by Dan O'Brien
The patrons’ chests heaved as they stared at the beaten man. His face was mangled, the claw marks upon his back exposed when they tore the clothes from his back. The man groaned and spit blood, his remaining teeth stained from the bloodbath.
His eyes streamed with tears.
They grasped him by the shoulders and dragged him outside into the moonlight. His incoherent mumbling did not deter them from their mission. His ravaged body lay in the snow; his face was turned toward the sky.
He could hear them walking away.
He waited for a long time, his mind slipping from consciousness as he lay there. After a while, he realized that he was alone.
“Help,” he called weakly.
No answer.
“Please….”
There was no answer, but in the distance something growled and leapt across the earth in mighty bounds. When it landed, he could feel it through his entire frame. “Is someone there?”
No answer.
The growling was much closer now, and this time accompanied by a solitary pair of footfalls. He tried to move, but his body would not respond. His mind was frantic, irrational fear beginning to grip his senses. He tried to crane his neck, but his muscles just seemed to mock him. A cruel laughing fit crept into the man’s soul. He stifled the laugh as best he could, saliva forming at the edges of his mouth.
Coughing, he let the absurd laughter spew forth.
“My dear Melnon, you tried to leave when the games had just barely begun,” spoke a voice from the distance, the tone angelic and soft. The inflection carried across the frigid winds that came off the mountaintops. The man stopped abruptly, his hands still a gnarled mass and his face frozen in a horror. “You left the tower in such a rush that we left certain debts unpaid.”
“Karian,” gargled the man.
A brutal howl carved itself through the ravines and jagged cliffs. The hairs on the base of the man’s neck rose and a whimpering sound escaped his lips. The man could only view what was high in the sky: the luminous moon and endless parade of stars that stretched far from his field of vision and beyond.
“How wonderful that you remember me. You flatter me, you truly do. However, Melnon, you knew that your life was forfeit, having bartered it for something you saw to be much more profitable,” sang Karian, her angelic voice still hidden in the shadows.
Melnon felt an oppressive weight that seemed to smash the breath from his body. Piercing talons bit through what little clothes remained, the splintered claws tearing away at his flesh as the weight upon his chest moved slightly.
Its grotesque hairy skull peered into his vision. The curved skull was elongated at the snout. Ridges of fangs were more numerous than Melnon could count. The surreal blackness of the creature’s eyes made it seem lifeless. Its thick crimson tongue flicked out into the cold night air––lifeless eyes centered on Melnon.
“You cheated….”
“Death does not cheat. You made a contract, and now that contract must be fulfilled,” returned Karian without hesitation or anger. She moved around the side of him, her frame still lost from his vision. She leaned over, her face next to the were-creature that loomed above Melnon.
Vibrant blonde hair was draped over pale features and a slender face. Her eyes shone a brilliant emerald, the iris stained white. Pursed lips pouted at Melnon, the crimson hue mocking the stricken man.
“You see, that even now, you have been given more time than was allotted. My faithful pet restrains himself, though he wants nothing more than to tear your throat from your mortal frame.”
“May you see the light of Exodus,” spoke Melnon.
A violent cough stifled anything else he could say.
Karian tilted her head and slammed her foot into his throat, the thin heel of her silver slippers spurting a fountain of blood. Karian let a girlish laugh escape her lips as his blood splattered across her face and stained the ethereal white dress that clung to her frame.
She stared out across the plains and stepped back from Melnon. Nodding to the hungry eyes of her were-beast, its lips smacked together cruelly and saliva dripped from its protruding fangs. The beast leapt upon the writhing frame and sank its fangs into the neck of Melnon, the gushing blood covering the scraggly fur of the beast.
It swung its head back and forth wildly.
Rising from the still form, it howled into the night sky. Scampering beneath the raised hand of Karian, it played the part of the gentle beast as its master contemplated upon the distance.
2
T
he Nighen, an unnatural creature spawned of evil, consumed and murdered all along the western providence for the weeks after the emergence of Chaos. Its appetite had grown astronomically since its birth.
The blood moon of Chaos drove it forward.
Swollen clouds drifted lazily overhead. Bruised and disfigured skies threatened to drench the land in rain and storm, something in which the slowly-aging hills would find great comfort. The mixture of deep shadow and moonlight allowed the cloaked figure to move through the dense forest unnoticed––his hood wrapped tightly and his decadent robes drifting out behind him.
He hummed quietly. Along his back was the outline of a sheath, the blade hidden. The moon made a kaleidoscope of images across the paths of the forest, and the man moved through them. His figure melded and conformed to the bizarre shapes. His features were hidden beneath the hood, the bitter winds that periodically slapped against his frame could not loosen the bond the cloak held over him.
The forest around him shifted in the winds. Branches scraped against one another. The gales howled, creating sounds in the night far more morose than the ones that truly haunted the rich shrubbery. The man did not hesitate as he walked, not even when the unnatural sounds of forest silenced and the low, throaty growl of a night terror emanated from beside him.
Amber eyes were translucent in the darkness. The lack of iris was eerie as if shifted, watching the man move past its vantage point. The creature groaned loudly and stood. Scaly claws dug deep into the already-frozen earth as it moved forward in leaps. It hit hard upon the ground, shaking the earth as it rose from a crouch.
The man’s pace quickened now. He moved with renewed speed, head lowered. The blade upon his back protruded from his hunched frame like a sore that had grown from his spine.
The creature moved alongside him, the crashing sounds as it charged through the forest thunderous. The man threw back the tight folds of his cloak and moved with the grace of a practiced runner. His shoulder-length hair emerged from beneath the hood, cascading off his back.
The creature ran on all four limbs, end over end like a feral animal. Its breathing was ragged and intense. Cold air exhaled from his nostrils as it charged after the dexterous man dodging through the forest.
He jumped over a dislodged collection of roots, and then spun past a tree that stood directly in his path as he landed. The creature just slammed its gigantic horned frame into the trees, splintering the wood and knocking them from its path.
The forest ended abruptly. The thick mass of roots and trees disappeared from sight. The sheet of grass, stained brown, extended for a few feet until it ended in a monumental plunge to the canyons and plains below. The man skidded to a stop and threw back his cloak, drawing his blade from around his back.
The hilt of the sword was cast in ivory––the pearly construction was crafted like a dragon’s head. Its guard was formed of the beast’s hellish wings, the spiraling, sinewy protrusions spreading symmetrically on each side.
His brown hair was thrown across his face, hiding his cold blue eyes buried behind sleep-deprived circles. A beard carved his jaw line, his lips drawn tight in apprehension. The winds tore at his frame, the fold of his cloak whipping like tendrils in the cold gales.
The creature emerged from the forest and rolled to a stop, rising on its hunches and glaring at the man. It opened its maw, licking at exposed, rotten teeth. Black, soulless eyes were obscured in the darkness. It tilted
its head and made a thin sound, like a bird chirping.
“Man flesh,” spoke the creature.
The words were guttural and strangled.
The man looked at the creature, its shoulders rising far above him. Grayish skin covered its entire body juxtaposed with black, spiked scales. Its arms were long like an ape. Claws were sharpened into half the length of the sword the man wielded.
“Not much for conversation, are you?” the warrior spoke breathlessly.
“Kill. Eat. Man flesh,” growled the creature once again. The creature took a few steps forward.
The warrior turned his blade out and it glistened in the half light of the moon. The flash captured the soulless sockets of the creature. His feet parted slightly, rooting him as he prepared to lunge. In one motion, he leapt forward. The point of his blade sung through the air as he did so.
The creature roared. Swinging one of its massive claws across the front of its frame, it tried to catch the man mid-flight as he descended. The man shifted in mid-air, his body tightening and then rolling to the ground. His blade was tucked tight with his body and as he landed; he lunged forward. Catching the creature across its mammoth legs, the creature howled in pain as it reached down to block the strike.
It glowered at the man as he returned to his stance. His blade was held across his chest at an angle, eyes set firmly at the throat of the beast. They circled each other, the beast snarling and sputtering as its green puss oozed from the wound and covered its leg.
It burned the earth beneath them.
The creature roared––its mouth agape, saliva glistening as it strung from fang to fang. Its stale breath was like a fog from its mouth. The man moved forward again, the blade slamming into the flank of the creature. Blood splattered across his cloak and the stricken ground.
He turned as he remained crouched beneath the haunches of the beast and drove his blade through its chin. The creature groaned as the crack of the splintered skull echoed in the hills. Sliding down as the man pulled his blade free, it was no more. The creature’s face was a macabre death mask.
The warrior stood over his prey.
The lifeless eyes of the beast were listless, departed. He raised his blade and decapitated the creature in one smooth movement. Reaching down, he grasped his prize: the head of the Nighen.
3
T
he castle was an oddity in the poor country. Wicker shacks and weathered woods that held the measly buildings together were a drastic contrast to the smooth, carved architecture of the castle upon the hillside. The providence of Me’lein was the most populated region this close to the western shores––it had fallen under threat since the coming of the Widow.
The path leading to the castle had been plowed in the early hours of the morning; several feet of snow had fallen during the night. No tracks had yet graced the way. The main bay doors were guarded by a pair of dark-garbed soldiers, their steel armor reflecting neither soul nor compassion. Pikes––gripped tightly––rose far above them; their other hand brandished a shield with the crest of Me’lein emblazoned across its center: the essence of a dragon king drifting lazily into the mist.
Past them was a hall that extended deep into the darkness––scores of doorways and spiral staircases on either side. The hallway narrowed toward its completion, the intricate stone walls ending in a wooden door at its center.
The same crest depicted all about the mighty castle was emblazoned here as well. The door opened inward. Within was a grand hall far taller than any manner of dragon, and darker than the depths of underworld. But, it was lit brightly by thousands of carefully-placed candles; at the center of the room was a brilliant white throne. The rests, the back, and even the cushions were bleached whiter than anything should naturally be.
The man who sat upon it was clouded in shadow. His gaze was that of a shroud. Bearded chin rested on closed fist, royal robes covering his sinewy flesh. His face was contorted into a frown and black eyes looked far into the distance, past the guests who shuffled about the room. The congregation was a mix of all the people of Me’lein. They were the poor and the rich, the beautiful and the desperate.
The crowd parted as a tall man approached the throne. His light purple hat extended far above his head and his moustache extended down the sides of his face, past his mouth like drooping lines. He knelt before the man upon the throne, his head bowed and his right arm across his bended knee.
“Rise, Gaition. What news do you bring my humble court?” rumbled the man, his head rising from his fist and leaning against the marble back of the throne.
“My lord, I bring a traveler. This man says he has killed the Widow’s beast, the Nighen. The destroyer of our lands,” responded Gaition. His light green eyes harbored both deceit and fear. Hands grasped one another, twisting against each other nervously. The king leaned back in his throne and closed his eyes. His throat exposed for a moment, the crest about his neck visible as he paused.
“Let him in,” returned the king, departing from his thoughts and staring ahead.
“As you wish, Lord Verifal. He waits as we speak.” Gaition bowed and turned from the king, his light blue robes swishing across the polished floor. His movements were more a scurry than anything else. Gaition gripped the iron ring that held the door in place and pulled it forward, revealing the shadowed hallway and the solitary figure of the hooded man.
He walked forward, his brown hair hidden beneath the robes once again. In his left hand, he gripped a cloth bag drawn tight with a string. As he walked through the congregation, some members grasped their noses, others covered their mouths. And some even became ill as the man walked past.
It was considered disrespectful to allow your hair to grow longer than that of a king. Verifal’s coal black hair rested around his shoulders, far shorter than that of the wary stranger who had graced the hall. The stench that emanated from the cloth bag reached Verifal’s nostrils and he rose quickly, pointing a finger at the approaching man.
“What manner of devilry do you bring upon my doors?” roared the enraged Verifal, as he stepped down from his throne to intercede in the robed man’s way.
The man stopped in his tracks. Reaching his hand into the bag, he produced the mangled head of the creature he had bested. “The Nighen.”
“You have defeated the Nighen?” queried Gaition, astonished. His thin face was drawn bloodless, and his hand covered his mouth at the putrid smell.
The king looked from Gaition to the hooded stranger who stood before him brandishing the head of the Nighen. “How did you defeat the Nighen?”
“Steel: the blade can defeat even the greatest creatures of the shadow,” replied the hooded man, tossing the putrid head to the bewildered Gaition. Wiping his hands along his cloak, he pulled the hood completely from his face. Gaition let out a panicked scream as he caught the head, and then dropped it unceremoniously upon witnessing the horrid image of the deceased demon.
“Are you a hero of Me’lein?” queried Verifal, regaining his composure and sitting back upon his throne.
The hooded man looked from side to side and then moved forward, closer to the throne. He coughed lightly into his hand. “I am from a place far from here. But I have heard of the Widow who plagues Telen, especially the providence of Me’lein. I came to aid you in your peril, for a price,” returned the warrior.
“A man in pursuit of wealth, I suppose it matters not. You have destroyed a powerful monster that has ravaged the people of Me’lein for many moons, and would have for many more without your intervention. What is your price?”
“I do not desire your money, King Verifal, but rather a trinket stolen by the Widow. I have come to kill her,” returned the hooded warrior. Laughter echoed in the crowd and was silenced quickly by Verifal.
“That is a tall order for a man who looks more the part of a beggar than a warrior,” called a voice from behind the hooded warrior. A man approached the throne, his armor tarnished silver and his head hidden beneath a steely skull c
ap.
A sheath at his side supported a grand broadsword almost as tall as the man himself. His dark brown eyes were hidden beneath the confines of the skull cap, and his size was obscured by his armor. But as he neared the hooded warrior, the size difference was evident.
The knight was certainly the larger man.
“Captain Uthen, this man deserves respect for destroying the Nighen,” commented the king as he rose from his throne once again.
Uthen placed his hands on his hips and towered over the warrior. The captain moved one of his hands over the hilt of his broadsword.
“I can see we have a problem here. Let me make it simple for you. You will lose that arm before you can even draw that sword,” cautioned the hooded warrior.
Uthen’s face darkened and his lip curled in anger, the grip on his sword tightening. The ripples of his glove made an abrasive sound.
“You might watch your tongue…”
Before the man could finish, the hooded warrior’s blade was in his hands and he had cut the sheath from Uthen’s side. Returning the blade to his back, a smirk was planted firmly on his face. Uthen glared at his fallen sword. Bending to retrieve it, he noticed the astonished glances of the gathered townspeople and the bewildered face of Gaition in the corner. He rose and met the warrior’s eyes, but did not speak.
His gaze went immediately to his king.
“Most impressive, warrior. You must pardon the brashness of Captain Uthen. Many have come before the court and announced such things. Some have turned to evil upon witnessing the power of the Widow,” spoke Verifal.
“I can understand such things, but I am here for that one reason and that reason alone. This beast was merely in the way, a spawn of the Towers of Darkness. Your captain…” replied the warrior, but was interrupted by Uthen.
“Pardon my inability to control my tongue. I have witnessed the horrors of the Widow first hand and know that she can turn a great man into nothing, no matter his skill with a blade. Please accept my apologies,” spoke Uthen, extending his hand to the warrior.