancing. Let it never be said that Devoron didn’t know how to throw a party.
Eric had taken the first of these days to do little more than meditate, summoning his inner strength to heal his considerable wounds. That spear butt must really have fractured his thigh bone. Not to mention the gash to the head he had received when his helmet had been ruined. The way the scalp bleeds it was a wonder he had made it back. Never under estimate the power of a thick skull.
On this third day, however, the young hero was feeling much better and could do little more than let himself be swept away in the merriment. Between eating and drinking more than he knew he really should, this meant shaking a lot of hands and kissing a lot of little girl on the cheek. Every once in a while you got a peck from the older sisters, which was good, but you also got a peck and a pinch from the grandmothers. Which was not so good.
“I didn’t think Paladins were supposed to drink, Sir Draco,” one particular blonde haired beauty asked coyly from behind her pint. Her name was Amy or Emily. Something like that.
“That’s a misconception, actually,” Eric replied with a slightly drunken smile. “The only thing you really have to do to be a Paladin is follow your conscience. Its not too hard to be honourable then. We can drink as much as we want. It’s just that most of us don’t because most of us are so repressed from trying so hard to be upright and honourable that when you get a little sauce into them, they loss their self control.” The young man raised his glass to the girl and downed its contents in one prolonged gulp.
“And you don’t have to call me Sir,” he added. “That’s only for people who have been knighted in the service of royalty. I don’t serve anyone. Not anymore anyway.”
“Really,” Whatever-her-name-was’ friend cut in. “Who did you serve? Were you a knight at one time?”
“I was a foot soldier for the Baron Von Spielberg,” was the reply. “I was never knighted though. I’m not much good on a horse. I prefer finesse to brute strength anyway.”
“Spielberg?” This came from an older man in the evershifting sea of faces. “Heard they were having some trouble of their own not too far back.”
“Yes, I know,” memories seemed to play themselves out behind the hero’s eyes. “I was one of the first contingent to confront the Ogress about the curse. That was before I was a paladin. We never got past the gate. I was turned to stone. Apparently I was one of the lucky ones. You can’t eat stone and petrification spells can be reversed.”
Eric shook his head in dismay before continuing. “Anyway, once the local magic-user had revived me and I had recovered, I was sent on a mission to solicit aid from the allied baronies. All of the official messengers had been killed by the brigands and I was deemed one of the few men able to sneak and fight my way past them and their cunning leader. By the time I was able to get the help we needed, and you wouldn’t believe what you have to do to get aid from people who are supposed to be your allies, I was a paladin and we were waiting for the snow in the mountains to melt enough for us to pass. By the time we actually reached Spielberg valley, the curse was lifted and the Baron’s children were back safe and sound. After all that, I decide that if this was how life was going be, I’d rather live it on my own terms, for my own causes. I took my leave of the Baron and have been helping people like you ever since.”
“Good for you boy!” An old crone raised her glass at the revelation. “The barons certainly didn’t do anything to get rid of those smelly little bastards that nearly put you in the grave!”
“Now, now,” Eric tried to be political. “The barons have a lot on their plates. There are many more dangerous creatures roaming these dark times than a stubborn tribe of goblins. Some you wouldn’t even recognize if you saw them.”
Luckily the music picked up the pace at that point and the flow of the festivities turned away from conversation. The supple hand of an eager red-head grabbed onto the young hero’s arm and pulled him into a bounding, swirling jig. She eventually offered her name as Fey. This one he had no trouble remembering.
She was a head shorter then him, with the curves of a strong peasant woman and a slightly rounded face that seemed to glow with a happy light all of its own. She was nothing like the vacuous bunch that emaciated themselves in some of the courts he had visited. She was real, she was intelligent, she didn’t seem to care that he was a hero, or a paladin, and for a dance that was all too brief, she made him forget what he had been forced to do to be called Hero by the people of this little town. Then again, maybe it was just too much ale?
Fey and Eric talked for hours as the celebration flashed around them. Surprisingly, no one else joined them or came over to offer thanks to the saviour. It was as if a bubble had been placed around them. He learned that she lived with her mother in a cottage near the outskirts of the forest. They had lost her father to the goblins the previous year. Her brothers, the year before that.
“That’s terrible,” the paladin tried to console. “I didn’t realize the problem had been going on that long.”
“We’ve always had goblins in this area,” Fey replied. “They’ve been coming back year after year for as long as I can remember. This year they decided to stay.”
“But how did you and your mother survive living that close to the forest?” From what Eric had heard when he first arrived, the little devils hadn’t left any building intact within a mile of the woods.
“I don’t know?” She shook her head and looked into his eyes. “We waited everyday for it but they never came. The house is small and tucked away in a bit of a dell? I just can’t say for sure why they never attacked. My Ma always said they just...”
The statement was broken off by the sudden appearance of a smoke grey mare twirling and rearing in the midst of the revelry. No one had noticed the horse and its rider thundering into them until they were pushing through the crowd. Down the bonfire-lit street, the gates of Devoron were seen being slammed shut once more by two townsmen.
The horse was obviously farmers stock. So was the boy that rode her, for that matter. By the look of it they had been going hard all day, if not more. Dropping from his mount, the boy looked around at the display before him and wiped his forehead with a patched and dirty sleeve.
“Everyone!” he shouted for attention until the music had stopped. “Everyone hear me!”
“We hear you, son,” someone shouted drunkenly. “Your welcome to join our celebration. That man there rid us of an entire horde of goblins single handedly!”
Shock and fear streaked the boys eyes as he searched the gathering. Finally finding the face that was pointed to, the shock turned to relief. Thank God HE hadn’t arrived yet.
“I don’t have time for parties,” he answered to everyone. “None of you do. I bring word from Hanslow and Gretchel,” the boy looked from person to person, making sure everyone was listening. “The Witch Hunter is coming.”
In the split second it took to say those words, the life that had fed this occasion for three days bled away like so much ink on wet paper. Sobriety hit like the slap of a jilted lover. Husbands looked to their wives, families looked to their grandmothers. No one spoke. The only thing that seemed to even be breathing was the lone grey mare. It snorted and harrumphed in nervous agitation.
“All right then, Lad,” an old greybeard finally broke the silence. “You have our thanks and you will have food and a soft bed. Johan, Marco, you have the swiftest mounts. Ride on and spread the word to as far as you can. Jennica, girl, make sure no one here has missed the news.”
Three people sprinted from the crowd without a word. So late in the night, no one should be leaving the safety of the village walls, much less three so young. Eric stood. He had heard of the Witch Hunter, a Paladin named Morden Brighthelm. The songs sung of his deeds against the Daughters of Baba Yaga were legendary.
“What’s all this about?” he asked of Fey as the townspeople started breaking up. “Why is everyone so worried?”
“I have to go, Eric,” she turned to him hastily. “I have to go and see to my mother.”
***
The next day came bright and early for Eric. It was always like this when he drank too much. Up with the roosters and as hungry as a bear. Hopefully the innkeeper would be awake as well so he wouldn’t have to go rooting through the kitchen himself. People always hated when he did that. It wasn’t like he didn’t pay or everything though.
Reaching the bottom of the claustrophobic stairway, the young hero passed through a now empty common room and out into the street beyond. The air was clear and cool this time of day, with only the sound of industrious merchants readying their wares to compete with the morning birds.
Eric stood there watching the townsfolk and breathing in the fresh air for quite some time before heading back inside for a bite to eat. He was lucky. The good innkeeper was up and already making a hearty meal. He guessed the man must have the same habits as himself. That was a good thing in an innkeeper.
The Paladin took his meal leisurely and was back out on the street as the people of Devoron went about their barking and trading. If the news of the night before had been able to stop a celebration, it did nothing to stop day to day life. They even did a good job of hiding their feelings as the very object of their collective consternation rode nobly into the town’s centre square.
He was a large and well muscled man with raven black hair and an ever appraising eye. His polished armour, and that of his mighty, brown charger, shone brightly in the mourning sun. He was Morden Brighthelm; Paladin, hero of countless battles, and bane of witches. He had made it his personal mission to rid the world of wielders of black magic and he was widely considered very successful. In his opinion, people were being premature.
Eyes flashed quickly towards the mounted warrior and just as quickly darted away. Only one person met the man’s hard gaze. A gaze that threatened to rip right into your soul and lay the contents out for all to see. That person had nothing to hide and cared nothing about what others thought of the weight of his soul.
“This town reeks of alcohol,” the Witch Hunter observed as he dropped to the ground.
“That’s what happens when the whole place drinks for three days straight,” Eric commented up to the other, who was a good head taller than him. “I’m Eric Von Draco. If you’re looking for the goblins, they’ve already been persuaded to leave.”
Brighthelm’s pristine visage studied the younger man’s unshaven face for a moment before his reply. “I suppose than, you are the one responsible for the scene I encountered in the western woods. Good. I have heard of your deeds, Son of the Dragon. I am impressed, but our work has just begun. You have only cured the symptom, my boy. Now we must seek out the cause, the root of the evil.”
As the two spoke, a pair of dogmen in light leather armour rode up behind on horses laden with weapons and supplies. They dismounted behind the older warrior and grabbed the reigns of his charger, feeding it an apple from one of the bags. The dogmen were Brighthelm’s faithful servants. They had been with him during too many of his adventures to count.
“I must still find the one who was provoking the monsters,” Morden continued. “The one who was driving them to come here and attack the good...” He paused to look around the village square. “...people of this village.”
“With all due respect,” Eric was somewhat puzzled by the statements. “No one was driving the tribe to do anything. They’ve been coming this way with the deer herds for years. They’ve gotten tired of nomadic life. They were only forced into it by the spread of human society.”
The Witch Hunter laughed. It was a full and hearty sound yet brought with it no mirth or comfort, only cautious looks from passers-by. “You actually believe that, don’t you. Who told you that?”
“The tribes chief, actually.” Von Draco answered casually. “He was pretty sure of himself.”
“Pawns always are, my boy. And there is always a cause. Always.” The knight in shining armour lifted his gloved hands and addressed all within earshot. “People of Devoron! You have been rid of the goblin menace by the good Sir Eric Von Draco. Now I am here to uncover the culprit responsible for summoning them upon you. You have nothing to fear! You will soon be safe from evil.
“Yeah, well, good luck with that,” the young hero commented sceptically. “If you actually find anything and you need any help let me know.”
“I deed, good Sir,” he turned to his dogmen. “Now, where is that inn, again? I need to clean myself of the road.”
Midday found Eric adorned once more in his battered armour and twin blades. He was heading out into the countryside and was not one for taking chances. Not that this was a mission of combat. Today he was making a social call.
It took about an hour to cross the farm country and reach the little wooded dip in the land at the edge of the forest. And that was all the dell was, a little dip filled with trees. There was one other feature that was attracting him though. It was a tiny, quite unremarkable stone cottage. Hopefully its inhabitants would be within earshot.
The young adventurer made his way down the quaint, stone-marked path that led to the dwelling. His approach passed gardens of beautiful local flowers and life-giving vegetables alike.
As he reached the home he noted the fresh thatching on the roof.
“Hello,” Eric’s call echoed slightly against the slight cliff-face behind the cottage. “Anybody around?”
“Hello?” The cautious reply came from the other side of the structure. “Hello? Who’s come?” The disembodied voice moved around the house until a young red-head appeared from the corner.
“It... It’s me,” the answer came nervously. “I’ve come to see how you’re doing. You and your mother, that is.”
“Well thank you.” Fey walked casually toward him wiping her hands on her apron. “We’re both fine. And you? Not too hung over I hope.”
“Oh? No, no. I don’t get hang overs.”
“Really?!” She didn’t sound convinced. “Is that another one of those perks of being so honourable and good?”
“No,” Eric smiled at the teasing. “They just don’t usually hit me. How about you?”
“Well,” the young woman grabbed his plated arm and touched her forehead in mock pain. “You may have the belly of a goon but I don’t. I paid for my fun this morning. Ma just laughed at me.” She laughed at her own misfortune. The sound reminded Eric of children at play.
“Where is she,” he asked between chuckles. “I wanted to ask her how you’ve been able to hold off the goblins this year.”
“And who do we have here?” The new voice made both Eric and Fey turn their heads. It was a woman of fifty winters dressed in the same greys and browns as the latter. She carried a basket of what turned out to be mushrooms and planted a staff firmly into the ground with each step.
“This is Eric, Ma,” the younger woman introduced. “He’s the one that’s saved the town.”
“Well this is a special occasion then, isn’t it!” Fey’s mother’s broad smile immediately put Eric at ease. “What brings you this way? Out smiting evil?”
The young man laughed at the jab. He was happy to find people that didn’t take him so seriously. “No. I just came by to say hello.” He looked into Fey’s green eyes. “And to ask a question actually.”
“What’s that then?” The two women had begun steering Eric into the cottage as they spoke.
“I’m curious as to the way everyone acted last night at the mention of Brighthelm.” He didn’t know what to expect for an answer so he asked the question with caution. “Admittedly, I only really know about him from the stories. I met the man this morning, though, and he seemed alright. A little intense but alright.”
“I’ll tell you something, Child,” the mother intoned as she sat at the kitchen table and began washing the mushrooms in a large bowl. “Morden Brighthelm eradicated the sorceresses known as the Daughters of Baba Yaga ten years ago. Yet even still, where ever he goes, The Witch Hunter has never failed to find a witch. And now he’s here. Wouldn’t you be worried if you didn’t have those fancy swords strapped to your sides?”
***
A grey snout hovered millimeters above the ground, scanning intently. The dogman attached to it closed his eyes has he crouched, concentrating fully on the invisible particles entering his twitching nostrils.
“I have something!” The call reached the Canine from across the mouth of a great cave. He looked up at his companion and than over to the armoured figure searching deeper in the cavern.
It was a small patch of yellow woolen threads held by a thin piece of fabric. Through the dirt and sweat and fear, the scent of sugar candy testified the objects identity.
“Part of a child’s toy,” the dogman who had found it observed. “A doll’s hair.”
“A child from the town.” The Witch Hunter took the offered evidence and felt it slowly between his fingers.
***
Evening had come surprisingly quick for this time of summer. Time flies when you’re having fun, the giddy paladin thought as he decided to cut some of that precious commodity from his trip and headed for the woods. He took a small sprig of green from his pocket and smiled at the power of such a mundane little piece of life.
Catnip! Who would have thought that Catnip would be the reason the two ladies he had just left were never attacked by the goblins. Catnip! They can’t stand the smell of it. And Fey’s mother (Roberta Winfield was her name) had planted it all over the area around their cottage. According to the woman, it gave them a nasty rash if they even touched it as well.
Though the sun had not completely set, the shadows were growing long as Eric marched and mused over the herb in his hand. This little trick could help a lot of people. They wouldn’t listen to an peasant widow but maybe they would a paladin. He wished he had known about it two weeks ago. Next time he wouldn’t just rush off to meet the enemy before actually listening to people.
He was travelling through a rather dark part of the forest at this point. Made even darker by the waning light. As the clarity of vision receded so too did the young man’s sense of well being. Something was not right. This was not good. Not good, indeed.
A flash of instinct struck Von Draco and his weapons were in his hands as if by their own accord. He crouched, scanned the dimly lite foliage and waited for that which he knew was inevitable. He didn’t have to wait long.
A low growl and the snap of a twig to the right heralded the onslaught. In a instant the sound was transformed into an ear-bleeding scream of attack. Before the warrior charged the midnight black, half man, half cat form of a cheetaur.
It’s panther’s head fully seven feet above the ground, the monster had the body and four powerful legs of the jungle cat supporting a fur-covered human torso and arms. Scythe-like claws slashed the air as it raged against its foe. Hate-filled eyes reflected the pale blue of the paladin’s swords. There was no running from something like this. You wouldn’t get two steps.
Eric leapt back in an attempt to put some more distance between himself and his opponent. As he did so, he sheathed his blades and summoned his inner strength.
“Be calm, Beast!” he shouted above the roars as he thrust out his right palm.
The cheetaur ceased it’s angry clamour and very calmly sent Eric flying into a tree with one smack from it’s muscular arm. This was definitely not good.
Shaking the slight daze from his mind, the creature’s victim jumped to immediate action. Rolling past with a pain-filled cry (yup, that shoulder was dislocated) the paladin came up with Mercy in his one remaining useful hand. The blade flared excitedly, sending shadows racing across every surface.
The monster rumbled deep within its throat and flicked its tail as it slowly circled its prey. It watched intently for a while, waiting for the human to make its move, then hunkered down into an alert crouch. The glowing windows into its soul never left their target.
One arm dangling limply at his side, Eric ever so slowly inched his way towards an opening in the underbrush. He thought briefly about the healing potions he had in his pouch but knew better. They couldn’t pop his arm back into joint, only speed the recovery afterward.
“Come on kitty,” he whispered shakily as he waved his glowing weapon slowly. “Keep looking here kitty, kitty.”
The cheetaur followed the sword’s movement like a miser follows a coin. Its saber sharp teeth took their time being revealed and its haunches twitched as it readied itself to pounce. For whatever reason, the beast finally found its time and in a blinding streak of black fur, was on the attack again.
As it reached its target, the monster was greeted by the blinding flash of honourable Mercy. One moment the forest was dim with filtered moonlight, the next, all shadows were banished by pure white radiance. The cat creature screamed in pain and squinted its eyes against the blinding flash but did not stop its assault. Being blind only made the cheetaur rear on its hind-most legs and slash wildly with four sets of paws. Eric took the opportunity to sidestep the beast and stab deeply into its flank.
Now the cheetaur was mad again. It cried in rage and clawed out in the direction it had been wounded. It was berserk now, nashing its fangs and swatting the air in an attempt catch its prey with a lucky swing. Eric stabbed again from the other direction. Damn that flash thing was a handy trick.
Pounding the air with a powerful backhand, the fiend squeezed its eyes and shook its head in an attempt to banish the colourful splotches. The flying fist missed Eric’s head by a hairs width. Its right front paw, however, did not miss slamming down on his foot in a random stamp.
The trapped paladin tried hacking down into the offending limb and winced as the razor claws flexed through his hard leather boot and into his foot. The creature’s hide proved too thick for the glancing blow. Its resolve was even stronger.
Even if its eyes still couldn’t readjust to the darkness, the monster knew all that it needed to. Two viselike hands grabbed hold of Eric’s dented breast plate and pulled up, even as it dug deeper with its foot. The screech of claws on metal incited a fanged roar that ended in pain as the trapped warrior dragged his blade deeply across his enemies muscular trunk.
The next thing Eric knew, he was eating dirt and feeling the pounding fists of the beast on his armoured back. What did it take to kill this thing?! He wondered the notion as waves of pain issued up his leg from a broken ankle and a still pinned foot.
Soon the pounding was so hard he could feel it reverberating through the ground. Even when the creature stopped to hail victory to the moon, the beats seemed to get louder. And there was something else. It was in the back of his blood-filled ears but it certainly sounded a lot like howling. Not the cheetaur’s mind you. No, this was more like a dog’s.
Now the battered swordsman was in the air again. Funny, he had hardly noticed the monster letting him go. There was a snapping sound too, but for once it wasn’t coming from him. He tried to make out what was going on in the dim glow of his weapon but could only discern creatures larger than the cheetaur storming around through the trees.
The sound of the cat monster’s death throws filled the forest for what must have been miles. The image of two lone women checking the bar on their door came unbidden to Eric’s mind. He forced his eyes to focus once more and searched the gloom for his benefactors. He was rewarded with the sight of two Canines with bloody spears riding towards him on horseback. In the background an armoured figure on a gigantic, snorting charger reeled in a swinging flail. The crumpled body of the cheetaur lay before him, a lance’s broken shaft protruding into the air like the creature’s own grave marker.
As one of the dogmen dismounted and began assessing Eric’s wounds, the other wheeled back to the corpse and lite it aflame. The stamping of the charger’s hooves alerted the young paladin to the presence of The Witch Hunter.
“See, boy,” the man’s voice echoed in his helm. “Bedevilled fiends still flock to the sorceress’ summons.” He dropped easily to the ground and removed his head protection before continuing. “At least you never lost grip of your weapon.”
Eric’s breath deepened as he tried to counteract the pain peeling through his body. “One... Must always... Keep Mercy... Close... To ones heart.” He managed a slight smile.
“Yes,yes,” the other replied with a roll of his eyes. “I’ve heard of what you have dubbed your blades. Very droll. Now come, drink this elixir before we lose you.”
As the icy fluid was poured down his throat, the broken warrior was washed into a blissful haze of senselessness.
***
Eric woke to the clamour of a sizeable crowd gathered in the square under his window. That, and the most terrible pressure his bladder had ever felt. At least he was still in one piece and seemed to have full use of his appendages.
Outside, a stage had been erected in the square and now faced the gathered masses of Devoron. The Witch Hunter towered above all. He held something in his clenched fist too small to see.
“... And in my search of that abandoned hive of wretchedness,” he thundered down from his makeshift pulpit. “I uncovered this! A tiny scrap of clothe from the scalp of a child’s doll.”
The living legend slowly moved his arm from one side to the other, making sure everyone present had a good look. Murmurs erupted and spread like rippling water all over the gathering. It must be Stacie Kinship’s, the whispered voices spoke. The family’s farm to the south had been devastated. No one had been found.
“That’s right,” Brighthelm let his eyes fall on every face. “Poor Stacie Kinship. Who would wish such a thing on such a sweet child. And her whole family for that matter! Who in deed.
“I pondered this question as I rode back through the setting dusk. But my thoughts were interrupted, broken by the sounds of combat! Our own hero, Draco, the very one who had saved you all from the monsters that carried out the evil will on the Kinships and others like them, was locked in desperate battle for his very life. You have seen his wounds! You have seen his body lying broken in the inn right here!” A thick arm thrust up to the window where Eric had been moments ago.
“Luckily I arrived in time to dispatch the cheetaur,” he continued. “And now I had even more evidence! Whoever is behind this whole affair is still amongst you and trying to kill the hero that had thwarted them!”
A hand rose from the back of the crowd. “Now, Morden,” Eric interrupted. “I don’t know about that. There could be any number of reasons for the attack. You can’t...”
“Eric, it’s good to see you healed,” The Witch Hunter held up his hand for silence. “It’s ok, I found something.” He turned to address the whole crowd again, pulling something barely visible from his pocket. “Someone had planted this on him to attract the creature. Do you know what it is?”
The tiny piece of evidence was passed to the first row of the gathering. “It’s a sprig of some herb,” the first answer came.
“It’s Catnip! Catnip to attract the cheetaur!” a woman next shouted.
“Yes!” Brighthelm retrieved the herb and continued. “Now I had to ask myself who in these parts both had cause to hate the Kinships and is known to make use of catnip?”
“Brighthelm! That wasn’t planted on...” Eric’s shouts were ignored by all.
“I have found the witch, good people of Devoron!” Brighthelm shouted down to the masses with a stunning confidence that could not be argued against. Seemingly out of thin air, the Canine servants rushed in with rope and a mancatcher. Mrs. Hardgrave never stood a chance.
In seconds there was a pathetic, sobbing woman standing next to the legendary paladin on the stage. Her hands were tied painfully behind her back and her neck was clamped tightly on the end of a ten foot shaft. The other end of that shaft was under the dogmen’s complete control. Farmer Hardgrave stood in stunned inaction. He would have been powerless to help his wife anyway.
“Is it not true, Mrs. Hardgrave, that you have had a grudge against the poor deceased Wendy Kinship since you were both children!? Yes, I have learned many things since I have been here.”
Mrs. Hardgrave was not given the chance to do any more than shake her head and whimper. “Do not deny it. We all know it to be true. She was terrible to you as a child and you never forgot it. Then, I uncovered that it was well known how little Stacie Kinship loved to play in your prized flower gardens. Usually destroying them in her wake. Everyone had seen you chase her out time and again.
“You couldn’t take it anymore, could you!? First the mother, then the daughter. You could hide your true power no longer! You summoned the goblins and you set them upon your enemies and everyone else in this town.” Again, there were only whimpers in response.
“But you were thwarted again, weren’t you,” The Witch Hunter continued. “Von Draco appeared to save your victims and vanquish the monstrous clan. So you tried to do away with him too. How convenient that you dry and sell herbs like this catnip in the market, Mrs. Hardgrave. They were the perfect way to lure a cat creature like the cheetaur.”
Eric watch the display in utter horror. This was not good. This was definitely not good at all.
“Please, no!” Poor Hardgrave finally found her voice. “It wasn’t me! I don’t know anything about magic or summoning. Please! I just get the catnip from the widow Winfield and her daughter to sell. They live near the woods and weren’t attacked at all...”
Fey! The young paladin needed to put a stop to this.
“So I have uncovered a veritable coven!” Morden Brighthelm stabbed his finger to the sky as if to make it concede the point. “The naming of your accomplices is appreciated but it will not spare you. And do not deny the facts again. There are too many stacked against you.”
Eric rushed up onto the stage. A sword leaped from its scabbard to slash the rope and send a dogman sprawling from the backlash. “Enough Brighthelm! This is madness! This poor woman had nothing to do with any of this!”
“Draco, what are you doing! He must be bewitched!”
“I am not bewitched. Can’t you see? Can’t you feel it? I was at the Winfield’s that day and took the catnip myself! This little plant is the only reason the goblins never attacked their cottage. They hate the smell. I was bringing it back to show the rest of you, so that maybe more could be planted to ward off attacks in the future. No one had anything to do with the cheetaur, much less this poor woman!
“And she is no witch. Surely you can sense the terror this whole situation has brought upon her. I sense no malice, no trickery. There is no danger here what-so-ever.”
“You are a fool, Von Draco. A naive fool. Her magic can befuddle your paladin senses! I have not been able to rely on them for years! Listen to me and perhaps you’ll learn something.”
“I’m learning a great deal already, Brighthelm. Draw your blade.”
“How dare you challenge me!” Brighthelm was livid. “I have authority from every lord and noble in Fredonia and western Surria!”
“I couldn’t care less right now about your so called authority!” Draco’s sword swept the air in dismissal. “The people in these lands have been living under the fear of evil sorcery and the fear of who your finger would point at next, for too long. How many other innocents have you accused? How many other people has your imposed authority falsely sentenced to death? There are stories of you uncovering entire towns of witches! How could you?!” There was a moment of bitter silence. “Morden, draw your blade.”
“There has been no false accusation! I am The Witch Hunter! You don’t know the horrors I have seen! None of you do! They must be stopped! There can be no end to my work!”
Without warning Eric’s flaming shortsword struck out like an angry viper. There was no time for his target to think, only react. Instincts honed by decades of combat served The Witch Hunter well. The weapon that had all this time remained dormant at his side, sprung to life with resounding force to protect its master.
A beautifully elegant longsword met the young paladin’s simple weapon. The gleaming steel of the blade was inlaid with the etched runes of a people long forgotten. Down to the hilt the writing continued until it was met by the shimmering image of a starburst. The gold-banded hand grip connected this star to a smaller cousin that made up the pummel. In no place could be seen the tell-tale flames of a paladin’s sword.
As the cold metal reflected the ghostly blue flames, Eric shook his head in dismay. “How long as it been, Morden? When was it that you sacrificed your honour for this obsession?”
Brighthelm’s eyes locked on the fiery sword opposing him. Rage began to fill them and caused his weapon to swing back in preparation for a skull splitting blow. His young opponent’s free hand shot up, projecting an otherworldly calm. In moments, tremors rocked the older warrior’s sturdy frame and tears flooded down his cheeks. He dropped to his knees sobbing.
“What have I done? In all of Hades, what have I done?”
Judgement
Mark Shantz
Not so long ago, the lands of central Glorianna were stricken with a terrible plague of witches. The Daughters of Baba Yaga they were called and they ravaged the land and its people with sickness, famine and creatures of unspeakable evil. At the height of these dark times a Paladin, Morden Brighthelm, immerged to challenge the power of the Daughters. He became known in all lands as the Witch Hunter. Only those with evil in their heart had cause to fear him, but fear him they did.
***
Goblin blood covered the clearing floor in crimson pools, dying a rainbow’s array of wildflowers into a monochrome hue. Those flowers that hadn’t been trampled into mud that is. The nearby trees showed the tell tail signs of carnage as well. Red life’s fluid streaked them like the brushstrokes of an angry child, the darkened bark making stark contrast with the pale nicks that also riddled the trunks.
Small, grey-green bodies arranged themselves in piles and pieces. They had fought well, that much should be noted, but that didn’t exactly make it any better for the ones that remained. The surviving warriors of the tribe growled with inarticulate rage as they fingered their weapons and slowly advanced.
“Ok, chief,” the object of their concentrated ire spoke between gasps for much needed breath. “I think you should take your people and move on before anyone else has to die. You’ve been in this land too long. Follow the herds like you always have and go.”
The statements might have had more effect if the speaker hadn’t been propping himself up with his twin shortswords. Swords that glowed with their own ethereal fire.
He was no more than twenty three winter, with pale skin and blonde hair cut in a short military fashion. The slim build under his armour plates was athletic but not obscenely muscled and every movement seemed to quiver with exhaustion. Grey eyes flashed as a battered and useless helmet was tossed to the ground.
“Not this time, human.” The goblin chieftain’s thick accent did not stop the young man from understanding. “We will no longer be driven at sword point from every land we enter. We are staying. There will be plenty of food for us once we are finished with your kind.” The small being spat the words from his place of safety in the tree line.
The paladin rose shakily to his feet and centred himself in preparation for the next battle. “I’ve given you every chance to leave peacefully and you have rejected them,” he spoke softly. “If you feel you should be the one to rule this land than I must be sure you’ve learned the lessons of mercy and temperance. You’ve already met them today,” the man raised the sword in his right hand, “Mercy,” he then raised the matching blade in his left hand, “and Temperance.”
Chaos reigned throughout the forest clearing as the last of the goblin warriors charged in as one. The paladin set his booted feet and crossed his weapons, thankful that he faced his opponents during the day, when their eyesight was too weak for arrows. He waited for the last possible second before dropping to one knee and swiping out to either side with his swords. Three monsters died instantly, sliced cleanly in two by the flaming blades.
To the right, another enemy stabbed out with a rusty and pitted spear. The paladin rolled under the attack, straight at the goblin, and came to his feet too close for the spear wielding foe to defend. As he rose, one blade cut the creature from crotch to skull cap. The other sword was busy parrying the strike issued from one of the falling corpses companions.
The goblin attacker struck again and again with an immense speed and viciousness. The paladin countered, matching the monster blow for blow. The exchange went on for what seemed like an eternity, but could only have been a few seconds, until the creature paused for a split second to look beyond its victim. The young man knew all too well what this meant and took the opportunity to stab both forward and back, killing his known enemy as well as the one that had been behind.
There was little time to pull the blades free before yet another aggressor tackled the man from behind. A jagged knife scaped against his breast plate as blood flavoured dirt spilled into his mouth. The weapon narrowly missed again. With a sharp elbow to the head, the monster was persuaded to momentarily relent, but its fists were soon back in action.
The paladin rolled hard to the right, hammering the goblin on his back into the ground. It was enough to make the creature finally let go in a daze. With a swift double chop its life was over and the defender was scrambling to his feet once more.
Now the monsters had circled their victim, each one growling and jabbing with their worn instruments of death. “You have great courage and power,” the goblin leader gloated. “I will be sure to save your entire heart for myself.”
The paladin answered only with action. Lifting his weapons over his head, he closed his eyes and clashed the twin swords together. At the moment of their touch, the fire engulfing the blades joined and flared like a second sun. Screams of pain echoed around the man as the goblins’ sensitive eyes were blinded by the flash. An instant later the razor edges of the weapons were biting flesh and bone.
The battle was over. There was no one left to fight. In seconds the ghostly flames had consumed the blood coating the paladin’s swords. He sheathed them as he scanned the trees.
“You have no more warriors,” he spoke sternly. “Take your children and leave before you have sacrificed everyone who can provide for them.”
There was no response. The young soldier of honour took that to mean the goblins had taken his advice this time. That was good. The people of this area had been troubled by this tribe for far too long. Now they were one step closer to a peaceful life. He looked down at his battered armour and wondered at the number of cuts and scapes that littered his body and limbs. He was one step closer to death. He needed to rest and to heal. But not here. Wolves or worse would soon pick up the scent of this display and come to feast.
Exhaustedly searching the bodies for anything of value, the man gathered his treasure and hobbled off in the direction of town as best he could. Looting bodies was an ugly business, and certainly not the portrait that a noble paladin wanted to issue, but even a noble paladin needed to buy supplies.
***
The celebration that the town of Devoron threw raged on for three days about as hard as the fighting had. People gathered from all around the countryside to catch a glimpse of the hero, Eric Von Draco, and thank him for ‘driving the goblin band from out the land.’ Not to mention to have their share of the ale that flowed freely.
And freely it did flow. At an almost constant rate, at that. Every tap in the rejuvenated hamlet spilled its contents in a river of liquid happiness. The food, as well, was freely produced. Table after table had been set up in the heart of the town for all to partake of. Amongst it all, music, songs, and dancing. Let it never be said that Devoron didn’t know how to throw a party.
Eric had taken the first of these days to do little more than meditate, summoning his inner strength to heal his considerable wounds. That spear butt must really have fractured his thigh bone. Not to mention the gash to the head he had received when his helmet had been ruined. The way the scalp bleeds it was a wonder he had made it back. Never under estimate the power of a thick skull.
On this third day, however, the young hero was feeling much better and could do little more than let himself be swept away in the merriment. Between eating and drinking more than he knew he really should, this meant shaking a lot of hands and kissing a lot of little girl on the cheek. Every once in a while you got a peck from the older sisters, which was good, but you also got a peck and a pinch from the grandmothers. Which was not so good.
“I didn’t think Paladins were supposed to drink, Sir Draco,” one particular blonde haired beauty asked coyly from behind her pint. Her name was Amy or Emily. Something like that.
“That’s a misconception, actually,” Eric replied with a slightly drunken smile. “The only thing you really have to do to be a Paladin is follow your conscience. Its not too hard to be honourable then. We can drink as much as we want. It’s just that most of us don’t because most of us are so repressed from trying so hard to be upright and honourable that when you get a little sauce into them, they loss their self control.” The young man raised his glass to the girl and downed its contents in one prolonged gulp.
“And you don’t have to call me Sir,” he added. “That’s only for people who have been knighted in the service of royalty. I don’t serve anyone. Not anymore anyway.”
“Really,” Whatever-her-name-was’ friend cut in. “Who did you serve? Were you a knight at one time?”
“I was a foot soldier for the Baron Von Spielberg,” was the reply. “I was never knighted though. I’m not much good on a horse. I prefer finesse to brute strength anyway.”
“Spielberg?” This came from an older man in the evershifting sea of faces. “Heard they were having some trouble of their own not too far back.”
“Yes, I know,” memories seemed to play themselves out behind the hero’s eyes. “I was one of the first contingent to confront the Ogress about the curse. That was before I was a paladin. We never got past the gate. I was turned to stone. Apparently I was one of the lucky ones. You can’t eat stone and petrification spells can be reversed.”
Eric shook his head in dismay before continuing. “Anyway, once the local magic-user had revived me and I had recovered, I was sent on a mission to solicit aid from the allied baronies. All of the official messengers had been killed by the brigands and I was deemed one of the few men able to sneak and fight my way past them and their cunning leader. By the time I was able to get the help we needed, and you wouldn’t believe what you have to do to get aid from people who are supposed to be your allies, I was a paladin and we were waiting for the snow in the mountains to melt enough for us to pass. By the time we actually reached Spielberg valley, the curse was lifted and the Baron’s children were back safe and sound. After all that, I decide that if this was how life was going be, I’d rather live it on my own terms, for my own causes. I took my leave of the Baron and have been helping people like you ever since.”
“Good for you boy!” An old crone raised her glass at the revelation. “The barons certainly didn’t do anything to get rid of those smelly little bastards that nearly put you in the grave!”
“Now, now,” Eric tried to be political. “The barons have a lot on their plates. There are many more dangerous creatures roaming these dark times than a stubborn tribe of goblins. Some you wouldn’t even recognize if you saw them.”
Luckily the music picked up the pace at that point and the flow of the festivities turned away from conversation. The supple hand of an eager red-head grabbed onto the young hero’s arm and pulled him into a bounding, swirling jig. She eventually offered her name as Fey. This one he had no trouble remembering.
She was a head shorter then him, with the curves of a strong peasant woman and a slightly rounded face that seemed to glow with a happy light all of its own. She was nothing like the vacuous bunch that emaciated themselves in some of the courts he had visited. She was real, she was intelligent, she didn’t seem to care that he was a hero, or a paladin, and for a dance that was all too brief, she made him forget what he had been forced to do to be called Hero by the people of this little town. Then again, maybe it was just too much ale?
Fey and Eric talked for hours as the celebration flashed around them. Surprisingly, no one else joined them or came over to offer thanks to the saviour. It was as if a bubble had been placed around them. He learned that she lived with her mother in a cottage near the outskirts of the forest. They had lost her father to the goblins the previous year. Her brothers, the year before that.
“That’s terrible,” the paladin tried to console. “I didn’t realize the problem had been going on that long.”
“We’ve always had goblins in this area,” Fey replied. “They’ve been coming back year after year for as long as I can remember. This year they decided to stay.”
“But how did you and your mother survive living that close to the forest?” From what Eric had heard when he first arrived, the little devils hadn’t left any building intact within a mile of the woods.
“I don’t know?” She shook her head and looked into his eyes. “We waited everyday for it but they never came. The house is small and tucked away in a bit of a dell? I just can’t say for sure why they never attacked. My Ma always said they just...”
The statement was broken off by the sudden appearance of a smoke grey mare twirling and rearing in the midst of the revelry. No one had noticed the horse and its rider thundering into them until they were pushing through the crowd. Down the bonfire-lit street, the gates of Devoron were seen being slammed shut once more by two townsmen.
The horse was obviously farmers stock. So was the boy that rode her, for that matter. By the look of it they had been going hard all day, if not more. Dropping from his mount, the boy looked around at the display before him and wiped his forehead with a patched and dirty sleeve.
“Everyone!” he shouted for attention until the music had stopped. “Everyone hear me!”
“We hear you, son,” someone shouted drunkenly. “Your welcome to join our celebration. That man there rid us of an entire horde of goblins single handedly!”
Shock and fear streaked the boys eyes as he searched the gathering. Finally finding the face that was pointed to, the shock turned to relief. Thank God HE hadn’t arrived yet.
“I don’t have time for parties,” he answered to everyone. “None of you do. I bring word from Hanslow and Gretchel,” the boy looked from person to person, making sure everyone was listening. “The Witch Hunter is coming.”
In the split second it took to say those words, the life that had fed this occasion for three days bled away like so much ink on wet paper. Sobriety hit like the slap of a jilted lover. Husbands looked to their wives, families looked to their grandmothers. No one spoke. The only thing that seemed to even be breathing was the lone grey mare. It snorted and harrumphed in nervous agitation.
“All right then, Lad,” an old greybeard finally broke the silence. “You have our thanks and you will have food and a soft bed. Johan, Marco, you have the swiftest mounts. Ride on and spread the word to as far as you can. Jennica, girl, make sure no one here has missed the news.”
Three people sprinted from the crowd without a word. So late in the night, no one should be leaving the safety of the village walls, much less three so young. Eric stood. He had heard of the Witch Hunter, a Paladin named Morden Brighthelm. The songs sung of his deeds against the Daughters of Baba Yaga were legendary.
“What’s all this about?” he asked of Fey as the townspeople started breaking up. “Why is everyone so worried?”
“I have to go, Eric,” she turned to him hastily. “I have to go and see to my mother.”
***
The next day came bright and early for Eric. It was always like this when he drank too much. Up with the roosters and as hungry as a bear. Hopefully the innkeeper would be awake as well so he wouldn’t have to go rooting through the kitchen himself. People always hated when he did that. It wasn’t like he didn’t pay or everything though.
Reaching the bottom of the claustrophobic stairway, the young hero passed through a now empty common room and out into the street beyond. The air was clear and cool this time of day, with only the sound of industrious merchants readying their wares to compete with the morning birds.
Eric stood there watching the townsfolk and breathing in the fresh air for quite some time before heading back inside for a bite to eat. He was lucky. The good innkeeper was up and already making a hearty meal. He guessed the man must have the same habits as himself. That was a good thing in an innkeeper.
The Paladin took his meal leisurely and was back out on the street as the people of Devoron went about their barking and trading. If the news of the night before had been able to stop a celebration, it did nothing to stop day to day life. They even did a good job of hiding their feelings as the very object of their collective consternation rode nobly into the town’s centre square.
He was a large and well muscled man with raven black hair and an ever appraising eye. His polished armour, and that of his mighty, brown charger, shone brightly in the mourning sun. He was Morden Brighthelm; Paladin, hero of countless battles, and bane of witches. He had made it his personal mission to rid the world of wielders of black magic and he was widely considered very successful. In his opinion, people were being premature.
Eyes flashed quickly towards the mounted warrior and just as quickly darted away. Only one person met the man’s hard gaze. A gaze that threatened to rip right into your soul and lay the contents out for all to see. That person had nothing to hide and cared nothing about what others thought of the weight of his soul.
“This town reeks of alcohol,” the Witch Hunter observed as he dropped to the ground.
“That’s what happens when the whole place drinks for three days straight,” Eric commented up to the other, who was a good head taller than him. “I’m Eric Von Draco. If you’re looking for the goblins, they’ve already been persuaded to leave.”
Brighthelm’s pristine visage studied the younger man’s unshaven face for a moment before his reply. “I suppose than, you are the one responsible for the scene I encountered in the western woods. Good. I have heard of your deeds, Son of the Dragon. I am impressed, but our work has just begun. You have only cured the symptom, my boy. Now we must seek out the cause, the root of the evil.”
As the two spoke, a pair of dogmen in light leather armour rode up behind on horses laden with weapons and supplies. They dismounted behind the older warrior and grabbed the reigns of his charger, feeding it an apple from one of the bags. The dogmen were Brighthelm’s faithful servants. They had been with him during too many of his adventures to count.
“I must still find the one who was provoking the monsters,” Morden continued. “The one who was driving them to come here and attack the good...” He paused to look around the village square. “...people of this village.”
“With all due respect,” Eric was somewhat puzzled by the statements. “No one was driving the tribe to do anything. They’ve been coming this way with the deer herds for years. They’ve gotten tired of nomadic life. They were only forced into it by the spread of human society.”
The Witch Hunter laughed. It was a full and hearty sound yet brought with it no mirth or comfort, only cautious looks from passers-by. “You actually believe that, don’t you. Who told you that?”
“The tribes chief, actually.” Von Draco answered casually. “He was pretty sure of himself.”
“Pawns always are, my boy. And there is always a cause. Always.” The knight in shining armour lifted his gloved hands and addressed all within earshot. “People of Devoron! You have been rid of the goblin menace by the good Sir Eric Von Draco. Now I am here to uncover the culprit responsible for summoning them upon you. You have nothing to fear! You will soon be safe from evil.
“Yeah, well, good luck with that,” the young hero commented sceptically. “If you actually find anything and you need any help let me know.”
“I deed, good Sir,” he turned to his dogmen. “Now, where is that inn, again? I need to clean myself of the road.”
Midday found Eric adorned once more in his battered armour and twin blades. He was heading out into the countryside and was not one for taking chances. Not that this was a mission of combat. Today he was making a social call.
It took about an hour to cross the farm country and reach the little wooded dip in the land at the edge of the forest. And that was all the dell was, a little dip filled with trees. There was one other feature that was attracting him though. It was a tiny, quite unremarkable stone cottage. Hopefully its inhabitants would be within earshot.
The young adventurer made his way down the quaint, stone-marked path that led to the dwelling. His approach passed gardens of beautiful local flowers and life-giving vegetables alike.
As he reached the home he noted the fresh thatching on the roof.
“Hello,” Eric’s call echoed slightly against the slight cliff-face behind the cottage. “Anybody around?”
“Hello?” The cautious reply came from the other side of the structure. “Hello? Who’s come?” The disembodied voice moved around the house until a young red-head appeared from the corner.
“It... It’s me,” the answer came nervously. “I’ve come to see how you’re doing. You and your mother, that is.”
“Well thank you.” Fey walked casually toward him wiping her hands on her apron. “We’re both fine. And you? Not too hung over I hope.”
“Oh? No, no. I don’t get hang overs.”
“Really?!” She didn’t sound convinced. “Is that another one of those perks of being so honourable and good?”
“No,” Eric smiled at the teasing. “They just don’t usually hit me. How about you?”
“Well,” the young woman grabbed his plated arm and touched her forehead in mock pain. “You may have the belly of a goon but I don’t. I paid for my fun this morning. Ma just laughed at me.” She laughed at her own misfortune. The sound reminded Eric of children at play.
“Where is she,” he asked between chuckles. “I wanted to ask her how you’ve been able to hold off the goblins this year.”
“And who do we have here?” The new voice made both Eric and Fey turn their heads. It was a woman of fifty winters dressed in the same greys and browns as the latter. She carried a basket of what turned out to be mushrooms and planted a staff firmly into the ground with each step.
“This is Eric, Ma,” the younger woman introduced. “He’s the one that’s saved the town.”
“Well this is a special occasion then, isn’t it!” Fey’s mother’s broad smile immediately put Eric at ease. “What brings you this way? Out smiting evil?”
The young man laughed at the jab. He was happy to find people that didn’t take him so seriously. “No. I just came by to say hello.” He looked into Fey’s green eyes. “And to ask a question actually.”
“What’s that then?” The two women had begun steering Eric into the cottage as they spoke.
“I’m curious as to the way everyone acted last night at the mention of Brighthelm.” He didn’t know what to expect for an answer so he asked the question with caution. “Admittedly, I only really know about him from the stories. I met the man this morning, though, and he seemed alright. A little intense but alright.”
“I’ll tell you something, Child,” the mother intoned as she sat at the kitchen table and began washing the mushrooms in a large bowl. “Morden Brighthelm eradicated the sorceresses known as the Daughters of Baba Yaga ten years ago. Yet even still, where ever he goes, The Witch Hunter has never failed to find a witch. And now he’s here. Wouldn’t you be worried if you didn’t have those fancy swords strapped to your sides?”
***
A grey snout hovered millimeters above the ground, scanning intently. The dogman attached to it closed his eyes has he crouched, concentrating fully on the invisible particles entering his twitching nostrils.
“I have something!” The call reached the Canine from across the mouth of a great cave. He looked up at his companion and than over to the armoured figure searching deeper in the cavern.
It was a small patch of yellow woolen threads held by a thin piece of fabric. Through the dirt and sweat and fear, the scent of sugar candy testified the objects identity.
“Part of a child’s toy,” the dogman who had found it observed. “A doll’s hair.”
“A child from the town.” The Witch Hunter took the offered evidence and felt it slowly between his fingers.
***
Evening had come surprisingly quick for this time of summer. Time flies when you’re having fun, the giddy paladin thought as he decided to cut some of that precious commodity from his trip and headed for the woods. He took a small sprig of green from his pocket and smiled at the power of such a mundane little piece of life.
Catnip! Who would have thought that Catnip would be the reason the two ladies he had just left were never attacked by the goblins. Catnip! They can’t stand the smell of it. And Fey’s mother (Roberta Winfield was her name) had planted it all over the area around their cottage. According to the woman, it gave them a nasty rash if they even touched it as well.
Though the sun had not completely set, the shadows were growing long as Eric marched and mused over the herb in his hand. This little trick could help a lot of people. They wouldn’t listen to an peasant widow but maybe they would a paladin. He wished he had known about it two weeks ago. Next time he wouldn’t just rush off to meet the enemy before actually listening to people.
He was travelling through a rather dark part of the forest at this point. Made even darker by the waning light. As the clarity of vision receded so too did the young man’s sense of well being. Something was not right. This was not good. Not good, indeed.
A flash of instinct struck Von Draco and his weapons were in his hands as if by their own accord. He crouched, scanned the dimly lite foliage and waited for that which he knew was inevitable. He didn’t have to wait long.
A low growl and the snap of a twig to the right heralded the onslaught. In a instant the sound was transformed into an ear-bleeding scream of attack. Before the warrior charged the midnight black, half man, half cat form of a cheetaur.
It’s panther’s head fully seven feet above the ground, the monster had the body and four powerful legs of the jungle cat supporting a fur-covered human torso and arms. Scythe-like claws slashed the air as it raged against its foe. Hate-filled eyes reflected the pale blue of the paladin’s swords. There was no running from something like this. You wouldn’t get two steps.
Eric leapt back in an attempt to put some more distance between himself and his opponent. As he did so, he sheathed his blades and summoned his inner strength.
“Be calm, Beast!” he shouted above the roars as he thrust out his right palm.
The cheetaur ceased it’s angry clamour and very calmly sent Eric flying into a tree with one smack from it’s muscular arm. This was definitely not good.
Shaking the slight daze from his mind, the creature’s victim jumped to immediate action. Rolling past with a pain-filled cry (yup, that shoulder was dislocated) the paladin came up with Mercy in his one remaining useful hand. The blade flared excitedly, sending shadows racing across every surface.
The monster rumbled deep within its throat and flicked its tail as it slowly circled its prey. It watched intently for a while, waiting for the human to make its move, then hunkered down into an alert crouch. The glowing windows into its soul never left their target.
One arm dangling limply at his side, Eric ever so slowly inched his way towards an opening in the underbrush. He thought briefly about the healing potions he had in his pouch but knew better. They couldn’t pop his arm back into joint, only speed the recovery afterward.
“Come on kitty,” he whispered shakily as he waved his glowing weapon slowly. “Keep looking here kitty, kitty.”
The cheetaur followed the sword’s movement like a miser follows a coin. Its saber sharp teeth took their time being revealed and its haunches twitched as it readied itself to pounce. For whatever reason, the beast finally found its time and in a blinding streak of black fur, was on the attack again.
As it reached its target, the monster was greeted by the blinding flash of honourable Mercy. One moment the forest was dim with filtered moonlight, the next, all shadows were banished by pure white radiance. The cat creature screamed in pain and squinted its eyes against the blinding flash but did not stop its assault. Being blind only made the cheetaur rear on its hind-most legs and slash wildly with four sets of paws. Eric took the opportunity to sidestep the beast and stab deeply into its flank.
Now the cheetaur was mad again. It cried in rage and clawed out in the direction it had been wounded. It was berserk now, nashing its fangs and swatting the air in an attempt catch its prey with a lucky swing. Eric stabbed again from the other direction. Damn that flash thing was a handy trick.
Pounding the air with a powerful backhand, the fiend squeezed its eyes and shook its head in an attempt to banish the colourful splotches. The flying fist missed Eric’s head by a hairs width. Its right front paw, however, did not miss slamming down on his foot in a random stamp.
The trapped paladin tried hacking down into the offending limb and winced as the razor claws flexed through his hard leather boot and into his foot. The creature’s hide proved too thick for the glancing blow. Its resolve was even stronger.
Even if its eyes still couldn’t readjust to the darkness, the monster knew all that it needed to. Two viselike hands grabbed hold of Eric’s dented breast plate and pulled up, even as it dug deeper with its foot. The screech of claws on metal incited a fanged roar that ended in pain as the trapped warrior dragged his blade deeply across his enemies muscular trunk.
The next thing Eric knew, he was eating dirt and feeling the pounding fists of the beast on his armoured back. What did it take to kill this thing?! He wondered the notion as waves of pain issued up his leg from a broken ankle and a still pinned foot.
Soon the pounding was so hard he could feel it reverberating through the ground. Even when the creature stopped to hail victory to the moon, the beats seemed to get louder. And there was something else. It was in the back of his blood-filled ears but it certainly sounded a lot like howling. Not the cheetaur’s mind you. No, this was more like a dog’s.
Now the battered swordsman was in the air again. Funny, he had hardly noticed the monster letting him go. There was a snapping sound too, but for once it wasn’t coming from him. He tried to make out what was going on in the dim glow of his weapon but could only discern creatures larger than the cheetaur storming around through the trees.
The sound of the cat monster’s death throws filled the forest for what must have been miles. The image of two lone women checking the bar on their door came unbidden to Eric’s mind. He forced his eyes to focus once more and searched the gloom for his benefactors. He was rewarded with the sight of two Canines with bloody spears riding towards him on horseback. In the background an armoured figure on a gigantic, snorting charger reeled in a swinging flail. The crumpled body of the cheetaur lay before him, a lance’s broken shaft protruding into the air like the creature’s own grave marker.
As one of the dogmen dismounted and began assessing Eric’s wounds, the other wheeled back to the corpse and lite it aflame. The stamping of the charger’s hooves alerted the young paladin to the presence of The Witch Hunter.
“See, boy,” the man’s voice echoed in his helm. “Bedevilled fiends still flock to the sorceress’ summons.” He dropped easily to the ground and removed his head protection before continuing. “At least you never lost grip of your weapon.”
Eric’s breath deepened as he tried to counteract the pain peeling through his body. “One... Must always... Keep Mercy... Close... To ones heart.” He managed a slight smile.
“Yes,yes,” the other replied with a roll of his eyes. “I’ve heard of what you have dubbed your blades. Very droll. Now come, drink this elixir before we lose you.”
As the icy fluid was poured down his throat, the broken warrior was washed into a blissful haze of senselessness.
***
Eric woke to the clamour of a sizeable crowd gathered in the square under his window. That, and the most terrible pressure his bladder had ever felt. At least he was still in one piece and seemed to have full use of his appendages.
Outside, a stage had been erected in the square and now faced the gathered masses of Devoron. The Witch Hunter towered above all. He held something in his clenched fist too small to see.
“... And in my search of that abandoned hive of wretchedness,” he thundered down from his makeshift pulpit. “I uncovered this! A tiny scrap of clothe from the scalp of a child’s doll.”
The living legend slowly moved his arm from one side to the other, making sure everyone present had a good look. Murmurs erupted and spread like rippling water all over the gathering. It must be Stacie Kinship’s, the whispered voices spoke. The family’s farm to the south had been devastated. No one had been found.
“That’s right,” Brighthelm let his eyes fall on every face. “Poor Stacie Kinship. Who would wish such a thing on such a sweet child. And her whole family for that matter! Who in deed.
“I pondered this question as I rode back through the setting dusk. But my thoughts were interrupted, broken by the sounds of combat! Our own hero, Draco, the very one who had saved you all from the monsters that carried out the evil will on the Kinships and others like them, was locked in desperate battle for his very life. You have seen his wounds! You have seen his body lying broken in the inn right here!” A thick arm thrust up to the window where Eric had been moments ago.
“Luckily I arrived in time to dispatch the cheetaur,” he continued. “And now I had even more evidence! Whoever is behind this whole affair is still amongst you and trying to kill the hero that had thwarted them!”
A hand rose from the back of the crowd. “Now, Morden,” Eric interrupted. “I don’t know about that. There could be any number of reasons for the attack. You can’t...”
“Eric, it’s good to see you healed,” The Witch Hunter held up his hand for silence. “It’s ok, I found something.” He turned to address the whole crowd again, pulling something barely visible from his pocket. “Someone had planted this on him to attract the creature. Do you know what it is?”
The tiny piece of evidence was passed to the first row of the gathering. “It’s a sprig of some herb,” the first answer came.
“It’s Catnip! Catnip to attract the cheetaur!” a woman next shouted.
“Yes!” Brighthelm retrieved the herb and continued. “Now I had to ask myself who in these parts both had cause to hate the Kinships and is known to make use of catnip?”
“Brighthelm! That wasn’t planted on...” Eric’s shouts were ignored by all.
“I have found the witch, good people of Devoron!” Brighthelm shouted down to the masses with a stunning confidence that could not be argued against. Seemingly out of thin air, the Canine servants rushed in with rope and a mancatcher. Mrs. Hardgrave never stood a chance.
In seconds there was a pathetic, sobbing woman standing next to the legendary paladin on the stage. Her hands were tied painfully behind her back and her neck was clamped tightly on the end of a ten foot shaft. The other end of that shaft was under the dogmen’s complete control. Farmer Hardgrave stood in stunned inaction. He would have been powerless to help his wife anyway.
“Is it not true, Mrs. Hardgrave, that you have had a grudge against the poor deceased Wendy Kinship since you were both children!? Yes, I have learned many things since I have been here.”
Mrs. Hardgrave was not given the chance to do any more than shake her head and whimper. “Do not deny it. We all know it to be true. She was terrible to you as a child and you never forgot it. Then, I uncovered that it was well known how little Stacie Kinship loved to play in your prized flower gardens. Usually destroying them in her wake. Everyone had seen you chase her out time and again.
“You couldn’t take it anymore, could you!? First the mother, then the daughter. You could hide your true power no longer! You summoned the goblins and you set them upon your enemies and everyone else in this town.” Again, there were only whimpers in response.
“But you were thwarted again, weren’t you,” The Witch Hunter continued. “Von Draco appeared to save your victims and vanquish the monstrous clan. So you tried to do away with him too. How convenient that you dry and sell herbs like this catnip in the market, Mrs. Hardgrave. They were the perfect way to lure a cat creature like the cheetaur.”
Eric watch the display in utter horror. This was not good. This was definitely not good at all.
“Please, no!” Poor Hardgrave finally found her voice. “It wasn’t me! I don’t know anything about magic or summoning. Please! I just get the catnip from the widow Winfield and her daughter to sell. They live near the woods and weren’t attacked at all...”
Fey! The young paladin needed to put a stop to this.
“So I have uncovered a veritable coven!” Morden Brighthelm stabbed his finger to the sky as if to make it concede the point. “The naming of your accomplices is appreciated but it will not spare you. And do not deny the facts again. There are too many stacked against you.”
Eric rushed up onto the stage. A sword leaped from its scabbard to slash the rope and send a dogman sprawling from the backlash. “Enough Brighthelm! This is madness! This poor woman had nothing to do with any of this!”
“Draco, what are you doing! He must be bewitched!”
“I am not bewitched. Can’t you see? Can’t you feel it? I was at the Winfield’s that day and took the catnip myself! This little plant is the only reason the goblins never attacked their cottage. They hate the smell. I was bringing it back to show the rest of you, so that maybe more could be planted to ward off attacks in the future. No one had anything to do with the cheetaur, much less this poor woman!
“And she is no witch. Surely you can sense the terror this whole situation has brought upon her. I sense no malice, no trickery. There is no danger here what-so-ever.”
“You are a fool, Von Draco. A naive fool. Her magic can befuddle your paladin senses! I have not been able to rely on them for years! Listen to me and perhaps you’ll learn something.”
“I’m learning a great deal already, Brighthelm. Draw your blade.”
“How dare you challenge me!” Brighthelm was livid. “I have authority from every lord and noble in Fredonia and western Surria!”
“I couldn’t care less right now about your so called authority!” Draco’s sword swept the air in dismissal. “The people in these lands have been living under the fear of evil sorcery and the fear of who your finger would point at next, for too long. How many other innocents have you accused? How many other people has your imposed authority falsely sentenced to death? There are stories of you uncovering entire towns of witches! How could you?!” There was a moment of bitter silence. “Morden, draw your blade.”
“There has been no false accusation! I am The Witch Hunter! You don’t know the horrors I have seen! None of you do! They must be stopped! There can be no end to my work!”
Without warning Eric’s flaming shortsword struck out like an angry viper. There was no time for his target to think, only react. Instincts honed by decades of combat served The Witch Hunter well. The weapon that had all this time remained dormant at his side, sprung to life with resounding force to protect its master.
A beautifully elegant longsword met the young paladin’s simple weapon. The gleaming steel of the blade was inlaid with the etched runes of a people long forgotten. Down to the hilt the writing continued until it was met by the shimmering image of a starburst. The gold-banded hand grip connected this star to a smaller cousin that made up the pummel. In no place could be seen the tell-tale flames of a paladin’s sword.
As the cold metal reflected the ghostly blue flames, Eric shook his head in dismay. “How long as it been, Morden? When was it that you sacrificed your honour for this obsession?”
Brighthelm’s eyes locked on the fiery sword opposing him. Rage began to fill them and caused his weapon to swing back in preparation for a skull splitting blow. His young opponent’s free hand shot up, projecting an otherworldly calm. In moments, tremors rocked the older warrior’s sturdy frame and tears flooded down his cheeks. He dropped to his knees sobbing.
“What have I done? In all of Hades, what have I done?”
