by Mark Eller
* * * *
Hours later, he returned to the Hellhole Tavern. Much of the broken furniture remained, but the bodies were gone. Someone, or possibly something, had removed the dead. Two, maybe three hours ago, he guessed, by the remaining stains. He wasn’t sure. His exhausted mind had lost track of time.
Death’s stench still hung in the air, faint and slightly metallic. The night was so silent, so still Larson could almost hear his own sweat trickle down his back and drip from his brow. Where were the night sounds? The birds that preyed after dark? Owls and bats should have been in evidence. He couldn’t hear scavenging rats or barking dogs. Neither could he hear yowling cats, lowing horses, or braying arvids. Strange, especially the arvids. Arvids always complained, even when sleeping. Most importantly, where were his knights? He hadn’t seen one living thing in over an hour.
The feeling of impending doom returned with sudden force, His gut felt hollow. Fear sucked at his soul.
Larson’s leg muscles twitched; his shoulders ached, and his stomach growled. He desperately wanted to go home, wanted to cozy up to his wife in bed, then wake up to the beautiful sound of his daughter’s laughter. Instead, he was still chasing Hell’s escapees in a hollow night that felt wrong— very, very wrong. It wasn’t unusual for his prey to escape back down the hellhole, but tonight felt different as if the hellborn were playing games with the knights, leading them about by their noses. The hellkind’s trail had led his knight’s on a grim chase from the Downs, where the hellhole was located, south to the harbor, east to the uptown estates of the Heights, then back west again to where the search had started, one big hot miserable stinking circle. He felt like they had been chasing a dozen hellkind instead of just three or four.
Well, three now, or maybe two. Larson and Gilkrend had dispatched a smaller demon back to Zorce as it devoured someone in the harbor. A ship would be short a deckhand tomorrow morning. Larson might be short Gilkrend and maybe more. Was he the last knight remaining? Where had they all gone? Why this game of hide and seek? He was used to hellkind being much more direct. Was he dealing with a different breed of hellborn? Of late, they had been smarter, more powerful, and meaner.
Larson took a deep, quiet breath. He was so weary, so sick of the games. At twenty-seven, he already felt like he had lived a lifetime. Anithia had noticed silver caught among his blond hair when she last trimmed it.
Come on Larson, he chided himself, at least be thankful the dawn is almost here, and we now outnumber them.
Maybe outnumbered them if the others still lived, not that numbers would make a big difference with only one extra knight, but it helped nonetheless. Originally, there had been five knights hunting the creatures, but Gilkrend had been injured so badly they’d taken him back to the temple. Larson prayed he lived. Anothosia’s sworn knights were dwindling in number. Recruits with the right abilities, the right gifts, were hard to find. Hell had taken its toll on the Knights of the Order of the Sword and the Staff these last years.
“Larson,” Sulya hissed from several feet away.
Again Larson felt his heart try to leap out of his chest while his mind settled with relief. Gods damn the woman! Now was not the time for her games, but it was good to make contact with at least one of his knights.
Larson took a deep breath to help control his urge to throttle Sulya as she crept over to him. He didn’t like being caught unaware. How in the name of Anothosia had she seen him? He had been crouched down in a pitch black doorway and concealed within his magic.
Bones aching, he stood up. Feeling brittle and old, he took a quiet step out of the shadows. His hand felt raw beneath his glove from holding his sword in a death grip all night. Looking to the sky, he noticed the two moons were waning. The darkest part of the night, the one right before the dawn, was upon them. What little breeze there had been a short time earlier was gone. He felt like an over-baked loaf of bread inside his armor.
“Game time is over, Larson,” Sulya whispered. “It’s time for blood work. Two hellborn are inside the tavern. I saw them carrying something. I think a body.” Sulya kept her distance, stopping several feet from Larson, just out of range of his sword.
“I haven’t seen anyone enter since I’ve been here.” A knot formed in Larson chest. Gods no. Not another knight dead.
Sulya gave him a quick nod. “Yeah, it’s weird. I’ve been waiting here for a while and only just now noticed you. I looked for the other knights but couldn’t find anyone. I thought they were chasing one of the demons until now. If we don’t go inside we might lose more of our number.”
Indecision tore at Larson. If it were the devil in there, he and Sulya would be unable to handle it. But if the captive was still alive— could he face himself in the mirror knowing he had acted the coward and allowed one of his own to die?
No, he could not.
Decision made, Larson took the lead and crept among the shadows of the dilapidated buildings. Not a soul was in sight. Even so, Larson felt eyes upon him. His skin prickled.
The tavern’s door had been repaired, but it hung open. Why hadn’t he noticed this before? Was he that tired?
With a curse, he placed his foot upon the tavern’s threshold. He stopped, held his breath, and listened. Aside from his own erratic heartbeat, Larson heard nothing. He eased inside, looking carefully around the dingy interior. The reek of puke, blood, and stale alcohol made him want to add his own bile to the mixture. The weak floorboards groaned beneath his weight. He might as well have barged in banging a pan with a metal spoon. If the devil were here, it knew someone was creeping about.
In pitch black, Larson slid his feet carefully along the floor, feeling his way to a wall where he thought there should be a scone hanging.
A scuttling noise came from the kitchen. Larson stopped, waited a moment, but heard nothing more. Reaching through the dark, Larson touched the wall, and thankfully, found the wall scone. With a bit of willpower, he thought the wick into lighting. It flickered slowly, and then began to burn brighter, giving Larson a better view of the chaos around him. Chairs and tables had been haphazardly stood back up. Other than that, Carrid had not bothered cleaning. The walls and floor were spattered with dried blood. Broken wooden mugs, smashed casks of ale, and bottles of cheap wine littered the floor as well.
“I bet they took the prisoner down into the cellar,” Sulya whispered from behind him. “Into the hole.”
Larson’s heart seized again and that worried him. Yes, her whisper had taken him by surprise, but he was a knight with nerves of steel. Why did she bring up his alarms? He had never before felt so violent and edgy toward any woman.
“Don’t stand so close,” he whispered. Don’t stand in the same room, he thought heatedly. Why did it have to be Sulya with him? Where were the other knights?
Larson feared the answer would be down the hole.
Sulya slipped by him without a word and entered the kitchen. Larson hesitated before following her. Once inside, they paused to listen.
Nothing.
“Look.” Sulya pointed to the cellar door. Faint light illuminated its entrance, indicating someone was down there. “Oh gods, Larson. I don’t think I can bear to see another one of us dead.”
Neither could he, but someone had to look. Slipping in front of Sulya, Larson cautiously made his way to the other door. The kitchen had been spared the demolition. Pots and pans still hung neatly in their places. A grime covered oven and an open fireplace stood in the same corner as the cellar entrance. Opening the door, Larson placed his foot on the top step leading to the hellhole. Black puddles shone on the worn wooden steps.
“Not good,” he told Sulya. “There’s blood.”
“Damn right there is,” she chuckled.
Something heavy slammed into Larson’s back, sending him tumbling and ricocheting down the decrepit stairwell. His head slammed into a step, knocking his helm off. Another blow sent his sword flying. Pain shot through his body as he bounced and then, with a sharp crack, he landed at t
he bottom. His world went black.