Hawk the Slayer

by Terry Marcel

  This last word gurgled in his throat. He slumped back.

  Crow, heavily bandaged, stood at the door of the chapel, watched Hawk pull the chest of gold from the stone plinth he himself had crouched upon many a time in the past few days.

  The Abbess patted his hand and called to Hawk as he gave the money box to the already mounted Gort while he swung himself up on to his own horse.

  “Your friend will soon recover his strength.” A cloud passed over her face. “But I grieve for the others who died.”

  “I know you will see that they rest well,” replied Hawk gently.

  A nun rushed from the monastery bearing a bag of food and a skin of wine. “For your journey,” she told Gort.

  He looked at her and saw another little nun. The memory hurt. Somehow the sister understood and smiled compassionately at him. To hide his embarrassment he changed the subject. “There’s a lot of eating and drinking money here, my friend,” he winked at Hawk. “I don’t suppose—”

  Hawk reproached him for the thought with a twinkle in his eye. He saluted the Abbess and Crow, spurred his horse and they were gone.

  The sun streamed into the High Abbot’s cell. Spring had come and there was a new warmth in the morning air.

  “My heart is heavy at the loss of your friends,” said the holy man to Hawk and Gort. “It was a high price to pay.”

  “The price is always high,” accorded Hawk. He indicated the chest of gold. “Use it well.”

  The High Abbot nodded gravely.

  “Where will you go now, Lord Hawk?”

  “Gort follows his own path. As do I.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard tell of fat barons with great stores of winter food and wine to protect,” the giant rumbled. “It would seem I am the man for that work.”

  He patted his stomach and the High Abbot allowed himself a small smile.

  “May God go with you,” were his final words to them.

  They rode down the mountain path fairly quickly and soon reached the crossroads where their paths would diverge. There, a familiar figure in rags sat waiting.

  “The Dark One—” began Meena.

  “—is no more!” finished Hawk.

  She was silent.

  “Black wizards gather in the south,” she pronounced finally. “Follow your destiny.”

  Gort gazed at Hawk.

  “When you get that look in your face—” he warned.

  “You did say south, Mother?” asked Hawk.

  “Ah well,” sighed Gort. “Who wants to work with fat old barons anyway.” He pulled his horse’s head around. “South it is.”

  Hawk nodded to the woman and both riders galloped off down the dusty path.

  “We shall meet again,” whispered Meena.

  EPILOGUE

  The bodies lay in the main chamber of the monastery. It was silent as the grave.

  From nothing, a point of blackness started, became a blot, a pool of Stygian night. Out of this jet miasma glided a tall creature who moved to one particular corpse.

  “We have further use for you, Dark One,” hissed the Black Wizard.

  Effortlessly he enveloped the body of Voltan within his cloak and disappeared back into the inky darkness from which he had sprung.

  The evil had begun once more …