† Essence of Evil †
By: Matt and Phil
Chapter Three
By: Matt
"Finally…" Alexander muttered as the caravan came to a clearing in the thick wood, Mount Harrogath clearly illuminated in the distance against the night sky. It had taken nearly four days to get close to the mountain, and another four it would take them to get to the city of Harrogath.
Groans and sighs of relief echoed into the night from the lips of the other party members, for finally they had a place to start a fire – and eat. A quarter of an hour later they were doing just that, gathered about the flames, feasting upon some sort of salted meat the caravan leader had along.
Silence surrounded them then - a silence that had begun between the caravan members since the first pangs of hunger and weariness began – only to be broken at times by the stirring of the strangely restless donkey.
"Odd," the caravan leader mused, "Usually that lazy old beast is more than willing to take a nap. I don't know what's gotten into her tonight." The rest of the party made no attempt to respond as they chewed on the tough meat, only casting the caravan leader a quick glimpse as a sign that they had even heard him.
Alexander sighed unenthusiastically, tossing his portion of the meat into the blaze before him. Scratching at a nuisance upon his right forearm, he leaned back onto the ground, staring up at the tree branches that strived to cover the opening in the clearing, stretching out eerily in resemblance to the wiry arms of a Wraith.
Alexander's gaze drew to the sky above the branches, a few stars now beginning to show through the overcast sky. He paused though, almost dismissing the faint outline around the stars as a trick of sleep deprivation. An inexorable tremble passed through his body as he realized that the bulbous yellow orbs that blinked down at him from the branches of the tree were eyes. He had scarcely enough time to roll to the side as the Fallen leapt onto the spot where he had been not a moment before, its crude scimitar lodged into the ground in a death-strike.
Crouched, Alexander shot out a foot at the wiry creature, sending it toppling backwards, cursing. By this point, the rest of the caravan were well aware of what was happening, all of them standing, weapons drawn. Alexander's fingers toyed with the hilt of the great sword strapped to his back, the sheathed gladius at his side tapping against his thigh as he stood.
The Fallen paused where he was, raising its scimitar in a salutation of authority, and screeched in some untranslatable language. The forest about the clearing came alive with flame as several more Fallen became visible, their torches igniting one-by-one. One of the twins, the male, spoke out, laughing as he did.
"Organized Fallen? That'll be the day! I'm just dreaming." He nodded to himself, turning about in a circle to face the closest Fallen. The creature grinned wickedly, showing blackened teeth, all sharpened vulgarly, as it slashed up at the man with it's short sword. The twin's laughing ceased as his left arm fell to the ground beside him, still gripping his cutlass in a death-grip.
An arrow from the other twin found lodging in between that Fallen's eyes, the minuscule body crumpling to the ground as it did, black blood flowing freely from the fatal wound. In that instant, the adopted battlefield erupted into chaos. Fallen streamed in from the surrounding trees, wielding crudely made swords and axes. Just as quickly as they poured in, the small red demons fell at the hands of the caravan associates, collapsing left right and center with little spoil to the defenders. The last one's head flew as Alexander's great sword sliced clean across it's neck.
Alexander leaned forward, using his blade to support him as he heaved a sigh. Crimson mixed with black as blood dripped from a wound on his forearm into the pool of Fallen blood that surrounded him. One hand rose to brush a strand of golden-brown hair from his tanned face as he turned about to check on the others.
The caravan leader was crouched beside the cart-donkey, scratching his head at the sight of the meager beast that had been made inert by the blade of one of the demons. The bow-wielding twin sat beside her brother, supporting him as blood flowed from his mutilated shoulder. The unsightly image of the lifeless body floating upon a river of red once more flashed into Alexander's conscious mind, sending a shiver down his spine. He shook his head clear of the image, sighing again as he began his curative chants.
Four more nights and days had Alexander at the gate to Harrogath. He had traveled ahead of the rest of the caravan members as they recovered from the strange encounter with the Fallen. Having been allowed to keep the wool robe that belonged to the caravan leader, his armor he now carried over his shoulder in a rawhide sack.
The thickly wooded areas had become sparser as Alexander neared Harrogath. Now, the surrounding shrubbery had been reduced to a few scraggly looking scrubs set sparingly out in the bitter fields.
Alexander's free hand reached to pull the robe's hood over his head. News, he figured, traveled fast. Everyone would want to meet the 'lone Paladin' whom had defeated Mephisto – friend and foe alike. That made him chuckle with dark amusement.
The thought, "If only they knew.." passed through his mind at that moment, as his legs carried him into the bleak of Harrogath.