Chapter 18

18

Grim Reminder

The Glaspire Inn was quieter than it usually was. The bar goers were whispering to each other, gossip no doubt as to who had been taken in the past few days by marauding monsters. Cyril's eyes scanned the bar, narrowing them as some in the inn gave him looks of disdain or suspicion. The Hunter wasn't going to kid himself; his arrival here spelled doom and death, not life and salvation.

He was going to have to accept that or fail before he had even begun his task. The Hunter moved towards the bar.

"Hail, stranger." The innkeeper called out from behind the bar as he wiped it down. The man was in his middle forties and looked every bit worn out as he sounded, "I'd give you a warmer welcome but Glaspire has been in a downward spiral these days."

"Hail," Cyril spoke softly as he sat at the bar, placing several coin down. "Give me an ale and something to eat if you can spare it."

The innkeeper gave a humorless laugh before setting a tankard down for Cyril. The Hunter pulled down his mask, taking a sip of the dark, frothy drink. His crimson eyes scanned the area in the meantime, taking in the sights. Many of the patrons of the inn kept to themselves, the buzz of conversation was muffled and whispered.

He saw farmers, woodcutters and even a few trappers who wore fur caps and carried around bows and hunting knives. Cyril turned back around to the bar, the innkeeper setting down a bowl of stew with some meat in it. The Hunter ate quickly, hardly tasting the food as he scooped it into his mouth. Since arriving here the Hunter felt eyes on him from the villagers.

Cyril glanced to his left and saw a group of sour faced men, glaring unpleasantly at him. Perhaps Glaspire didn't take too kindly to strangers but that wasn't his problem. Secretly, he unbuckled his handgun's holster. Perhaps there was something to be learned here. He knew his reputation wasn't exactly stellar but maybe he could use that to his advantage…

"So what brings you to Erebus, stranger? We don't usually warrant enough attention for someone so heavily armed like yourself." The innkeeper asked, suddenly knocking Cyril out of his thoughts.

"Hunting." Cyril answered, "The King has need of someone hunted down and that's what I came here to do."

The innkeeper paled as he coughed, trying to swallow the saliva in his throat. Cyril raised a brow but he decided not to comment any further, perhaps bounty hunting was a profession that was not exactly a noble calling here. Nobody here knew what the Hunter wanted and while he preferred it to be that way he was ready for what may come when his purpose was uncovered.

The innkeeper gulped as he hesitated, clearly trying to say something. He then steeled himself as best as he could.

"A-Are you here for the slavers?"

Cyril looked up at the innkeeper, tilting his head. Well, he was waiting for something like this but he didn't expected it to be so soon…

"And if I was?"

"You'd best be turning around and leaving, friend."

Cyril's query was interrupted by the thugs that had now stood up and approached the Hunter at the bar. He smiled a grim smile briefly before he pulled up his bandana. He stood up to his full height, his coat flaring briefly and the men had the moment to see that he was extraordinarily well armed.

The Hunter decided to play the part as he leaned a hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

"What for?" Cyril asked the lead thug in front of him. His voice was frosty, irritated at being interrupted. The bar's atmosphere tensed as the men threatening the stranger began to realize just how dangerous he actually was.

The Hunter asked again. "What do I have to leave for?"

The lead thug shook his head and scowled even deeper, "We don't take kindly to strangers who go around looking for trouble!" He snarled, "Especially foreign freaks like you who strut around thinking-"

"Shut up." Cyril growled causing the men behind his intended target to jump. "I will give you one chance to walk away. One chance, and perhaps you may yet live to see another dawn."

The Hunter's voice carried with it a promise of violence. The lead thug turned around to walk with a scoff before spinning on his heel, fist raised to catch the stranger off guard. He would have slammed the Hunter onto his ass had his fist connected.

He was just far too slow and weak to even have a chance at succeeding at any attack. Cyril saw it coming, and thought the thug might as well be standing still. Cyril's arms moved catching the man's fist and then he broke his opponent's arm with a brutal punch to the elbow. Screaming, the thug looked at his mangled arm as it was bent in an angle no human arm should be able to go. A shard of bone protruded from his elbow. One of the other thugs turned and vomited on the floor as his leader hit the ground moaning in horror at his now useless arm.

The Hunter glared at the group of thugs who collected their injured comrade and rushed out of the inn. Cyril looked at the innkeeper dispassionately, the man's jaw had dropped in astonishment.

"Apologies." He said blandly. "I seem to have made a mess."

Cementing his reputation as a dangerous individual might have worked a little too well. Nobody asked questions anymore, but they were more recalcitrant to speak with him. The alderman had heard of what had happened and apologized profusely, although he was a bit upset that the Hunter had used too much force even if he couldn't do anything about it. Apparently word hadn't reached Glaspire of the King's agent coming to town to hunt down traces of the slavers.

Cyril walked up to the house of the alderman the next day after the incident with the inn. The Hunter adjusted his hat as he looked up at the two story house that he had arrived at. His weapons were stashed at the inn, hidden from prying or greedy eyes in such a way that only he would find them. He carried only his sword on him today.

The Hunter walked the dirt path leading to the front door, stopping a few feet away as the door opened.

"Ah, hello there."

The woman at the door was not human. Cyril noted the woman's green hair… and green tinted skin. There was also the large flower seemingly sprouting on the side of her head.

An Alraune. Cyril had never seen one outside of the encyclopedia before. Interesting, he had thought that they were usually immobile but he thought wrong it seemed. The woman was happy, but distant.

"Are you the Hunter by chance?" The Alraune asked as she curtsied. Cyril saw that she wore some kind of robe made out of plant material. "My name is Aria, my husband told me that you are meeting with him today?"

"Yes, lady." Cyril said as he bowed. "I am Hunter Cyril, the King has tasked me with the destruction of the slavers threatening this town."

Aria looked sad, but she nodded and allowed him inside the alderman's house.

"Oh… I wish that things hadn't come to this," Aria spoke as she prepared some tea while Cyril waited. The Hunter had lowered his bandana revealing his gaunt features. His eyes scanned the house which was homely enough but the atmosphere was somber.

"How so?" Cyril asked.

"We have been married for many years, my husband had children from his previous marriage but he has sent them to live near the capitol with their aunt." Aria said sighing. "All of this because of the civil strife of the royals."

"And the slavers made this worse." Cyril commented.

"Yes, yes they have." Aria agreed, looking disappointed. "It is one of the many reasons why I do not condone anyone who joins the extremists in Lescatie." She leaned on the table. "I seem to have surprised you, somewhat."

Cyril looked outside. It was a sunny day, if a bit cloudy. "My experiences with monsters tend to be… horrifically violent." He spoke, carefully. "It is refreshing to find some that are… reasonable."

Aria smiled. "I do not blame you," She said softly. "Oh… how I wish our world wasn't so tumultuous these days… With the Demon Lord doing her best and yet failing to change so much, the Order acting genocidal against us and their own people. Not to mention the steady rise of the Oberon League which opens its own can of worms…"

There was a knock on the door. "Oh, good gracious. My husband has finally returned home!" Aria spoke up as she stood to open the door.

Cyril waited patiently as Aria exchanged a greeting with her husband. The alderman, a tall and broad shouldered man in his mid forties, the alderman of the village of Glaspire bowed to the Hunter.

"My apologies for being late, Master Hunter. I am James Talbot of Glaspire." He said. He had a scarred visage that indicated that the alderman was an old fighter. Cyril could appreciate that, although he doubted that he could take on powerful monsters. He wasn't about to say that to Talbot's face however.

"It is a pleasure, Sir Talbot. I am Cyril the Hunter." Cyril returned the greeting. "I assume that you know much about my arrival here."

Talbot nodded and beckoned Cyril to sit back down with him while Aria prepared more tea. The alderman was straight to the point; the village of Glaspire was threatened by the slavers, led by a band of Dark Elves who specialized in such things. They had been forced to promise to give human males to the band, else they would be raided.

It always happened at night when the moon was full. Talbot was at his wits' end and his militia could hardly take on such raiders. He had sent petitions to the lords and ladies of Erebus for help but had receieved nothing forthcoming from any of the nobility.

Hiring mercenaries was out of the question, and Talbot wondered if he would be even able to pay Cyril's own rate.

"I apologize but I must beggar you for aid, Master Hunter." Talbot said. "I have no gold to spare and if I asked my villagers to cough up, then I fear that the slavers will not be your only enemy."

Cyril exhaled but he nodded in understanding. "The King himself commissioned me for this job. Sad to say that Glaspire will not be the only village I'll be visiting while I am here," He said to Talbot.

"Ah… you mean…" Talbot started, blinking at the Hunter.

"I have other patrons in the League," Cyril spoke. "In addition to His Majesty, Samael the Thirteenth, the First Founder has apparently asked for my talents to be lent to Erebus until I am summoned back to Sheffield."

The Hunter crossed his arms. "It's not what I intended to do when I left for the League but here I am, trying to get paid." he spoke honestly.

"I… I see." Talbot looked uncomfortable at how open the Hunter was with what he was doing here but he would not argue. There were… stories about him. Stories that caused a chill to go down his spine.

The Hunter was not a name to be uttered easily. But here he was, in Talbot's house drinking tea on a sunny afternoon. The man was far more polite than the brutal, murdering fiend the stories painted him as. Talbot knew he was dangerous, of that there was no doubt. The predator that sat in his kitchen could have killed him and his wife with his bare hands and he would not have been able to stop him at all.

Talbot was glad that he was on the man's good side.

The meeting went well, all things considered. Cyril walked through the quiet village as the sun went down. Almost no one was on the streets, save for the militia men who kept a watch. They regarded him with a fearful caution even as they gripped clubs and makeshift spears. The Hunter took an ambling route, seemingly, but it did take him to the pallisade walls.

He had no doubts that Glaspire was in a formidable location to ward off marauding bandits but he bet that the defenses had not been tested against wild monsters before. Cyril found an isolated area where he briefly took out the encyclopedia from his rucksack.

He flipped to the page on Dark Elves. They were expert slavers who enjoyed tormenting the men they took away. It seemed they did not discriminate whatsoever and took whoever victims they fancied to a debauched fate. Cyril closed the book and continued on his route. The Hunter pulled on his bandana and loaded a new cartridge into his pistol.

The wind felt… bad. Cyril could feel it. He was going to hunt well tonight.

Screams.

The howl of pack beasts baying for prey.

The clashing of steel and iron.

Cyril dashed out of the inn, Saw Cleaver in hand as he saw the attack unfold near the inn. A horde of monsters had come silently in the night before unleashing their pent up lusts against the village of Glaspire. The Hunter didn't hesitate, didn't freeze even in the face of such chaos. He did that once and because of it, he had failed to protect people precious to him.

Not anymore.

The Good Hunter had once thought to run away from his responsibilities, to escape from the nightmares that plagued him. But he was the Master of the Dream now, and the Hunt was his burden to bear no matter how he ended up. It was this bittersweet feeling of release that found him now. Cyril thought he would have felt shame but instead he felt… nothing. Just this calm sense of purpose that pervaded his entire being.

He charged.

He went in swinging. His Saw Cleaver caught its first victim of the night in the throat. The Amazoness choked as the Saw opened a hideous gash in her throat and she collapsed trying to stem the flow of blood. Cyril turned and shot a charging monster in the face, not even bothering to reload as he holstered his firearm. He swung his weapon, transforming it into the long bladed cleaver. His off hand was now empty.

He rushed the next victim, the Saw Cleaver whooshing through the air as it embedded itself into the skull of a werewolf. The militiaman pinned down beneath the corpse gaped at the crimson eyed Hunter who had just slain his attacker.

"Get up." The Hunter's tone was deathly neutral before he slew another monster, this one an orc who had raised a hammer to try and put him down to no avail. He continued his rampage, cutting down monster after monster with no wasted movement. Every strike was lethal, brutal and uncompromising. It made no difference if he struck down a monster that was pleading for mercy or cursing him in defiance.

The monstrous raiders who struck at the village of Glaspire soon learned just who was unleashed against them, a vicious slaughterer who had escaped Lescatie with his blade stained with the blood of countless enemies.

The Butcher of Lescatie.

The Moon Scented Hunter.

Cyril parried a blow meant for his head as the Amazoness let out an enraged roar. The Hunter punched her across the face, slaying the downed monster by hacking her down with a series of strikes. The horde had now turned their attention on the new threat, ignoring the militiamen now harrying them from the flanks.

He saw now that the marauders weren't expecting someone like him. Cyril struck, swinging left and right as the monsters reeled at the sight of him. He wondered what a human would think of him now? A Hunter, clothed in gray leather wearing a tattered hat, covered in blood and swinging a madman's weapon and killing whatever was in his way.

He was no savior, he left that to knights in shining armor or heroes who held their heads high and fought with benedictions on their lips. He was a mad killer, sent like a dog to deal with problems in a more permanent fashion.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

The raid ended when the monsters couldn't take it anymore and they fled for the forests, leaving their dead behind them.

Cyril watched quietly as the villagers went to work, their faces grim as they considered what had happened. Several men had been captured but it would have been more had the Hunter not been here. The Hunter was not expecting any gratitude. In fact, the villagers stared at him in open fear and disgust as they saw the results of his handiwork.

He had left many corpses in a state of dismemberment and only the most staunch militiamen could deal with the duties of burying what remained. Cyril let the dark looks he was given wash over him as he walked over to one of the wells and got some water out of the bucket. He was covered in blood, that needed to be fixed soon. He knew he wasn't done with just this one raid though. His cruel work was still unfinished and now he would have to set upon hunting down this particular pack of marauders to see if he could get any leads on his true targets.

Cyril laughed to himself. He was going to pull another long night for this one, going into the woods to finish the rest of these poor souls off.

"Good work."

Cyril turned to the alderman, Talbot, who was wearing leather armor. He too was covered in blood but his grim countenance told Cyril that he considered this night a Pyrrhic victory. The Hunter just grunted noncommittally and offered the pail of water to Talbot who poured it all over himself.

"We lost a few lads to the pack when they retreated." Talbot said grimly. "I would spare a few men to go after them but after seeing you in action…"

He was hesitant to ask, considering the slaughter he inflicted on the enemy but Cyril represented his only hope of getting the kidnapped men back to their homes. Talbot was willing to pay any price for that, so he could sleep without seeing the faces of those men in his dreams. Cyril could tell that Talbot was terrified of him, but this was the only way to make sure that these raids would stop.

"That's fine," Cyril spoke softly. "I was thinking about going in alone anyway." The Hunter looked to the militiamen. They whispered, they pointed and stared at him with fear of the unnatural. No mortal man alive should have been able to take on so many monsters and killed them. No one but him apparently.

"All I have to do is to follow the carnage."

The Hunter's Dream

Sierra was so confused but as she continued to sit and wait, she looked around with trepidation at the dreary workshop she had found herself in. She shivered as she looked outside the window. She… couldn't tell what time it was but it was always night here. The moon was always full.

It was as if time had stood still, this lonely place had trapped it and it lay here in a quiet repose until the owner willed it. Her… companion, the tall woman shaped Doll that did much to make sure the workshop was still serviceable had told her she was a steward. But to who?

The High Elf stood up, wrapping the rough blanket she wore around her shoulders as she opened the creaky door to look outside. Once again, she was captivated by the melancholy sight of the field of white asphodels.

"You spend a lot of time here don't you?"

Sierra kept herself from jumping as the Doll approached, carrying a bucket of water and a rag to clean. She beckoned to Sierra to follow and the High Elf did so, her eyes locked onto the towering yet graceful form of the workshop steward as she walked up the hill to a grave.

Sierra looked at the words etched onto the stone. The gravestone was crudely made but considering its near immaculate condition, the grave was well cared for.

Gehrman, the First Hunter…

"Who… Who was Gehrman?" Sierra asked the Doll.

"He was a Hunter, the first and the greatest of them all." The Doll replied in her strange accent. "He was once the warden of this Dream, a place of rest for all those who faced the Hunt."

The elf furrowed her brow, confused but as she watched the Doll clean the grave, she felt… sad. "Did my friend know him?" Sierra asked again.

"The Good Hunter? Oh, he was Gehrman's student. One of many who came to this Dream. Some passed on gracefully, others died alone and in pain. But he was one who saw the light of dawn." The Doll explained. She looked over at Sierra and smiled at her.

"Your friend is very strong. But he is often sad and lonely. I wish him well." The Doll told Sierra.

The Elf nodded in agreement. "I know, but… why? Why can't I remember him?"

"Rest." The Doll said quietly. "You will remember soon enough. But not now."

Sierra looked down, frustrated but unable to do anything about her current amnesia.

Why couldn't she remember?