Chapter One

The road was long. It was always that way. Traveling by horseback for days at a time was lonely, cumbersome on the spirit and worst of all: slow. But, Arcalane had gotten used to it. At fifteen he set out from his home of Hygard to the lower lands of Lothoran, oathbound to his brotherhood and country to hunt the evils that plagued the lands within.

Now, a man of twenty, he knew the routine well. Eventually, he would find whatever demonic creature he was hunting, kill it, and then he would be down another road. He would see a different place, sometimes even the same one, and work until his hunt was done. But, the work was never done.

At the end of the road was the town of Dornwich. The shoddy town was next to a dump, nestled in surrounding gorges with a ramshackle collection of dilapidated buildings that looked as though they would collapse at any moment. A heavy vapor of smog hovered over the building tops there, from the dumps in the gorges. Mangy dogs prowled the alleys, nosing through piles of refuse, while the few residents who were outside moved about slowly with their shoulders hunched and eyes downcast. The dirt road was choked by weeds and littered with all manner of debris, from rusted tools, to scraps of cloth and broken glass.

Arcalane rode atop his gray-speckled horse, Styer, straight to the thoroughfare, stoic in his posture; athletic, tall, with tousled brown hair and vibrant blue eyes. His jawline was strong, and he wore a blend of light and plated armor, fitted to accommodate movement and protection. At his side was his broadsword, forged from Temptas steel; a metal that only the blacksmiths of the Order had mastered. And, to those trained to know, a clear indication that he was an Archknight.

Riotous chanting and cheering drew Arcalane to the town’s center, where an execution was being held. He watched a family join the crowd that was gathered to watch. There was a dad, a mom and their two kids. They were excited, almost giddy, and even talked about the last execution they had witnessed. The town’s Meister, an old, gray-bearded, man in long robes, addressed the crowd; with the masked executioner behind him.

“Before us is a man of sin, accused of fornication with a witch,” the Meister announced. The crowd booed. “Adamus Flenn, the accused, broke out with the Leaky Pox and was witnessed in carnal positions with animals enchanted by the witch that haunts these lands!”

The crowd booed louder than before and threw rotten fruit and vegetables at Adamus, who was hunched over, his neck on a chopping block and hands tied behind his back.

“What have you to say, before you die?” the Meister asked Adamus.

“I ain’t never laid down with no witch!” Adamus declared frightfully. “But, I seen her…prayin’ to the devil in them cursed woods…doin’ sinful things to others-“

“That’s enough!” growled the Meister. “I’ll have you not defile our ears with talk of such vulgarity.”

He motioned to the executioner, who promptly beheaded Adamus. A snap of thunder echoed, drowning out cheering from the crowd. Rain followed and they dispersed. Adamus and his remains were left behind. The head was in a basket, looking up to the sky, eyes still open and mouth trembling as if it were trying to speak. Arcalane grumbled, it was a sign that in fact the man was bewitched. And it was widely believed within the teachings of the Order that after someone who is spellbound dies, they try to speak to the one whom they serve.

“Rain never bothered me,” a lowly elderly man said to Arcalane, as he rolled a wheelbarrow next to the chopping block. His hands were crooked, and he was bent at the spine. “Seems like we’re getting more of these lately,” he said as he struggled to place Adamus’s body into the wheelbarrow, “men and women sent to the block…accused of devil worship…they say a witch lives nearby.”

Arcalane assisted him. “What do you think?”

“Lived here since I was a boy,” the man said. “Never a word of witches or devils, except stories from the Viempire Kingdoms…but not here.”

“Dornwich is close to the Devil’s Woods,” Arcalane remarked. “And you’ve never once had encounters with what lurks there?”

“Never said that,” the man replied, loading Adamus’s head next to his body and then covering it. “I only said we ain’t never had trouble with witches, until as of late.”

“Why do you suppose that is?” Arcalane inquired.

The man gave his answer, “’Tis the War that’s stirred things up. Set loose things that are better left chained…us in the lowlands, we know the truth though.”

“And what is the truth?”

“The Viempire’s have the power down here,” the man said in a whisper, before pushing the creaking wheelbarrow toward the gorges.

Arcalane trailed behind, “What else can you tell me about this witch?” he asked.

The man paused at the cliff’s edge. “Ask any dozen of us, and you’ll get a different tale,” he said. With a heave, he tipped the body into the gorge and then wiped his brow. “Weather’s foul in these parts. We get all manner of travelers taking shelter in Dornwich, being so close to the main road.” His voice dropped low. “But not all find refuge within our walls.”

“Where else would they go?” Arcalane asked, intrigued.

“Branwyne’s,” the man answered. “Up the hill, mile or so east. Quiet lady, widow…only see her ‘bout once a month, when she needs supplies.”

“Be well, old one,” Arcalane said, bidding him farewell before continuing on.

***

The rain hadn’t let up and, in fact, had gotten worse. By the time Arcalane and Styer reached the home that he believed was Branwyne’s, the sun had already set. Smoke from the chimney of the cottage was barely visible, but was an encouraging sign that someone was there. As he drew nearer, he saw the flickering of candlelight through the windows. At the door was a young woman, with curly dark hair and beady eyes; holding a cup of tea as if waiting for him to arrive.

“If you’re looking for shelter, you’d best get inside,” the woman offered Arcalane, and when he got closer, she saw his sword. “That stays outside,” she told him. “And you can tie your horse ‘round back, I’ve got a shelter for me goats there.”

Arcalane followed the woman’s requests, placing Styer under the shelter and securing his sword to the saddlebag, before returning.

“It’s ten pieces for the night, double if the storm lasts longer,’ the woman said, prompting Arcalane to follow her inside.

“What’s your name, stranger?” she asked, going back to a kettle that was on a stove.

“Arcalane,” he answered, removing his hood, showing his full face and the scar across his throat.

“Name’s Branwyne,” she replied, her eyes told Arcalane she was surprised at something; more than likely his appearance. “Bit tall for a young bloke, ain’t ya,” she casually remarked, taking ten pieces of silver that he handed her and placing it in her pocket.

He tilted his head slightly, acknowledging her comment but not putting forth the effort to respond.

She continued talking, “You’ll have to forgive me, was preparing some tea for the evening when I saw you out in the storm.”

“Thank you for taking me in,” Arcalane said.

“’Tis no trouble at all,” she answered. “I get more wanderers and stragglers out here than I’d care too at times. Should start charging more,” she chuckled.

“Yes, of course.”

“Oh, you’re not much for words, are you?”

“It can be dangerous out here, Branwyne. Do you tend to your goats by yourself?”

Her face crinkled nervously. “I get help, sometimes, from men in Dornwich…Drakemoor, even, if they’re down here for the season. And if I’m lucky, I don’t have to pay them,” again she chuckled.

Arcalane smirked. “Must be a difficult life.”

“I’m just a simple woman, widowed, never had kids, trying to do her best.”

“Hard times we live in,” he added.

“Now, that’s the honest truth,” she agreed with a smile. “So, where are you going? Nothing but open country far as the eye can see.”

“That’s the honest truth, it is,” she nodded with a grin. “The bleedin’ War ain’t helping no one, especially down ‘ere. There’s no hope at all.,” she observed him closely. “Now, look at you, a young man like yourself. Surprised you ain’t out there in the thick of it, mixin’ it up with the lot…killing’ Viempire scum with the king’s armies. So, where exactly are ya headed? Nothin’ but open country far as the eye can see.”

“Nowhere in particular,” he told her.

“Now, isn’t that…odd,” she implied as she offered him a cup of tea. “Everyone’s always going somewhere.”

“Not me,” he replied, accepting her offer.

She poured two cups for them and sat down. “I noticed your horse. Fine breed. Lovely color. I had me one when I was well enough to ride…expensive they are. You rich or something?”

Arcalane shook his head. “Far from it. I live in the open country. I find it relaxing.”

Her face dropped in disagreement. “Relaxing? That’s a new one. In all me years I’ve never heard anyone describe the open country as relaxing, what, with all the wild beasts and outlaws roaming around; not to mention what’s in the Devil’s Woods. Why, just the other day a family was butchered, right near here, by some sort of creature I think…could be anything of an unnatural nature, what with us living close to the Withering Veil.”

“People shouldn’t travel without escorts,” he said, sifting the tea.

“Well, bodyguards aren’t cheap,” she argued. “Not to mention, they hardly can contend with what’s out there. Can’t even protect themselves half the time. Men for hire, that’s all they are.”

“A price you pay for living in the lowlands.”

“You really are blunt,” she laughed. “I’m starting to like you.”

“How old are you?” Arcalane asked abruptly.

Branwyne shot out an unexpected laugh. “Not much for politeness. Don’t you know you never ask a lady their age?”

Arcalane shrugged. “Just curious.”

“And what if I told you today was my fifty-fifth birthday?”

“I’d say that’s too much of a coincidence.”

“None more than our meeting.”

“It’s not the same, I heard about your homestead,” Arcalane confessed.

Branwyne became visibly uncomfortable. “I don’t advertise.”

“All the same, people talk about this place.”

“What do they say?” she asked curiously.

Arcalane answered with directness, “They talk about a lonely woman who takes in travelers.”

There was a moment of silence, lasting a few seconds before being interrupted by a roar of thunder.

“What kind of work did you say you did?” Branwyne asked nervously.

“Odd jobs, whatever I can get.”

“You must be a mercenary then. An ordinary man doesn’t walk around with a sword like yours.”

“A keen observation, coming from a goat herder,” he replied.

“Who’d you say you were looking for?”

He answered, after a small break. “Didn’t say I was.”

“Sorry, I guess me mind’s going,” she said dismissively. “You just ask questions like you want something.”

Arcalane didn’t respond.

They shared another brief pause before Branwyne broke the silence, “Your tea is getting cold,” she casually remarked.

Arcalane leaned in closer to her. “You don’t look a day older than twenty.”

Branwyne smirked. “I guess it’s me tea.”

“It’s not the tea keeping you young,” Arcalane stated with directness.

“Is that so?”

“But, you’re not fifty-five either. I’d say you’re probably two hundred, give or take a decade.”

Branwyne’s smirk left her face, replaced by a disgusted curl of her upper lip. “Is that so?”

Thunder belted across the plains as the two sat silently staring at one another. It was at that moment Branwyne’s expression changed to a look of anger. Before she had time to act, Arcalane threw a silver dagger between her eyes, killing her instantly. He then retrieved his sword and decapitated her. After shoving her head in a satchel, he walked out into the storm.

***

The Devil’s Woods was known to the world as a place where treacherous evil lurked, a dense forest where few survived; teeming with deadly and wild creatures; most of which were of a supernatural kind. Arcalane had dealt with them before, one of the few men on earth who could, and he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t feel a level of fear.

Ominous voices and growls lurked in the shadows as he journeyed into the deep dark. The forest was a labyrinth of dense fog, where the air was thick with the stench of death and decay. The ground was moss-covered, making it difficult for Styer’s hooves to walk through. But, he managed. Arcalane was aware of that fact, but his thoughts dwelt elsewhere. Removing the head of the witch Branwyne was just the first step to his mission, finding Lady Despaira was next. She was a demon, powerful and near impossible to kill, and had been feasting on the people of the surrounding towns for a while. He had a plan to kill her, although it didn’t fill him with a large amount of confidence; but it was better than nothing.

After coming to a crossroad, he took out the head of Branwyne and held it up, facing it towards each path. There were three, and when the head faced the third its eyes opened, revealing to Arcalane the correct way to Despaira’s lair. Before heading down the road, he burnt the head.

Things became unnervingly calm as he neared the lair of Lady Despaira, which was inside the ruins of an old castle. A soft, haunting, voice of a woman called to him: What are you doing here? You do not belong.

He pressed on, moving aside piles of rock until he found the entrance, which led underground.

“Turn back, hunter, slayer of demons. Come no further. My home is forbidden. You cannot enter.”

A narrow tunnel led Arcalane to a spacious hall. The walls were obsidian stone, glimmering and haunting as they reflected fires from the lanterns within. On a throne was Lady Despaira. Throngs of malformed demons crawled along the floor, clamoring with outstretched arms toward her. She had golden hair that flowed like plumes of agitated smoke, contrasting against her soulless black skin. Her eyes were yellow flames of raging fire. She scraped the armrests of her throne with her demonic claws.

Amidst the mass of demons were groups of dead humans, deadlocked with their arms out. Each had their mouths sewn into a frown and eyes that were hollowed out. Some were standing, while others were sitting. All were in poses as if they were alive.

“You are resilient, hunter,” Lady Despaira frivolously admired. “An ordinary man would not have made it this far…”

She looked Arcalane over with her flickering eyes, vivaciously. His demeanor was firm and powerful and old scars, from years of fighting, adorned him; a stark contrast to the celestial blue color of his eyes. She smiled, amused at that simple detail.

“…but, you are no ordinary man are you, Archknight?” she added.

“Your witch is dead,” Arcalane stated.

She frowned. “Pity. She had made many offerings,” her eyes looked over the upright bodies of the humans. “I fed well on their despair. No bother, there are others who will serve me.”

“I’m going to kill you,” said Arcalane without emotion.

“Oh, you are a heartless one,” quipped Despaira. “Aren’t you afraid to die?”

“Aren’t you?”

Despaira chuckled at Arcalane’s directness and looked him over again. “You’re very young. Is this your first mission? Don’t tell me the Order thinks me this weak as to send a child to kill me,” she chuckled again. “Maybe they didn’t have a choice. Shame, really…and pathetic. Do we have to fight? You, an oath-bound knight, and I, a descendant of the abyss? For centuries, our sides fought, for centuries we have remained embittered to our birthright. Where has that gotten you? Your ranks are less and less these days.”

“You could just surrender and face justice.”

Despaira’s eyes lit up. “I have done nothing that is not within my nature. I hear sadness like a calling in silence, whispers of loneliness and despair. I answer that call and they come to me, pouring out their misery, and I take it...for all suffering is mine, it makes me...whole,” she gently stroked the face of one of her victims, “they offer themselves to me, for they love me and I love them. In the instant that their pain seeps out through open wounds and slowly their life fades, we are one; forever, and our love is eternal.”

“That’s not love,” stated Arcalane sternly. “A thing like you cannot love.”

“A ‘thing’ like me?” laughed Despaira. “And what about a thing like you? I feel your sorrow, it weeps out of your body like a fissure,” she closed her eyes and moaned in a salacious fashion, “yes, how sweet your pain is. I see into your misery and see you for what you truly are. I know you better than you know yourself. Because of that, you’ll become one with me and my love.”

“Can you kill me?” Arcalane taunted, “Will you be the one to finally do it?”

Despaira cocked her head back, offended. “How dare you mock me? Such arrogance! Such foolishness! You would not be the first Archknight I have killed.”

The clamoring demons turned their attention from Despaira to Arcalane and attacked. He dispatched the horde with brutal ferocity and before the last demon fell, he leapt at Despaira for the kill. She shouted a spell, moments before the end of his sword could find her heart, and summoned otherworldly chains from the shadows that pulled him to the ground. She spat another spell, disorientating his mind, and turning his thoughts into voids of confusion. The air around him spun and tunnels of particles blasted into his skull, making it feel as though his head would shatter.

Despaira neared him, triumphantly gazing at his anguish. “Who are you to interfere in my affairs?” she barked, squeezing his throat violently and driving her jagged claws into his side. “What gives you the right to come here and make threats? This is no longer your world. Soon, the Dark One will rise and your pathetic world will fall!”

Arcalane’s eyes ignited in a white light, invigorating his body and mind. The power he ignited was his HALO. It made him stronger, took away pain and enabled him to see faster than his eyes normally could, as if it could slow time. With his HALO activated he was able to break free from Despaira’s hold and drive her to her knees by crushing her hands. As she knelt in shock, staring at her mangled hands, he broke her neck, killing her instantly.

He disengaged his HALO, breathing heavily from exhaustion; all else was deathly quiet in the hall. He grabbed the wound on his side and fixed a crude field dress over it, unable to stop it from bleeding entirely but mending it just enough to where he wouldn’t bleed-out. Looking at Despaira’s dead body left him with an empty feeling. He knew that killing her had spared others the pain and grief of falling prey to her evil appetites. However, he didn’t feel a sense of accomplishment or bravado. He felt nothing. He had hoped for the opposite, but the end result yielded the same empty feeling from times before; a feeling that haunted him, one he feared he would never be rid of.

***

Arcalane decided to rest near a lunar pond, at the edge of the Devil’s Woods. The water was clear, but carried a soft glow on its surface, as radiant as the face of the moon. He always admired it and considered finding a lunar pond a sign of good fortune. They were mainly found in the Shadow Lands, where there wasn’t any real light; just darkness. But, one could find a pond or two near the border between there and the highlands of Lothoran.

The water was cool to the touch and light particles inside it tingled when he cupped handfuls and wiped them over his body. As more moonlight covered the pond, the brighter it became and the more tranquil it was. He placed his hands in the water, welcoming the relaxing sensation it brought. His body was sore and bruised from the day’s previous fighting. Feeling the cool water lessened the ache and, before long, he was at ease.

Styer was taking respite inland next to a few Bleak Oak trees. The trees were gray in color and their roots were moist, often providing great beds of grass of the same color. He took a flask of gin from Styer’s saddlebag and drank it, letting the alcohol burn down his throat. The only thing he had left to eat was a square of dry bread. It was better than nothing, he reasoned, taking a hard bite into the bread’s crunchy shell. His tongue almost instantly became parched, and he took another drink from his flask to wash it down. Styer neighed, bobbing his head up and down.

Arcalane lifted his flask, “Cheers, old friend,” he toasted as he drank what remained.

He sat down and closed his weary eyes; they were sore and red. The advantage of sitting near lunar water, when moonlight was bright upon it, was the nice breezes swept up from the banks. He welcomed the inviting wind. However, his moment of respite was cut short with the sounds of sordid moaning creeping out from the shadows around him. With it, sinister voices spoke all at once:

“Oh, sweet angel, succulent sadness thoust keep,” the voices sank, seemingly to crawl along the ground.

Styer turned aggressive, bucking and huffing.

“I burn for thee!” another voice heckled.

Arcalane readied himself for a confrontation.

“Such sorrow!” they all said at once, revealing themselves from the shadows. Tormentors. Their gangly, jagged, fingers dug into the dirt as they dragged themselves across the ground, lugging heavy chains behind them. They appeared like moving shadows but weren’t. It was their tattered, black, clothes that gave off that appearance. Obstacles around them had no hindrance on where they went or at what speed they chose to go. With their sinister chains they created a perimeter around Arcalane, trapping him inside a malicious cage.

“Let me out,” Arcalane demanded with barbarity.

“Reject thy ferocity, fleshling, and thou may yet live. Forfeit an answer, the reason why thou cometh to our domain,” one spoke in a murmur.

“Why dost thou tempt us with such raw misery?” another asked with vitality.

He chose not to answer, he didn’t want to play their game.

The Tormentors tightened their circle abruptly. “Thou art silent. Yes, too muted by sadness...focused are thee on escape. Anger swells inside, now. This pleases us,” they admired openly. “Thou makest an effort to hide your emotions, to conceal it from our gaping tongues. Nevertheless, it dwells deep in thy dark heart. And we see it. Open. Naked. Even when thou first entered here, we felt it.”

“Forfeit a reason why thy livest in sadness!” screamed one in a shriek.

“Regret?” one curiously answered. “Loss? Injustice?”

“No, too passive. Much too docile a reason,” another interjected, “I have it! Hate!”

“Yes,” they all agreed, nearing Arcalane, examining his demeanor. He was calm, showing no emotion.

“Dost thou want to kill us, like thou killest the Lady Despaira?”

“Do you want to die?” he asked, detached from feeling.

“It’s gone now,” one observed, “the hate...locked away, like starlight behind clouds.”

Another Tormentor looked him in the eyes. “Thou art ready to fight and have shut away so easily those emotions that thou had earlier. Tell us, what is the true cause of thy hate?”

“My dinner was a bit dry,” he answered, mocking them.

The Tormentors turned silent, not amused by his cynicism.

“Thy mockery is a shield, one not necessary. One utterly useless against us. We thrive on raw, despondent, emotions and thou art ripe with it.”

“You don’t know me,” Arcalane bluntly replied.

“Emotions never lie. That’s all we need.”

Arcalane inspected the chains. He could break them at any time. But, he hesitated. The thought of being killed wasn’t that bad. In fact, deep down, he might have wanted it.

“Who are you to kill me?” he asked in a powerful, brutish, voice. “You are nothing compared to me and my strength! Show me someone who can kill me or die like everyone else!”

He viciously crushed the chains, freeing himself. The Tormentors backed off in fright, but he grabbed them and stopped their retreat.

“Release us!” they fearfully cried.

“You prey on the weak...hurting them, killing them, making them feel powerless...” Arcalane’s eyes wandered off, his grip relaxed as he reflected on his own words. The Tormentors fled, leaving him as he lowered his head in somberness