Rend the Dark (2 page)

Amidst the hellish scene, Mireia stood, her long brown hair
flowing around her. “It’s loose,” she called out after she ceased her chant.
“It’s free,” she whispered before she dropped the lantern and collapsed to the
ground.

Ferran began moving toward Mireia, but Warden Aker was
already there. “I have her, Acolyte!” the warden yelled. “Find it! Do not let
it escape!”

Ferran snapped his head back, looking in all directions.
Then, like a hound on the hunt, he sprang forward and moved into the forest.

All around Hil, the dying bandits writhed and screamed and
he could not divert his eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he held his hands
to his ears, like a fearful child in a thunderstorm.

Riffolk stood beside Hil, pale and shaken, his blade still
out. The tip trembled, and his eyes darted here and there. Warden Aker helped
Mireia to a sitting position. He yelled something to Riffolk and the young
man’s face grew ashen. The warden repeated it, and Riffolk seemed to snap out
of his stupor. He gave the warden a single nod and then began to move around
the field with his blade, silencing each of the bandits. But even when there
was silence once more, Hil could not bring himself to remove his hands from his
ears.

After what seemed an eternity, Ferran emerged from the
woods further up the road and gestured for them to come. Hil rose and followed
the group. His legs were shaky but remained upright.

Hil saw anger in Ferran’s clenched jaw and narrowly set
eyes. “I felt it move toward the road, then nothing,” Ferran said. “But it left
this behind.” Past the edge of the tree line was a shape on the forest floor.

A body.

What he saw stole his mind. Hil found himself on the
ground, retching. Whatever had done this to a human had not done it from the
outside. It had come from within the man, emerging forth in some sort of
terrible, violent birth. The only thing left untouched on what had once been a
person were the boots. It was on this Hil focused his eyes and tried to piece
his mind back together.

Riffolk’s normally strong, bold voice sounded like a
child’s. “What… what did this?”

Ferran did not take his eyes off the body. “It could be any
number of Ruins. There are a fair few that can do this to a host,” he said,
gesturing down. “It may even be something the Order has never seen before.”

Riffolk blinked slowly, as if recovering from being struck
upon the head. “Monsters? You’re talking about monsters?”

It was Warden Aker who answered him though. “Monsters are
what your nana told you about to get you to set to your chores faster. These
are the old woes, demons of broken night. The first Ruins.”

“That’s impossible,” Riffolk said, but there was no
strength behind his words.

Yet denial was the only recourse Hil’s mind could find as
well. “But they were destroyed,” he said. “In the old legends and stories,
Aedan and the First Ascended fought the Ruins and defeated them. They were all
banished into the Abyss.”

It was Mireia who looked over at him with an expression of
sympathy. “The titans, the behemoths, the grandest of the Ruins were driven
back.” She shook her head. “But the cunning ones, the ones who knew how to hide
in the shadows of impossible places.” She nodded at the broken mess of the
body. “Even in the very bodies of men themselves. These secreted themselves
away and thus remained in the world. Since the time of Aedan to now, they hide
and they prey on mankind.”

Hil wiped a hand across his mouth. “And one was here? That
is what we faced?”

“That is what we still face,” Ferran said. “It has lost its
host. It cannot be far.”

Riffolk cleared this throat before speaking. “No,” he said.
“What you still face, sir.” He shook his head. “Our duty was to report what we
have seen to Lord Garre. That is our charge and so that is what we must do.
Whatever is beyond that,” he paused, trying to find the right words. “It is
beyond us,” he finished.

“And what exactly will you tell the lord?” Warden Aker cut
in. “That the monsters of children’s stories have come to Greenhope? Where is
your proof, magistrate? Where is the evidence you were commanded to gather?”

Hil looked in shock at the Warden. “But you would come with
us, Warden. You would convince him, would you not?”

Ferran had walked to the top of the hill nearby. “By then,”
he called back to them. “It will be too late.” He gestured ahead, past the
hill.

Riffolk and the Warden walked over to see what Ferran was
pointing at. Hil followed a bit behind, but as he crested the rise his spirits
sank even lower. Ahead in the distance, nestled against the forest, was a small
village.

Ferran grimaced as the others saw what he was pointing at.
“Too late for them. And for anyone else this thing consumes now and for
centuries to come. Because in this moment we failed to do anything about it.”

Without another word, Ferran headed toward the road. Warden
Aker gave Riffolk and Hil a meaningful glance and followed the witch hunter.

Riffolk sighed and turned to Hil.

Hil gave him a small nod. “Just… just give me a moment,” he
said to his friend. Riffolk headed after the other two men.

Hil fought down the urge to run the other way, to flee in
panic back to the keep and lock himself in his room. But then he felt someone
nearby. He opened his eyes and saw Mireia offering him a flask.

“Is this some sacred potion that will give me courage?” Hil
asked.

Mireia smiled at him. “Yes,” she said. “It’s brandy.”

Despite his fear, Hil smiled and took the offered flask.
The burn of it down his throat was a touch of familiarity amidst the madness of
the morning. He passed it back to her.

“The first step is hard,” Mireia said, catching his eyes
with her own. “But it won’t be the hardest. There are far more terrible things
that you will face. Things that will make you long to go back to this first
step. I wish it was otherwise, but it is not.”

“Won’t I long to go back to before I knew about all this?
To the blissful ignorance I used to have?”

“No,” she said. “Not when you see the full truth of what
these things have done, and are still doing to us. After that, there is no
going back to ignorance.”

There was such strength and fierceness to her words that
Hil believed her. She smiled one last time before following the others over the
hill.

Then, with a courage he did not know he possessed, Hil
walked behind her.

There were
people working in
the misty outlying fields as the group entered the
outskirts of Groveland Down village. The workers stopped what they were doing,
put up shovels and hoes, and watched the strangers.

Ferran felt their scrutiny but it did not faze him. His own
eyes were busy roving to each and every person he saw, searching for any trace
of the rolling, oily dark that marked a blackheart. The bandits he had faced
had been covered in the darkness, and the taint of it had been all over the
ruptured body he had found. That taint would be visible on any person that the
creature was using as a host.

And yet there was no sign of the darkness.

Ferran maintained his vigilance. What had birthed from
inside the bandit would not remain unmasked for long. Perhaps it would take a
traveler to the village, but it could just as likely be a resident of the
village itself. Still, it would not matter. If the creature was here, he would
find it.

Ferran had been born with the ability to see through the
guise the Ruins used to hide themselves. As a child, that vision had been a
curse that came close to driving him to madness. But now he embraced it as his
birthright and his destiny. It let him hunt those things that would hunt his
fellow man.

Yet, despite this gift, he saw no sign of his quarry.
Ferran glanced over to Mireia. She shook her head in response. He accepted her
unspoken answer with a frown. When he had joined the Order as a child, Mireia
had been the first to befriend him. Since then, they had been inseparable,
though their gifts developed along different lines.

Though Ferran could see the true nature of the Ruins when
he confronted them, Mireia could do far more. She sensed them, tasted their
corruption on the air like the smell of rot.

Warden Aker led the way through the village, the crowned-eye
emblem of his station hanging from a heavy chain around his neck. As they
approached the village headsman’s house, it became clear they were expected.

The headsman stood in the doorway. He was a short man,
middle-aged but already losing much of his hair. The man rubbed the dirt
off his hands with a piece of cloth as the warden and his entourage approached.
Ferran could sense a well of fear bubbling beneath the surface of the man. The
headsman stood welcoming in the doorway, but the man’s eyes returned again and
again to Ferran’s tattooed face.

The headsman forced his eyes away from Ferran and addressed
Warden Aker. “Whatever brings such dark company to Groveland Down,” he said,
his voice low, “is likely best discussed in private.” He opened the door to the
house and invited the group inside.

The home was clean and comfortable, and a large fire burned
in the hearth, taking the damp chill from the air. Once all were inside, the
headsman shut the door and turned toward the warden, his arms folded across his
chest. “I am Hamond. I speak for Groveland Down.”

“I am Mesym Aker, Warden of the Third Ward and Eye of the
Throne. These two men are magistrates of Greenhope, and these are acolytes of
the Order of Talan.”

“The witch hunters need no introduction for those of us who
have lived in Groveland Down long enough.” There was bitterness in the man’s voice
that was unmistakable to Ferran.

The warden raised an eyebrow but continued on. “I will be
blunt, Headsman. There have been disappearances in the region. When we arrived
to investigate we were attacked by what we at first took to be bandits.” The
warden shook his head and held the headsman’s focus. “These were not simple
bandits. Something horrible has come this way and we must find it before your
village suffers.” His words were direct, and their impact on the headsman was
noticeable. “Has there been any strangeness in the village this day?”

Hamond shook his head, eyes wide. “No. Nothing that has
reached my ears.”

“What about in the recent months? Disappearances? Bandit
attacks, perhaps?”

“It is a lean season. There are always bandits in the
forests around the village when times get harder.”

Warden Aker frowned. “I do not believe you understand the
gravity of this situation, Headsman. There are things beyond our understanding,
and now your people are in danger from those things.”

The headsman’s eyes focused once more on Ferran and Mireia.
“And you believe our salvation lies in the hands of these witch hunters,
Warden?” Hamond said. His weathered face drew into an even deeper frown. “If
so, then I will say honestly that I do not know if I have the stomach to do
what must be done to ensure our salvation.” There was sorrow in his voice as
the words trailed off.

Mireia, her voice soft and gentle as only she could be,
spoke. “You seem to know of us, Headsman. Has a member of the Order come to
Groveland Down before?”

Hamond looked at her, eyes narrowing. “Yes,” he said, voice
quiet and weak. “One of your kind came to the village when I was a boy. My
father was headsman then. This man came to my father and told him of the dark,
horrible things that had infiltrated our village. This evil was in our homes,
amongst our families, he told us.”

As he spoke, there was such sadness and pain on his face
that it appeared the headsman would not continue. But he swallowed hard and
kept going. “My father asked if they should not inform the lord, but the witch
hunter urged him not to, saying that the lord himself would likely burn the
whole village. The man claimed that he could root out the evil himself and save
the village.” At this, Hamond’s voice broke, and tears began to fill his eyes.
“My father agreed. And this man burned six of our people. Burned them alive.
Two men, three women, and one child.” He looked from Mireia to Ferran and back.
“I will never forget their screams, you see. Because the witch hunter made the
whole village watch.”

After he finished speaking, the only sound was the
crackling of embers in the fire. There was not much that could be said. The
Ruins that Ferran and Mireia fought, that the Order fought, were ancient and
cunning. They had survived the days of legend by learning to hide amongst the
very people they preyed upon. The story, as horrible as it was, was not beyond
the realm of possibility. And that made it all the worse.

It was Mireia who eventually spoke, and Ferran was grateful
as he always was for the soothing sound of her voice. “Your father never
forgave the Order,” she said.

“I never forgave your Order. My father never forgave
himself. Never knowing if he had done the right thing. The guilt and the doubt
ate away at him over the months and years until there was nothing left of him
at all,” he said shaking his head. “Perhaps there was some merit to what the
member of your Order did here. Though they cost a fortune in gold, the wards
and symbols he sold to us have evidently kept the evil away. But was it worth
the cost? I do not believe so.” He wrung his hands slowly. “I cannot believe
so.”

“What did you say?” Ferran said sharply, and Hamond
recoiled as if Ferran might strike him. “What did you say about taking gold for
symbols?”

Hamond stammered in the face of Ferran’s glare. “He took
all that we had. All our money in exchange for protection. He said we needed it
because we had witches among us.”

Ferran looked over at Mireia. He saw the same horrible
understanding on her face that blossomed in his own mind. No acolyte of the
Order would demand payment. Cold anger grew in the pit of Ferran’s stomach as
he realized what had transpired.

It was Warden Aker who spoke, clearing his throat. “I have
known members of the Order of Talan for a long time, Headsman. They have no
need of wealth. The man who came to your village was not one of them.”

Hamond stared at the warden for a long moment, and then his
shoulders slumped and he rolled his head back. There was a look of despair in
his eyes. “If that is true, Warden,” he said, “then what happened here was even
worse. At least before there was the small comfort in the possibility that
those terrible days had left my people safe. But if that was not the case…” He
swept his arm out, as if he could banish the terrible realizations. “My people
burned for nothing. My father took his own life for nothing.” Hammond collapsed
into a chair, his head buried in his hands.

Mireia knelt down in front of him and took his hands into
her own. “I am sorry,” she said, and her own voice was thick with shared pain
and sorrow. “But by whatever cruel design of providence, or twist of fate, we
are here now. A warden of the king, magistrates of your lord, and acolytes of
the order of Talan stand before you. I wish it were otherwise, brave Hamond,
but this danger is real. And we fear it is already among you.”

Hamond stared at her, tears tracking down the lines of his
face. “What can I do?”

Warden Aker moved closer to the headsman. “We need full
access and cooperation of your villagers. But you must keep this threat a
secret to contain any panic.”

“Not tell them? Not tell my people that some unspeakable
horror may be amongst them? In their very homes?”

“If you tell them, you may give it the opportunity it needs
to escape,” Ferran said. “We cannot afford to lose it.”

“After all you have suffered, I know we have no right to
ask this,” Mireia said, drawing Hamond’s focus back to her. “But you must trust
us. On our very lives, Hamond, I swear this to you. If you give us your trust,
we will end this.”

Hamond slumped down, his head in his hands. But from behind
the fingers, Ferran heard his voice. “Very well,” Hamond said. “Do what you
must.”

Warden Aker motioned for them to leave. The two magistrates
went out first. Ferran waited for a moment, watching Mireia return a hand to
the headsman’s shoulder. Then, the two of them followed the warden out.

In the street outside, the group stood in the cold mist.
Warden Aker shook his head and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “These people have
suffered,” the warden said. “I would not see them suffer further.”

“What can we do though?” Hileon asked, his voice timid.

“We keep her promise,” Ferran said, nodding toward Mireia.
“We find the Ruin. And we end it.”

***

They separated, Mireia going with the two
young magistrates and Ferran accompanying the warden as they worked their way
systematically through the town.

Ferran walked amongst the thrum of village life. In the
gray mist of the morning, people hurried about their various tasks. In the
center of the village square, vendors had set up their wares for market day.
Carts and barrows rolled down the paths between buildings, carrying in the
harvests or delivering goods. Here and there, men and women worked on the
buildings, fixing thatched roofs or working mortar into stone walls.

This was a simple life, a good life. A life Ferran was
never meant to have. Even as a child, growing up in the orphanage, Ferran had
been different. He had seen things even then. Terrible things glimpsed at a
distance, but clear enough to know there was darkness loose in the world that
would prey upon all that was good. And no one else could see them. It was
enough to drive him to the brink of madness.

Now as he moved through the people of Groveland Down
village, purpose burned inside him with a fierce life and clarity. These people
deserved to live their lives in safety and happiness, and he would gladly face
the Dark so they might have that chance. So men like Hamond might have that
chance.

But as the headsman’s story came to his mind, Ferran’s mood
grew darker. Someone had chosen to take the noble purpose of the Order of
Talan, of Ferran’s life, and use it as a means of selfish gain and sadistic
satisfaction. Gold for false hope and an illusion of safety.

As Ferran and the warden continued through the village,
Ferran caught sight of strange dangling wooden carvings suspended from the
eaves of some buildings. He stopped by one and held it in his hand. It was a
smoothly polished flat piece of wood, about as long as his palm. Carved into
the wood were hooked shapes.

“What is it?” the warden asked. “What have you found?”

“This must be what the charlatan in the headsman’s tale
sold to the people of this village.” They were runes, similar in size and
structure to some of the runes used in the rituals of the Order, but these had
an ugly, hooked design that was inconsistent with the Order’s markings.

Ferran gritted his teeth. It was bad enough this figure had
sewed such pain during his time in the village, but he also left them with a
false sense of security against the true horrors of the Dark. Horrors like the
one they were seeking.

As he stood up, he saw a young girl staring at him from
down the path. She stood in front of one of the stone and wood houses that
lined the thoroughfares of the village. At her feet was a wooden bucket. Ferran
had noticed her trailing him since they left the headsman’s home, but figured
it was simply a child’s curiosity.

Now though she had set the bucket down, abandoning whatever
chore she was about, to stop and stare. Then as if deciding on something, the
girl came across the street toward him. She walked up to Ferran, staring at his
tattooed face.

“My papa said you are one of the witch hunters and that I
should stay away from you,” she said, with the straightforward innocence that
always seemed to be the hallmark of children.

Ferran paused momentarily and then smiled slightly at the
girl. “Your father’s right. I’m an acolyte of the Order of Talan.”

“Like in the old stories?”

Ferran nodded. He felt the warden growing restless beside
him.

The child seemed to process the information. Then she took
a step closer and whispered. “Are you here about the dark one?” she said, an
edge of fear in her voice.

The smile faded from his face. “What do you mean?” Ferran
asked, kneeling down.