Chapter Two

It took Arcalane a day to reach Drakemoor. He had arrived later than he wanted, hoping to arrive before the night’s activities grew rampant. In Drakemoor that meant an assortment of things, things that Arcalane wanted to avoid simply because he detested cities like Drakemoor; cities that were overrun by crime and iniquity. Throughout the kingdom of Lothoran they seemed to be emerging more and more, especially in the lowlands.

As a result of such neglect the forests became tattered, and the streets were grime covered. That was the first thing Arcalane noticed when he entered the poor district in Drakemoor. Within a matter of a few minutes, he had been propositioned by several prostitutes and spat at by drunken men. He ignored them, like always, and continued onward.

Trash, garbage, and waste was almost everywhere, discarded in the gutters with the dead bodies of the poor. They were left there for the Carrion Ravens to devour. Looters and scavengers ransacked the bodies’ remains, taking whatever they could find before they were picked clean by the sharp beaks and lancing tongues of the carrions.

Most of the looters were children or the sick, those too weak to fend for themselves. They stared at his horse with hungry eyes. To them, it was a potential meal, and they envisioned the amount of meat they could get from it.

The guards of the rich district were more interested in the prostitutes than manning their posts. People came and went as they pleased. As Arcalane entered, the uproarious sounds of the evenings carousing filled the night air. Screams and angry shouting blended with the partying, almost too soft to hear over the drunken laughter and iniquitous behavior of those who occupied the thoroughfare. Most of those who lived in Drakemoor were criminals, a few human vagrants also staggered through the streets. It wasn’t hard to find someone who was drunk or otherwise inebriated.

Arcalane was unsure whether he would visit an old friend, a rather well-connected person, Antonella Vennichi. Antonella worked as a liaison for the Order, the group of Archknights that Arcalane belonged to. If anyone knew the coming and goings in Drakemoor, Antonella would. He knew it wouldn’t be long before she found him.

Arcalane looked down and noticed the bandages he had set from the fight with Lady Despaira had soaked through. Since he was in a major city, there was a good chance on finding a place with items suitable to help. There was an alchemy shop not too far away.

A young woman, no taller than four feet, greeted him with a kind smile as he entered. It was a small establishment but had a wide variety of potions, herbs, and other items common to occult sciences. A cauldron sat in the middle, where the woman was. She was standing on a stool putting dried plants and, what looked like salt inside the boiling water of the cauldron. In an instant, she plucked a vial from the shelves and beckoned him near and said, “For your injuries, good sir. No payment needed for one so noble.”

“Noble?” Arcalane inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“Indeed,” the woman replied. “Your eyes…beautiful, they are…but deadly, nonetheless…the eyes of an Archknight.”

“Flamebinder,” Arcalane answered directly.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “For cauterization?”

Arcalane nodded in agreement.

“Oh my,” she gasped, after noticing Arcalane’s blood-soaked side. “Please, sit.”

“I can take care of myself,” Arcalane told her. “I just need the medicine-”

She cut him off, “You’re injured. Now, sit down and let us treat you.”

The woman called over the alchemist, who emerged from the backroom; a frail looking elderly man, wearing spectacles and a cone-shaped hat.

“Where did you get your injury?” the alchemist asked as Arcalane prodded off the woman’s attempts to remove his shirt.

“An accident,” Arcalane answered through gritted teeth, distracted by the insistent woman’s prodding. “Is it common practice for herbalists around here to be this…aggressive?”

“Sir, please, let her help,” insisted the alchemist. “We have to see what type of injury you have, in order to assist you.”

Arcalane stopped, not sure why he was fighting them. He was just used to doing things alone. The short woman pulled off his shirt and paused, visibly disturbed by the scars on his body. He saw the upset expression she had, the same one the alchemist shared, as they both stared disturbingly. Scattered across his skin were old gashes and cuts, depicting a life-long story of violence and pain.

“I cleaned it, a few nights ago, and stitched it,” Arcalane told them. “Looks as though my stitching didn’t hold.”

The woman removed the bandage Arcalane had placed, revealing the wound, which was bleeding and had dark purple bruising around it. She went right in and snipped off the stitching and started to properly clean. He winced as she scrubbed away the dirt and flakes of dried blood that had collected there.

“This seems like a claw mark,” the alchemist observed, inspecting the laceration further. “Were you attacked by an animal,” he paused and gave an inquisitive glare, with his spectacles lowered just below his eyes, “or something…else?”

“It’s a dangerous place out there,” Arcalane answered frankly.

“Of course,” agreed the alchemist with a nod. He turned his attention to the various concoctions in his shop, inspecting them both visually and by smelling them. “I don’t see any venom in the wound, which is good. How long ago did this happen?”

“Just give me Flamebinder,” demanded Arcalane, but paused after recognizing his sharp rudeness, “please.”

“The scarring will be worse if you use that,” warned the alchemist. “Here, Wort of bat and Eddlers fork,” he said, offering Arcalane two small pouches. “Just mix with water and apply.”

Arcalane stared at him directly in the eyes, determined to get his way. “How much for the Flamebinder?”

The alchemist stumbled over his words, trying to offer a response, “I, um…”

“I’d listen to the man, if I were you potion maker,” a voice said, entering the shop. Arcalane turned to see who it was. A woman with wavy, honey colored hair, olive skin and green eyes was standing at the entrance. It was Antonella, smiling coyly at him with her arms folded.

The alchemist’s demeanor changed after seeing her, as if recognizing her authority. He gave Arcalane the Flamebinder. “Please, leave.”

Arcalane thanked him with a nod and left payment, before walking outside.

Antonella hastily followed. “You know a week or two putting on a salve isn’t that bad.”

“I’d rather just be done with it,” Arcalane told her.

“Why?” she curiously asked. “You got somewhere to be? Or are you preparing for a fight?”

Arcalane found a secluded spot and administered the Flamebinder. The liquid burnt over the wound, sealing it together. A surge of pain passed through his body. When it settled, he tossed the empty bottle aside and wiped away the Flamebinder residue, revealing a scar where the gash had once been.

“Was it worth it?” she asked, picking up the bottle. “Also, try to keep my streets clean.”

Arcalane put his shirt back on. “Peace of mind is always worth it.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Antonella remarked with a level of irritation in her voice. “Are you preparing for a fight?”

“I’m always preparing for one.”

She laughed. “Maybe if you prepared for things less dangerous, you wouldn’t be so grumpy.”

“I see it didn’t take you long to find me,” Arcalane remarked, changing the subject. He wasn’t in the mood for another one of Antonella’s ‘smile more’ conversations.

“Well, when you have your eyes and ears on the city, a young man traveling with a quality sword doesn’t get past you without you noticing,” she explained. “Of course, I was going to wait for you to visit me first.”

“I wanted to get settled in.”

Antonella accepted his excuse. “I happened to be in the area. I hope you’re not annoyed by that.”

He shook his head. “You? Annoy me? How could that possibly happen?”

She laughed at that. “Right.”

“While you’re here, mind doing me a favor and tell the Order my hunt is over-“

“Dinner first, then business,” she said, cutting him off.

“But-“

“No, no, no. You’re coming over for dinner. Afterward, we can discuss matters that concern the Order.”

“Antonella-“

“Be at my house at dusk,” she said, trotting off. “Don’t be late!”

Arcalane’s shoulders dropped. “Great.”

***

Arcalane waited at the heavy oak door to Antonella’s estate, gazing at the mullioned windows and meticulously landscaped gardens and grounds. He’d been there for a few minutes, standing and debating whether to knock; feeling small next to the three stories of pale stone rose and peaked gables of the manor. He thought about walking away and not taking Antonella’s invitation for dinner. It was simpler that way, for him, not to have a personal life. He’d known Antonella for years; their relationship had always been professional, and he liked it that way.

The door opened. Antonella was standing on the other side with a perturbed look on her face. “I’ve been waiting for you to knock for nearly ten minutes.”

Arcalane was caught off-guard and faltered in a response, “I, uh-“

“Come in,” she invited.

He entered her regal home; taking in the soaring ceilings and marble floors. A grand staircase was at the foyer and the walls were decorated with priceless oil paintings and tapestries. As he stepped on the lush and expensive carpet with his beaten-up boots, he paused suddenly aware that he hadn’t cleaned them in a while.

“Sorry,” he apologized, trying his best not to track in any dirt.

“It’s alright,” Antonella told him as she motioned for her servants. They moved in and properly wiped clean the carpet and the mud he’d tracked.

“I can take them off,” he offered, after they focused their attention to his boots.

“It’s fine, really,” she replied nonchalantly. “Besides, who knows how long it’s been since you’ve taken them off...and god only knows what sort of smell would come out.”

“I’d argue that point, except you’re probably right.”

“Was that a joke?” she asked lightheartedly.

A flat gaze was his response, and it said more than any words would have.

“You look worn-out,” she observed, noticing his tired image. “You’ll rest here for the night, after you’ve had a proper meal.”

“Antonella, really, I’m fine. I can find my own place.”

“Nonsense. You are my guest and besides, you look like you’ve been through hell,” she remarked as she inspected his torn and blood-stained clothes. “Did you even bother washing?”

“I did.”

“Well, you did an awful job.” Antonella turned to her servants, “I want his clothes cleaned and mended. And get him something to wear in the meantime.”

They acknowledged her order with a bow. “Follow us, my lord,” they said to Arcalane as they ushered him into a guest room.

“There are clean clothes from the Lady’s departed husband in the wardrobe. Set the dirty ones on the post. We’ll be outside when you are done,” one of the servants told him, before leaving.

Arcalane felt awkward about the entire situation and out of place in Antonella’s home. There he was, alone in a lush bedchamber, with its lavish rugs and ornate furnishings, while just days ago he had been hunting a witch and fighting a demoness. Now he was forced into the confines of the manor, surrounded by servants, and expected to observe proper etiquette. Settling into the routine of dinner and showing manners was something he wasn’t accustomed to.

He changed into the garments of Antonella’s former husband. His clothes were tailored to fit him and were a little tight across Arcalane’s broad shoulders and muscular frame. And he spent the next few minutes shifting around in them, trying to manage the discomfort. When he was content enough, he went out. The servants bowed humbly and filed into the room, where they gathered up his tattered clothing. He watched them, as if they were handling items of great value.

“They’ll be as good as new before you know it,” Antonella said, leading him into the dining room. A freshly prepared meal of Nocturl Swine and Chembaker Potatoes, with a side of Vynette Vegetable, was on the table. Antonella’s twelve-year-old daughter, Violette, was waiting for them.

“Master Arcalane,” Violette greeted with a humble bow.

“Violette,” Arcalane replied with a nod. She was a few years older and taller from when he last saw her. “You’ve grown.”

“She’s a Lady now,” Antonella added with pride.

They all sat down and Arcalane was served a full plate by the servants. He waited for Antonella and Violette to start eating before he took his first bite. The Swine was juicy and the sweet flavor of the Vynette accentuated it.

“You seem eager to rush out of here,” Antonella mentioned, noticing that Arcalane was eating quickly.

He slowed down. “Meals are not really the focus of my day.”

“Have you killed a lot of people?” Violette asked him frankly.

“Violette, manners!” Antonella scolded.

“I have, yes,” Arcalane honestly answered.

“It must be exciting, out there, roaming the world,” Violette replied with giddiness. “Mother tells me that you are an Archknight, like her.”

“Not exactly like her, she’s much better at the job,” Arcalane said with a smirk. “My life is not exciting. Your life is one that should be envied.”

“Hardly,” Violette stated with boredom. “My life is filled with classes, studies, being a proper Lady. I’d love, for just one day, to go outside the city.”

“Violette, stop it,” Antonella told her firmly. “I don’t know where you get these ideas from. The world is a dangerous place. I’ll hear no more on this subject.”

Violette sank back into her chair and quietly ate.

Arcalane stared at his plate. Sitting with Antonella and her daughter, having a normal meal, felt out of place. He tapped the handle of his sword, touching it seemed to center his discomfort. The sword, his weapon, was a constant in his world; something he was never without. It was his lifeblood and connection to the darkness that lurked out in the treacherous earth. He felt more like himself out there, than he did in the safety of a well-guarded city.

Antonella noticed that he was distracted and that his hand was near his sword. “Violette, leave us,” she said.

Violette tried to argue, “Mother-“

“Do what I say,” Antonella insisted.

Violette reluctantly left the dinner table, but not before offering a bow.

“What was that about?” Arcalane asked confused.

“Is death all you think of?” Antonella inquired, a bit put-off.

“I’m sorry Antonella I tried, I really did,” he replied, giving up. “But, being here and eating dinner like this. It’s not who I am.”

“I know why you like it out there,” stated Antonella solemnly. “You have wandered for a long time...alone, going from one hunt to the next, pushing yourself to kill the next biggest and deadliest creature until you reach the one that will kill you. And I have used your prowess on occasion to make myself a name within the Order. Perhaps I feel guilty. You’re too young to have given up on yourself already.”

“I’m oath-bound to the Endless Hunt, until evil is vanquished from this world,” he said. “The same oath you took, or have you forgotten? I’m not the one who has surrendered here.”

“You cannot escape your destiny,” Antonella said firmly.

“You believe my destiny lies in Hygard?” Arcalane retorted.

“The War needs you, Arcalane,” Antonella insisted. “Our foe dwells in a realm of shadows. A darkness dwells there, one that shall engulf us all should we falter. Only Lothoran stands as the wall against the viempire lords and their eternal night.”

Arcalane scoffed. “Lothoran has no need of me. They have Sir Atheleon Grey, their precious Archangel.” He pushed away from the table and went outside

Antonella offered no response, instead watched as he left. There, he spotted Antonella’s old lute in the courtyard, one he remembered playing. It had collected dust and more than likely was out of tune. He found himself sitting down to play it and as he sat on Antonella’s stone fence tuning her lute, he thought about what else had lost meaning in his life. Once, he could play great melodies and the songs he played had meaning. However, his chords fell flat.

His hands were beaten, like most of his body, some of his fingers were numb from cuts he’d received over the years; ones that reached the nerves. His body had been broken numerous times over, scores of bones in his arms, legs, and ribs. Still, no matter the discomfort, he found solace in playing. The song was one long forgotten, but a melody imbedded in his mind.

As cool and inviting as the night air was, it instilled the perception of mortality. All things must come to an end, one could only live in the moment; at least, that’s what he believed. There was no guarantee for tomorrow, no promise that he would see the sun rise, just a vague certainty that at some point it would all be over.

For over a hundred years, the men of Lothoran and the Viempire ofValtheia had been locked in a bitter, unrelenting, conflict. There was a time when the Viempire were creatures that dwelt in shadow, but they changed and seized control of Valtheia, under the might of the Deathless King, and transformed it into a land of eternal darkness. Since then, they’ve sought to turn the rest of the world into the same abyssal nightmare; a world of endless night.

The Viempire’s incursions into the lowlands was sign that soon things would change. Arcalane could see the writing on the wall. He knew that the long-standing deadlock between the two warring nations was nearing its end, and the flames of all-out war threatened to engulf the entire world. Maybe that’s what he held on to, the silent whisper of death. Maybe he needed too. Lately, however, he was just tired.

Sleep hadn’t come easy for him in a long while. Not since that fateful day years ago when he stumbled upon a mysterious girl by a creek. Her image was seared into his mind. She had alluring eyes that peered up at him from beneath her tangled gray hair, and her skin was as soft and white as newly driven snow. But most striking of all were the slender, bird-like wings protruding from the sides of her head. At the time, he believed she was a breed of Darkling but as years went on, he started to think otherwise.

Whoever she was, wolves had found her when he had come upon her bleeding body. If he had he not been hunting nearby, her fate would have been sealed. He acted on instinct to protect her from the wolves. Afterward, he noticed self-inflicted gashes on her wrists; she’d tried to kill herself but was interrupted by the hungry wolves. In the years since, he’d often wondered what became of the mysterious winged girl. Did finding her that day even matter in the end? If she was so determined to end her life, she had likely succeeded by now. Though he clung to the hope that somehow, someone so lost had pulled herself back from the brink. He needed to believe that even a life pushed to the absolute limit could be turned around. It was a hope he held onto; a light to push back the darkness.

“Such a sad song,” Antonella remarked, standing quietly near him.

He hadn’t noticed her until just then. “It’s not supposed to be sad.”

“You play it that way.”

He continued playing, still lost in his thoughts. She sat next to him, looking at the wound he’d haphazardly tended to.

“You know you can’t keep fighting like this forever,” she said. “My home won’t always be here to offer a reprieve.”

He kept playing, wanting to say something but lacking inspiration.

“I remember one time, must have been years ago now, you showed up at my door...bloodied and broken, like you’d been trampled by some large beast…you were barely a teenager,” she said, reminiscing, “I took you in, tended to your wounds. Your back looked like it had been ripped apart, you had five broken ribs. The next morning you were gone. I always wondered why you even came and why you left,” she paused after he’d stopped playing, “and I think I know why. You wanted to see something pure, something good, to remind yourself that there was more than just death out there.”

“I came here to die,” he answered bluntly.

“Lothoran doesn’t need Sir Atheleon Grey, they need Sir Arcalane,” she uttered with a hint of sadness. “I have not given up hope in you, even if you have.”

“What could I have to offer that the mighty Archangel can’t?” Arcalane asked with contempt. The bitterness in his tone was evident as he continued, “Atheleon, the chosen one, blessed by the Undying Light with unimaginable power... and here I stand, empty-handed.”

“Sir Grey undoubtedly strengthens our forces, but he is not the only reason for our victories.”

“And yet, it is hard to see any hope in the lowlands,” he explained. “Viempire are slowly gaining ground here…whilst our armies are focused on the northern front. Perhaps that’s the point,” he said, handing her the lute and walking away.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked, confused.

“The lowlands have been ignored by Hygard for far too long,” he told her. “I’m sure Valtheia knows that.”

“You won’t be young forever...your body can only take so much,” he remarked, worried.

“My hunt is over,” he said softly. “I should like to rest now.”

“There’s something that’s come up,” she abruptly said.

“Another hunt?”

Antonella nodded. “The Oracles have spoken; the Endless Hunt awaits you.”

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

She pulled a scroll from her pocket and handed it to him. In it, he saw an ancient prayer scrawled by an Oracle. The Oracle had experienced a vision, and made references to castle Blackthorn, though the rest dissolved into vague riddles. Blackthorn held many secrets according to rumor, and he sensed this hunt would be more dangerous than any before. But he was ready, as always, to follow the Oracles’ call wherever it led.

“It seems like my hunt is taking me straight to the castle of the Countess Odessa Blackthorn,” Arcalane pondered, deep in thought.

Antonella nodded and then chimed in, “Honestly, I had my doubts whether the Order would have the courage to dispatch someone to that dreaded place.”

“She is the cousin of the Deathless King,” he added. “Attacking her wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“Indeed…not to mention, she is a powerful sorceress,” she agreed. “That place is dangerous, I have always felt as much. She’s stayed out of the War thus far…at least directly.”

“The scroll does not mention anything else, other than finding the castle. Am I to kill the Countess?” Arcalane asked curiously.

“I know not about the hunt, only that the Order has deemed it of high importance,” she explained. “You are to go there as quietly as you can and meet a contact, though who it is, I cannot say…only that they shall find you.”

Arcalane nodded and said, “I’ll leave now.”

“You do not have to go right this instant,” Antonella said, calling him back. “You just finished your last hunt, take time to rest your body…and your clothes-”

“Will you tend to Styer?” he asked, ignoring what she’d said.

“Of course,” she answered. “I pray this gives you a reason to return.”

Arcalane didn’t offer a response, just walked away leaving Antonella with her head lowered in disappointment. It was easier for him to leave abruptly, giving him no time to think. Thinking led to hesitation, something he hated. He was relieved to have a mission so soon, his biggest fear was being alone trapped in his own thoughts. Being within his own mind frightened him; his mind would wander to dark places, places that held memories of violence and regret. But with a mission to focus on, he could keep those destructive thoughts at bay. As long as he kept moving forward, he wouldn’t have to look back. With this mission, he could escape the trap of his own torturous thoughts, at least for a little while longer.