Lennard stamped his boots against the ground, trying to warm his feet. His toes felt like they were going to fall off. It was the dead of autumn in Oakvale and the dew that used to coat the grass now turned to frost.
"Damn leather boots," he muttered to no one in particular. A travelling trader had sold them to him, promising that they were top quality. It was only later that the mercenary realized leather protected as poorly against the weather as it did against attacks. The only good thing was that they were cheap.
After standing outside for another twenty minutes, he decided to call it a day. It was almost dark and he needed to find a place to sleep.
"I heard you're the one to talk to about hiring an extra sword?"
Lennard jumped. A Hero that the mercenary swore hadn't been there a second ago was now standing in front of him, looking at him expectantly. He was clad in dark chainmail from shoulder to toe. Expensive stuff. At least, more expensive than the mercenary could afford. His features were sharp, but not unbecoming.
"What? Oh, yes that's me. Lennard McGivney." He pushed out his chest. "I assure you, if you want someone fighting beside you, there's no one out there as fit for the job as I am."
"And how do you charge, Mr. McGivney?"
"Ten gold. By the hour, on the hour."
The Hero smiled in a way that reminded Lennard of a balvarine baring its teeth. "Perfect. Let's get started then, shall we?"
"Now?" The last traces of sunlight were gone. The mercenary had been hoping for a good night's sleep in a tavern bed, preferably after a few drinks. "Don't you have to sleep?"
"Ah, but the wicked never rest, Mr. McGivney. But if you aren't ready, I guess I'll have to take my business elsewhere."
"No, wait!" He frowned, thinking. This one looked the suspicious sort, but gold was gold. Winter was coming soon and Lennard wasn't sure he had enough money to tide it over. When the snow started falling, he wouldn't even be able to sneak into a barn if goings got rough.
"I'll pay double what you're asking."
The mercenary's jaw dropped. Double? That could buy him a new pair of boots. "Done."
The balvarine smile flashed again as twenty gold dropped into Lennard's hands. "Then let's go."
The two set off, straight into Darkwood. Lennard had only ever been here once: when he first came to Oakvale. The forest looked much more sinister by night. Wind howled through dead trees, making shadows dance and leaves rustle. He shivered.
"Frightened?" The Hero's eye twinkled. Or was that just the moon playing tricks on him?
"Of course not," the mercenary lied. "I'm just cold."
"Ah. Well you won't have to be for very much longer. Where you're going, it's plenty warm enough. Or so I'm told."
"Where I'm going? What about you?"
The Hero stopped so suddenly that Lennard almost bumped into him. The mercenary listened, but heard nothing out of the ordinary. "Why did we stop?"
The Hero raised a finger to his lips and then took out his bow. Nocking an arrow, he sighted down the shaft. The two actions were so smooth and fast they blended into one. Lennard realized he was in the presence of a master archer.
Three bandits burst from behind a tree up ahead. One ran into the torchlight, sword held high and a cry for blood on his lips. But before the mercenary could unsheathe his own blade, the foe stumbled backwards, holding the arrow buried deep in his chest. By the time his blade was out, the second had also been picked off. Lennard hadn't taken more than a step before the third was pulled into the air by an arc of lightning. He looked in awe at the warrior beside him. The Hero's face, awash in blue light, was contorted into something Lennard tried but failed to name. The bandit writhed and struggled before falling to the ground as a blackened corpse. Lennard had never seen such a display of power. The prospect both excited and terrified him.
The Hero calmly sheathed his bow.
"That was –"
A fourth bandit rushed in from the right, heading straight for Lennard. He raised his sword, ready to fight at last –
Something silver whizzed past his cheek. A sword. It struck the enemy square in the chest with a sickly, wet sound before pinning him to a tree. A and a strangled gurgle spilled out of the bandit's mouth. The mercenary assumed it was meant to be a scream. The Hero sauntered forward and retrieved his sword, pausing to wipe it on the grass.
"You're not exactly letting me do my job," Lennard said pointedly.
"Don't worry, Mr. McGivney. You'll still be paid handsomely."
"But an honourable mercenary earns his bread."
"And that's why you're the right person for the job."
"Darn tootin'." The Hero's eyes were twinkling again. He looked highly amused. Lennard smiled nervously back.
By the time they reached Darkwood Camp, the mercenary was getting tired. They'd been trudging through these woods for hours without rest. "Can we stop for a bit?"
"That depends on what time it is."
"It's eleven on the nose."
"Then we have plenty of time. And before I forget, here's another hour's pay."
Lennard licked his lips as the gold pieces fell into his hands. "Er, should I be buying supplies?"
"No, I don't think you'll need them."
He played a few hands of blackjack before losing interest and chatting up the traders instead. It turned out a lot of travellers had been disappearing lately. Apparently, he was lucky to have such a fine hero for a guide. From what he could glean, the Hero – whose title was Reaper – often brought curious admirers through the forest so he must know it like the back of his hand.
"Mr. McGivney, what time is it?"
"Eleven fifty."
"I think we should be going now."
In any other place at any other time, Lennard would be curious about this Hero's peculiar and cryptic words. But with a name like Reaper, he decided he'd rather not ask.
The two walked into a part of Darkwood that the mercenary had never been to before and knew nothing about. It was off the beaten path, that was for sure. A twisting dirt road wound its way up a hill before them whose crest he couldn't see.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Why? Frightened?" The twinkle in Reaper's eye became a red gleam. Lennard felt a jolt of panic before realizing that this entire part of the forest was lit in an eerie crimson light reflected in the Hero's eyes. Strange...there weren't any torches around though.
"A little bit," he admitted. It wasn't just the reddish light. The trees seemed taller, the shadows stretched longer. "It's a little creepy here."
"Oh yes. There are things in these woods that you could only imagine. But no worries, Mr. McGivney. We're almost there," he answered quietly as they reached the top of the hill.
A building loomed over them, so deeply set in the twisting, gnarled undergrowth that it looked as though it had simply grown out of it – an extension of the forest. It was built from stones that looked so old they must be ancient. Lennard had seen a structure like this once before, many years ago in his travels to Knothole Glade. But this one didn't give off quite the same aura. In fact, it looked like a perverse mockery of it.
"What is that?"
"It's a chapel. A holy place."
"It don't look like no holy place to me. Maybe we shouldn't be here. I have a bad feeling about this place. Very bad."
"Ah, but an honourable mercenary earns his bread."
The mercenary gulped. "Er, yes, but as your hired help, I advise most strongly against it."
"Just think of how much gold you'll earn. Tell me how you charge again, Mr. McGivney?"
Had he once said he was cold? Lennard was sweating now. "By the hour, on the hour."
"By the hour, on the hour," the Hero repeated. "What time is it now?"
"Eleven fifty-eight."
"Two minutes of your time. That's all I'm asking, Mr. McGivney. And then you can leave twenty gold richer. Is that too much to ask?"
"I guess not, no." Lennard only became more and more unnerved every minute he spent in this place. Something felt wrong. Very wrong. Just two more minutes in this creepy forest and then you can go to the tavern and forget all about it. "Two minutes. I'm keeping track."
Reaper smiled his feral smile and the mercenary noticed that his teeth were pointed. "I'm counting on it."
"Eleven fifty-nine." Just one minute left.
"You're shivering again. Are you still cold? Perhaps we should go inside the chapel. It's much warmer in there."
Reluctantly, Lennard followed the Hero into the chapel. It didn't matter one way or the other; another minute and he'd be out faster than you could say "goose bumps." The inside smelled distinctly of sulphur. A strange melody played at the end of his hearing, lost if he listened too hard. But the sound thrummed deeply in his heart, as if calling for something in it to come out.
"Fresh blood," a man inside murmured in a low voice. Some kind of apostle, or a priest. "And a follower of Avo. You have indeed brought a worthwhile sacrifice. Skorm will be pleased."
"Sacrifice?" The mercenary's voice jumped an octave higher.
Before he could protest, Lennard felt himself lifted over a burning pot by an invisible force. He couldn't hear the priest's words over his own screams. When he looked over, he saw Reaper's face once again contorted. This time, he could name the emotion: sadistic pleasure. He realized, too late, that he should have followed his instincts. Now no one was coming to help him. No one was coming to save him. But that didn't stop Lennard from begging for salvation as his soul was brought before Skorm.
* * *
"For the love of Avo! Help me, please!"
Reaper only watched and smiled. Red mist swirled around his ankles and curled around his legs. Embracing him like good friends. The song of the chapel resonated through his body, infusing him with ancient power. It called to his heart, called to his deepest desires: every fleeting hope, every wild dream – and promised fulfillment if he would only let it in. He not only obliged and obliged happily. He welcomed it.
Pure evil filled Reaper's soul while the mercenary's was ripped from his body: an event that the Hero watched with mild interest. At the same moment, a clock chimed midnight somewhere in Albion. Reaper smiled, satisfied.
"Your services are no longer required."