Moonlight Banishes Shadows

by J. T. Wright

  The title of Shadow Hunter demanded that he press on despite how he felt. If he ignored this, the worst thing to happen would be losing the title and the perks that went with it. Perks that only applied when facing the Cursed.

  It was the insubstantial behemoth that lurked at his back that kept him racing forward, not his title. He could smell the tobacco on Cullen’s breath, feel the Sergeant’s expectations as he leaned in to whisper in Trent’s ear.

  “Tired, Runt?” He would say, “Feeling like a nap? Maybe a bath and glass of warm milk to lull you to sleep?

  “Well, go ahead!” No whispering now. The roar was sudden, stabbing into ear drums as it dripped with disdain. “Lie down. Get comfortable! Tuck your fucking arm beneath that empty fucking head and go to sleep. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and some slob of a snot-licking whore’s son will slit your throat for you!

  “That’s what you have to look forward to! It’s that or you drink piss, gargle with vinegar, and stop acting like a tit-sucking baby! Stand up straight, runt! I’ve seen straighter spines in Slimes!”

  A board inserted itself down the back of Trent’s shirt, forcing the slump from his back. “I’ve never seen a Slime, Sergeant. What are they like?”

  “All you need to know about Slimes is they lack balls and still manage to have more testicular fortitude than you do! What are you waiting for Runt?”

  “You, Sergeant,” Trent sounded off in a tight voice. “Just this once, handle this for me.”

  “Ohhh, does the Runt want Sergeant Cullen to hold his hand and take him for walkies? You want I should carry you on my shoulders and feed you cookies and cake?”

  Trent knew better than to answer that.

  “Not going to happen, runt! Now stick out your chest and get moving, or by Noemi’s Mercy and Rindel’s left nut I will shove my boot so far up that lazy ass…”

  “…I’ll be tasting leather for a week.” Trent finished the Sergeant’s favorite threat.

  Blood and Ash had drawn themselves, and their hilts filled Trent’s palms. They must have placed themselves there of their own accord. He had no memory of drawing them.

  Well, if they were that eager to be of use, it would be a shame to disappoint.

  Trent didn’t immediately move forward. He looked over the entrance to the Guardian’s chamber one last time. Felicia claimed you could find clues about what to expect from careful observation of the Trial’s surface. She said Dungeon, of course. That lapse put her words in question, but Trent chose to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  An archway supported by grand columns. Out of place with the rest of the Trials decor, the difference might indicate a new Keeper’s preference. Safe Zones had contained sculptures of beetles and bugs, and Trent had seen multiple carvings that he had taken for hints; none of those were exactly like he was seeing here.

  Snakes with unhinged jaws swallowed weeping women. Fiends prodded at anguished men with tridents and knives. Scorpions stung the tongues of dogs as they howled and tried to run.

  All the carvings on the columns had one thing in common. Their faces, all of them, men, women, and dogs, resembled Trent’s. Not exactly a subtle message.

  Obviously, he was expected. As a threat, Trent found the pictures overdone. As a warning, they were comical. As an instigation… entirely effective.

  “Wish me luck, Sergeant!” Trent clucked his tongue and rolled his shoulders.

  “Who the fuck taught you to rely on luck, Runt? When I find him, I’ll rip off his leg and beat you with it while you eat his intestines raw. Get in there and kick ass with style and skill. You don’t need any thrice-damned luck.”

  Trent was glad Cullen was only in his head. Kerry had taught him the phrase, “wish me luck.” Being beaten with Kerry’s chunky leg while choking on raw intestine was a much more effective threat than the columns managed to convey. He quickly entered the chamber and began scanning for the Guardian.

  Trent’s eyes flickered from side to side, taking it all in. The checkered floor of white and black marble was a curious departure from the Trial’s natural stone. The hanging chandeliers filled with blazing candles that dripped wax onto the polished stone gave the impression that bones were raining from the ceiling. Suits of macabre armor, all hooks and barbs, stood guard at each corner.

  Two more suits stood behind the throne of skulls at the far side of the room. On the left of the throne, a pale girl with jet black hair was curled up, whimpering to herself on the floor. She was out of place in a dress of Spider’s silk. Trent thought he could make out a pair of Beetle’s wings on her back but wasn’t entirely sure.

  The figure to the right of the throne, standing at least seven feet in height, fit the chamber like a glove. A broad torso covered in a black robe with a sword belt at his waist almost brought a smile to Trent’s face. He would enjoy testing himself against a Guardian who was also a Swordsman. His smile faltered when he realized the head above the Guardian’s shoulders was a deer’s skull covered in reptilian skin and scales. Antlers climbed above the Guardian’s head, adding to his already impressive stature.

  In contrast, the man on the throne was unassuming. Clothes of linen, a circlet of iron, he would have looked human if not for his grey skin tones and flaxen-colored eyes. He slouched on the throne, presenting a bored image. Yet his gaze tracked Trent relentlessly as he stepped to the middle of the room.

  “Keeper,” Trent pointed Blood at the unconscious girl, “she has gotten bigger since the last time I saw her.”

  Ash came up and stabbed in the direction of the antlered freak with the sword. “Guardian, has to be, with that invincible aura that he, it, wears like a cloak.”

  Trent lowered his sword and tilted his head to the side. “That makes you the new would-be Keeper, right?”

  “I am Keeper now,” the man on the throne drawled. “Forty-seven minutes left till my coronation. I feel confident in calling it now. You won’t be able to defeat my Guardian in that time. A pity, I was looking forward to watching you. AAHHH.”

  The rival for the Keeper’s title screamed when the Flame Wall covered the dais. Trent didn’t pay it any mind. His Spells couldn’t harm a Keeper; he didn’t have that kind of power. The man probably only shouted from surprise.

  Surprise at Trent’s audacity, the sheer nerve Trent must have to interrupt his betters. He would have been even more shocked to learn that Trent had started speaking only to buy himself the time it took to use Silent Cast to attack the Guardian with Flame Wall. The wannabe Keeper and his babble were a tool. As long as the rules were in place, the man’s presence could be ignored.

  Trent almost hoped the Keeper did step in and attack him. He had seen a Keeper punished once. The lightning that would scorch the man’s grey skin would not be blocked by a stone ceiling. It would spare Trent the effort of fighting the deer-faced sword carrier, the true target of his Spell.

  In his mind, Trent had already downgraded the Guardian from Swordsman to a person who owned a sword. Trent rushed forward in an attempt to keep the Guardian contained on the dais and within the flames. In the time it took him to attack, Trent could have drawn the broadsword ten times. The Guardian was just clearing his sheath when Trent slashed Blood into the Beast’s waist and stabbed Ash towards its chest.

  Trent felt like he had struck an anvil. His blades failed to penetrate the Guardian’s robes. While he was still dealing with the shock of his attack’s ineffectiveness, Trent was forced to duck a backhanded swing as the Guardian leveled a swipe at his head. Trent lashed out at the creature's arm as he moved out of the way, and his mouth puckered into an unhappy frown when his hands went numb from the impact.

  Surrounded by flame and showing no sign that it had noticed Trent’s valiant efforts, the Beast took a two-handed grip on its broadsword and lifted the blade high overhead. The sword crashed against the marble floor, cracking the tiles as Trent leaped backward. The Guardian followed him, swinging its sword like a Farmer cutting long grass, pushing Trent towards the center of th
e room.

  “I've been watching you.” The man on the throne settled back. He held out his hand and let the flames of Trent’s Spell wrap around it as he spoke. “Since you opened the gate that brought me here.

  “Swords, fire, and earth! You are no Arcane Swordsman. I think Spellsword, at best, is all you can claim. A new one at that.” The man’s mouth pouted as Trent’s Spell dissipated, as if he missed the warmth of the fire. “I prepared this Guardian specifically for you. Shadow Hunter will not help you. You've already learned the worth of your Spells and weapons.”

  Trent circled around the Guardian, his blades slamming into its body. The creature made no move to stop him. Trent did not understand it. Even if they weren’t cutting, the impact of his swords should bruise skin or break bones. More tiles cracked as Trent angled his body to avoid a slash.

  “Since I opened the gate?” Trent looked beyond the Guardian and saw the exit was open. Since the Beast was slower than he was, it wouldn’t be able to stop him if he did decide to run. “So just on this floor then?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” The man chuckled. “You've given your all on this floor. I've seen your tricks.”

  Trent brought Blood down on the back of the Guardian’s hand. A strike with all his strength behind it left an indent, that was all. “Strength and Constitution at the cost of Agility, a robe that protects from blades, fire and earth. That had to create a weakness—"

  Trent gasped as a shouldercharge caught him off-guard and flung him across the room. He landed at the steps to the dais. The sudden increase in speed had to be a Skill. He would watch for that.

  It was the exit that his eyes flickered to as he pulled himself to his feet. The grey-skinned man sat up straight and leaned forward, his arms gripping his throne as he observed what Trent was thinking.

  “Yes, you can leave,” he mused, one hand stroking his chin. His lips curled upward, and his free hand gestured imperiously. “Leave anytime you like. My General is too slow to catch you… but will my Knights hinder your escape?”

  Four suits of armor lifted spears and battle axes as they moved from the corners. The scraping of metal on stone behind him told Trent that the two there were in motion as well. Six heavily armored Knights and a robed Guardian he couldn’t harm. Trent looked wistfully at the exit that two of the Knights were moving to block.

  He spun to block a thrust leveled at his back. The Knights were fast too. Trent ducked and swayed as the two that had been behind the throne joined forces to crowd him back to the center of the room where his largest, invulnerable opponent waited with black eyes shining.

  Blood and Ash worked independently as Trent parried and tried to counter. He kept the Knight’s blades from his skin, but it was a near thing. A third knight charged from the side, and Trent spun away from a spear tip, nearly walking into an axe blade. He hacked at the haft of the axe, empowering his strike with Disarm. The Knight kept hold of his weapon, but Trent was gratified to see it loosen in the Knight’s gauntlets.

  The armored figure stumbled into the path of its comrades as it struggled to keep hold of his axe. For a moment, Trent was free of the constant assault. His knees bent. When they straightened, Enhanced Jump sent Trent skywards. Blood and Ash clanged as Trent released them, and they fell to the floor.

  Trent’s hands closed on the metal beams of the chandelier he had been standing beneath. He pulled himself up with a grunt. His legs dangled, just barely missing the antlers of the Guardian who had lunged for him. Trent heaved himself up, setting his knees on the ornate beams and praying they would support him.

  “What do you think you’ve accomplished?” The would-be Keeper sounded amused at Trent’s flight. “Weaponless, and still within reach of my Knight’s spears. I look forward to watching you die!”

  Trent didn’t answer. Unlike the rest of the Trial, this room was brightly lit. Three chandeliers supplied plenty of candlelight, and their flames prevented any shadows from encroaching into the room. The abundance of light was absurd, considering all the Beasts of this Trial had some form of Night Sight.

  Trent had practiced Fire Manipulation on every campfire he had sat in front of. Connecting with natural flames was different than changing the shape of a Spell he cast. They resisted and fought his control. They wanted to be coaxed and flattered. Touching hundreds of small, flickering lights at once brought sweat to Trent’s brow and caused a throbbing behind his eyes.

  Trent grabbed hold of the chain which kept the chandelier suspended. It took three-fourths of his Mana to sap the energy from the candles. His knees were weak as the room plunged into darkness. Below him, the knights milled around the Guardian, confused, slashing at the air futilely with their weapons.

  “Do you think that's clever? A snap of my fingers is all it takes to undo your efforts.” The Keeper slapped the bone armrests of his throne as he stood. He snapped at the chandeliers, once, twice. Nothing happened.

  “Temporary Keepers may not interfere with their Guardian’s battles. This room is outside of your control until the issue has been decided. Keeper will be silenced to prevent meddling.”

  Trent silently thanked the Trial Spirit as he took his Runic Battle Bow from Storage. The chandelier spun and wobbled as he set his feet. The bow had a base Damage of 35. The arrows supplied by his Skill added 25 to that—a far cry from what he could do with a sword.

  A slowly revolving archer and targets that stumbled as they slashed and poked around in the dark tested Trent’s accuracy. Triple Shot and Create Arrow sent three steel-tipped arrows racing downward. Trent’s fingers had hardly released the first volley before he was drawing again. He peppered the room, depending on the bow's own mana to fuel his barrage.

  Arrows hissed through the air and pinged off armor. The Knights faltered, spinning in place as broad heads found the joints in their protection. The Guardian bugled its head lifted in panic. Two arrows had pierced its robe and plunged into its shoulders.

  Not invulnerable, merely resistant to swords! The Keeper had watched him on the fifth floor. He had never seen Trent with a bow. He had no reason to suspect he carried one. He might even have imbued his Guardian with a weakness to Archers. After all, Trent was a Swordsman and there wasn’t an arrow slinger in his party. The man had not taken possession of the Trial yet. He lacked the all-seeing eyes that a Keeper needed to devise the best challenges for the Adventurers entering their territory.

  One Knight vanished as it fell, and Trent put a shaft through the visor of its helmet. A second dropped its spear when its elbow was pierced. A third lost its axe as an arrowhead tore through its neck. One by one, Trent disabled the minions, targeting their weakness as he grew used to the motion of the chandelier.

  Trent started to draw his bowstring for another volley. His fingers slipped from the string before it could be brought to his ear. The Skill had been taking energy from his own MP. The dozens of arrows he had shot had depleted the bow’s supply.

  Two of the Knights were gone. The only sign they had ever been were the drops they left behind. Trent marked that loot as he Stored his bow. It would be useful for finishing the four surviving Knights and their bestial general.

  Trent jumped lightly from the chandelier setting the light fixture to spinning. The creaking of the chain covered the patter of his boots as he dropped to the floor. The blank eyes of Trial Beasts looked upwards at the noise. One Knight, kneeling with an arrow in his leg, twisted his head to the right when the sound of coins rattling on marble was heard over the rusty moaning of chains.

  A spear point took him in the neck, pushing him to lay flat. Whatever type of Beast it was wearing the armor of Knights let out a wet, garbled croak before it died. The agonized panting of the Guardian paused at the muted death cry. It struggled to turn toward where it felt one of its minions perish.

  The Guardian couldn’t turn fast enough to keep up with the wave of death that surrounded it. In Trent’s hands, the eight-foot polearm was light as a feather, flickering in the dark as quickly as h
is arrows had. The Knights collapsed, and then the spear tip plunged into the Guardian’s chest.

  Black ichor oozed from the wound when Trent withdrew the spear and stabbed out again. The Guardian bellowed as it stumbled back. It swung its broadsword wildly, but the five feet of steel never came close to Trent’s thrust.

  Trent stabbed and twisted, his spearhead tearing open the Guardian’s thigh. The creature was stubborn; it’s high Constitution kept it on its feet. Trent was equally as stubborn. The spear was no enchanted weapon. It had no poison. Each strike managed 50 Damage, not even as much as his arrows. However, some of that would be mitigated by the Guardian’s defense.

  Trent could picture the damage he did. In his mind, red 35’s floated up from bleeding wounds. Occasionally, a higher number would join them as he hit a sensitive or vital area. Those numbers would get bigger as Bloodletting took effect. They would grow again as the Guardian’s defenses were broken. The more Damage one took, the more Damage one was going to take. Trent had experienced that personally.

  Trent began to grow sick of the one-sided slaughter. The creature’s screams reminded him of a tiny pink pig squealing as it ran from the clumsy hands of, what were in its eyes, giants. The creature was blinded by the environment, but Trent could clearly see what was happening thanks is to Dark Vision.

  Foam dripped from the Guardian’s mouth, and its black eyes were wide as it tried to ward him off. Black eyes. He had noticed that before. Now it dawned on Trent what those eyes signified.

  Guardian of a Trial, not yet a Trial Beast. This was a living, thinking being that the temporary Keeper had enlisted to protect that obscene throne of bones. Trent could see the desire to flee in the beady black eyes. It would surrender, given the chance. He wanted to let it.