by Brian Berg
The way the hooded man moved and fought with the scythe was nothing like I had ever seen before. I had heard tales of people fighting with mere sticks instead of a heavy, sharpened blade, but I never thought they would be of any worth. However, this man seemed to be able to fight on par with the swordsman. Truly there were people and things in this world I had yet to discover for myself.
The two of them danced around the field, blocking and slashing at one another. Even through the armor, the swordsman lost blood when the hooded man struck him, as even in the moonlight I could see a dark substance running down his body, staining his armor. I wanted to scream out “You can beat him, knight!” or “Don't let that black bastard win!”, but I could not find my voice. I do not know what their quarrel was, but the man in black scared me greatly. Whatever their problem, I wanted the swordsman to win, even if he turned out to be some kind of cruel, tyrannical warlord.
I do not know how long the two of them battled each other, although to me, it felt like an eternity. The conflict finally resolved itself when the hooded man feinted, throwing his opponent off guard and while he was distracted, the scythe sliced through the air. In that one moment, the armored head of the knight separated from it's owner and fell into the tall grass, disappearing from my sight. The body fell on its knees and leaned backward; it was as if the headless corpse was trying to lean back so far, that it would get a view of the stars above us all.
Without missing a beat, the hooded man approached the body. I couldn't see it at first, but he had pulled something from inside his robes. From the distance I was at, it looked like...some sort of ball? Or an orb? He held it outward and, to my amazement, the body of the fallen warrior began to glow. It was a beautiful light, one I had never seen before in my life! The light covered the entire body, but then I watched as it seemed to be sapped away. The light moved through the air and filled the orb that the hooded man held in his hand.
The orb glowed magnificently, illuminating a bit of what the shadows kept hidden from me. The face under the hood sent a jolt of fear into my heart; it was remarkably skull like with very pale skin and dark, sunken eyes. I thought I was staring at a long dead body resurrected from a burial mound!
My night of terror did not end there. Behind the skull-faced man, the air began to distort and waver. It was like the air you would see during a hot summer's season, but the air was quite cool that night. From the distortion, a void appeared and what fear I held in my heart from the man was replaced by a far more greater fear that I had ever felt in my entire life.
Inside the void, I saw a giant pair of glowing, red eyes; the eyes of a demon. The skull-faced man, apparently sensing the disturbance behind him, turned to the eyes, raising the orb high over his head. He spoke in a tongue that I did not recognize: “Luos erup a fo etast eht hsiler dna tsaef. Em nopu dewotseb evah uoy rewop eht rof tnemyap sa, krad eno, luos siht uoy reffo I.”
A bone-chilling laughter came from the void as some sort of...thing came from within! It was some sort of limb, massive and covered with both scales and fur. At the end was a sort of twisted, bony claw that reached and snatched the glowing orb away from the skull-faced man. The thing in the void said something and then the void simply faded away.
The hooded man simply walked away into the wilderness.
After witnessing such horrors, I abandoned my life of excitement and adventure. I ran back to the city I had just come from before making camp that night and rushed to the temple there. Once inside, I confessed all of my sins to a priest and I knelt and prayed until my knees were on fire with pain. The monks there were curious as to why I was so adamant and they said that I must have seen the Devil himself.
I decided to keep all the major details of my night to myself and insisted that I join the priesthood. The monks were surprised at such a sudden request. They took me to the head of their church and after a long talk about who I was, where I came from and what reasons (those I decided to tell, that is) I had to join, they inducted me into their order.
I am approaching my twilight years now, and for many years I have always been haunted by what I saw in the clearing that night. Every day, I use what I've learned here to help those who seek help and guidance, but I pray to the Lord Almighty Himself that I never be witness to something such as that ever again.
- Father Eli Elward
The entry in the diary was old; the paper was yellow and crinkled, the black ink dried and in some places, fading. The young lady who sat at the small table in the middle of the night, reading the leather cased book by candlelight. She placed the book on the table in front of her and rubbed her eyes, stifling a yawn. She stared at the book and brushed a lock of red hair away. “What a fascinating story...”
The Nightdwellers
He regretted ever opening his big mouth the second he walked into the large cave outside of his village. He never volunteered for this sort of thing, but someone had to do it and since he was the one who said one word about doing something, the duty was thrust upon him. Because of that, he was now lost in the cave with only a scattergun, a handful of ammunition and a lantern that was almost out of oil to burn. Soon, he would be thrust into complete darkness and hopelessly lost on the cold day of late autumn.
How did he end up in this position, you may ask? Prior to his excursion, the bone yard in his village of Khun was constantly desecrated by unseen raiders. Freshly dug graves would be found empty, the coffins shattered and laying about in piles of splinters. Not only that, but those who were sent out to be on watchman duty would be found in the morning, their throats ripped out and their blood soaked into the soil as their blank eyes stared up at the sky in sheer terror. The villagers of Khun, having lived in Knoss for generations, knew well of the dangers of wild beasts, but it still upset them a great deal.
“We are under siege from scavengers!” the headman of his village had declared. “Judging from the teeth marks on our dead, we now know that the animals who constantly steal our dead are but mere wild dogs or wolves! A pack of them, of at least a half dozen in number, by their tracks.”
“Wolves!” a farmer had cried out. “My brother died because of a blasted wolf pack?”
“Let's hunt them down!”yelled another. “Let's blow a hole in their skulls and take their pelts!”
The headman held up his arms, silencing the excited crowd before him. “We've followed their tracks to Bouda Cave.”
A wave of fear and worry rushed over the villagers. Bouda Cave was thought of as a local legend. For years, there were stories told by the elders that the cave was once home to monsters that would roam the countryside and slaughter innocent children at night. According to the stories, the people were so troubled by the monsters, the headman at the time established a long-standing law that forbid anyone to go in there.
That is when he, the hero of our tale, rose over the crowd. “We can't let this continue! The bone yard is sacred to our people and our dead are being disturbed by the desecration. We must forget our childhood fears and nightmares and hunt these wolves down to put an end to their scavenging! Not only that, but should they be allowed to continue to live on, their numbers will no doubt grow and then all of our animals and children will be at risk. Least of all, think of our brothers who have died in the night because of them!”
“We understand your concern, Marco, but we do not dare enter the cave. The law strictly says-”
“To hell with the law!”Marco screamed. “Our people are in danger!”
“If you are so adamant, Marco, to go against one of the oldest laws in our village's history, then you can go and find those wolves yourself, but know that you go alone!”
The next day, Marco entered Bouda Cave, with scattergun and lamp in hand. He was no hunter, so he knew nothing of wolves and the like, but he knew how to use the scattergun well enough to defend himself. His ignorance of wolves left him lacking in how they lived and how they hunted, but he had assumed that since they came and did their business at night, then they must have
some time in the day to rest and enjoy their meals. If he could just come across the beasts while they were fat and sleepy from stolen flesh, then he may be able to rid them before night fell.
By mid-day (according to his assumption), he had explored only a bit of the great cave and sat down on a flat stone, needing a rest. The lantern he kept on the ground in front of him while his firearm remained in his arms. He had only a meager breakfast that morning, not wanting to be slowed down by a full meal, so his stomach rumbled audibly. How he longed for food now!
Marco had no real sense of time in the cave, but after he felt rested enough, he reached for his lantern, eager to be done with his hunt. As he moved, he heard a sound and froze. It sounded like the sound his dog made when it moved about the kitchen's wooden floor.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
The dog, getting on in his years, stayed home, so it could not have been the mutt that made the sound that echoed around him in the dark. Licking his lips, Marco cocked the hammer of his scattergun and tensed his muscles. He just needed to see a snout, or fur, or the eyes and he would drop it right where it stood.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
Marco looked all around. The echo from the cave walls made it hard to pinpoint where it was coming from. Finally, he caught sight of something just beyond the radius of the lamplight: shadows, at least four of them.
“There you are!” Marco lifted his scattergun, trying to keep track of the shadows. As he watched them, he noticed that something wasn't right. Having spent years with a dog, he believed that wolves would behave and be about the same size as his dog, but these shadows that stalked him didn't act like a dog, nor were they the size of them. As a matter of fact, they seemed to be as big as him! He scowled, finger on the trigger and muttered, “What in God's name are you creatures?”
The light from his lamp dimmed suddenly, startling the hunter. The oil was running out and he would soon be in total darkness, at the mercy of these beasts. Although fear began to encroach on him, Marco was not going to run from this. These things had killed people he knew: friends, fellow workers, even his older brother.
The lamp's glow finally went out and as soon as it did, Marco heard a laughter that made his blood run cold. One of the shadows finally lunged at him and he pulled the trigger. A great thundering blasted throughout the cave, followed by a yelp and a heavy form collided into Marco. The force knocked him off his feet and his head crashed against the same stone he had used as a seat. A shooting pain filled his head accompanied by a gathering of bright spots and lights. The creature on top of him slashed at his shirt and he could feel his hot blood trickle from the wounds, but he could do nothing about it.
The beast took hold of him and began to drag him away.
The laughter came again and he knew nothing more.
***
His sense of hearing returned to him before he could open his eyes. He could hear the sound of a crackling fire, the chilling laughter and a collection of guttural voices. He tried to move, but he found himself immobile with something holding his legs and arms together; rope, by the feel of it. How could beasts have done this to him?
“Never before has a human wandered into our home!” a voice, and a very angry one by the sound of it, said scathingly. “Is there more of them?!”
“No, Chieftain,” one voice, sounding very timid. “He was alone. Armed, but alone.”
Chieftain let out a beastly growl. “Not dead?”
“We thought we'd bring him to you, Chieftain, so you may decide how we deal with the intruder. You hold power over all in our clan, we did not want to act without your consent, lest we invite your wrath.”
Marco's eyes fluttered open and he found himself in a horrifying position. He lay among a pile of bones, most of which were picked clean, save a number that still had moist flesh clinging on. He was facing a cave wall and on the wall was a number of shadows, all of which were cast by the fire he had heard. The bones themselves were disturbing enough, but it were the shadows that struck true fear into his heart.
The shadows moved back and forth along the wall and he saw that they walked like men, but they were monstrous! Some of them were hunched over, but they were all quite hairy, as he could see by the shapes of straggling hair sticking outward. Curved claws extended from their digits and snouts sported dozens of jagged triangles that he knew had to be teeth.
“Dear God, where am I?” he croaked.
The biggest shadow suddenly perked it's head up and again, the laughter came to him. “It seems our guest is awake. Bring him to me, my children.”
More shadows moved and rough, strong hands grabbed him by bound legs and arms and picked him up with ease. Marco was moved from the bone pile and he was finally granted a vision of terror and truth. The creatures whose mercy he found himself in were indeed humanoid, but they were filthy, furry things with big black eyes, long snouts caked with feces and insects and saliva, and rotting, yellow teeth. The laughter he had heard so often came from their throats, each laugh harmonized by the next.
He was brought to the Chieftain, who sat upon a throne of skulls of varying sizes, belonging to men and animal alike. The figure of the beast was not just similar to that of a human, but mounds jutting outward on its hairy chest told him that this...thing was a female. He was tossed before her feet and he gave a sharp cry, the gash marks on his chest burning.
The she-thing crouched down, her face just inches from his own. “You have invaded our den, human. Did no one ever tell you that to enter a den of gnolls means certain death?”
Gnolls! Never before had Marco heard or seen anything of the sort, but he knew he would never forget it. “Please,” he begged, “spare me!”
“Spare you? Spare you!”Chieftain grabbed him by the scalp and hauled him upward, smirking at his crying. “Why should I? What is to stop me from having my pack feast upon your bones like they have done with others of your village?” She held out arm and one of the others placed the scattergun into her free hand. “You have come into our den, with the intent to kill us! By the laws of man, we have more than a right to kill you as a way to defend ourselves.”
Marco shut his eyes. He didn't want to look at the thing before him a moment longer.
“LOOK UPON ME, HUMAN!”Chieftain bellowed, shaking the poor wounded man. “LOOK UPON BAAKO, CHIEFTAIN OF CLAN NIGHTDWELLER!”
He opened his eyes. They were brimming with tears. “Y-You...k-killed-”
Chieftain Baako released his scalp, but as he fell, she lurched forward and locked her powerful jaws around his neck. He let out a pitiful scream just before she broke his neck and severed his jugular. She shook her head fiercely, moving the corpse about as a dog would a toy, then let it slump against the floor. Blood dripping from her fangs, she looked to her clan. “Tonight, we go not for the bone yard, but for the entire village! Tonight, we feast upon men, women and children!”
Bouda Cave was soon filled with cries and laughter of tremendous joy. The people of the village could hear the unholy noise easily from their homes. They thought of and prayed for Marco, never knowing what cruel fated awaited them that very evening.
The Ocean Bride
Everyone goes through the joys and pains of finding true love. For many people, surprisingly, this happens at least a couple of times. For Gordon, the man who lived in the big house on the hill on Carino Island, he knew of true love only once. Always having lived on Carino, a small island in the Great Sea, hardly venturing out into the world, he did not think that he would be able to experience such a wonderful and terrible thing.
He met the woman who would become his lover the day after The Big Storm, as the natives of Carino called the massive squall that nearly destroyed more than half of their village. He was walking along the coast just beneath his house on the hill, surveying the amount of debris that washed up along the beach after the storm when he first laid eyes on her. She was laying underneath a great chunk of lumber, no doubt torn from an unfortunate ship that fell victim to
the storm, with a number of cuts and bruises all over her body. She had a great gash on her forehead, just above her right eyebrow, stretching from the side of her head to just over her nose.
She was a pretty young thing, no younger than eighteen at best, with strawberry blonde hair and fair skin. What clothes she may have worn were nothing more than a handful of scraps now. Startled by the sight, Gordon ran to her to see if she was alive and was greatly relieved when he found her to be breathing. With his house closer than the village, he picked the poor girl up into his arms and ran back up the slope.
The hill on which his house stood was known as Hermit's Hill. His family had been there for at least three generations, but it wasn't until he inherited the house from his parents that the name was given. Gordon was a solitary sort of man, who kept to his own ways and very rarely visited the village, except to pick up groceries or to visit the doctor. He, a man now in his fifties, had never courted a woman and often turned down female suitors that crossed his paths.
Why did he never take a girl? That's what the villagers of Carino often wondered. Their elders knew of Gordon's family, they were good people, fruitful people, all of whom had found a love at a young age and prospered. With such a family history, they could not understand why Gordon could not follow them. They never thought of asking him, but he wasn't a man who enjoyed their company anyway, it was doubtful he would have told them.
Gordon took the unconscious girl into one of the spare rooms of his house, made her comfortable and called the doctor immediately after. The village doctor was older than he was by about five years and despite the rare visits, he was possibly the only person that Gordon could ever call a friend. He came to Hermit's Hill as soon as he could and examined the girl, treating her wounds with expert care.