The Darkened Path, Part One: In the Dead of Night

[Christoph]

The sun set peacefully in the quiet sky, casting a golden glow over a horizon of pine-covered mountains and illuminating the rocky bald spots of the landscape. The only sounds save the gentle rustling of the late summer grass were the steady creaking of a trio of wagons, accented by the muffled clopping of hooves. Even in the wane of dusk, the worn, winding road stretched on for miles into the eastern horizon like the stray mark of a scribe’s pen.

Christopher Knighton was stretched out on a pile of wheat sacks, peeling potatoes with a small knife and tossing them into a large pot of water. He felt relaxed and content. His white chef coat was clean, though it had become little more than a patchwork of assorted stains and mended tears. He inhaled the crisp air with a genuinely happy expression. There were traces of the Salvic chill, as well as the distinct aroma of the land’s soil, pines, and farm animals. It smelled like home. After over two years of travel all across the Althanas, and gods-know where else, it felt wonderful to be breathing familiar air again.

Finally, he could put his whole extraordinary ordeal behind him. Indeed, he’d seem more of the world in those months than he had in his entire life leading up to it. He’d met fascinating people and done some amazing things. However, the facts that many of those people he’d met were trying to kill him and much of what he did also almost resulted in his death in one manner or the other certainly put him off to traveling. It was almost as though some bored gods had taken it upon themselves to toy with the chef for their own amusement.

Amusingly enough, his unwanted harrowing adventure was supposed to be nothing more than a four-month business trip. His mother was opening up a second tavern in a nearby town, and with two establishments to run, the need for a larger quantity of cheaper imports became necessary for success. Chris had been sent off to work out a number of contracts with foreign shipping agents and warehouse owners. He’d been successful in this, naturally, but there was just something about zombie attacks, wars, pickpockets, untimely arrests, and shipwrecks that made business ventures take longer than they are supposed to.

As a result, none of the pleasant points in his long journey were enough to make him want to do it again. Ever. He concluded, plunking another peeled vegetable into the pot, that even a peaceful, and for the most part boring, life of working in his hometown’s tavern was preferable to living out an existence of self-inflicted misery as a traveler.

He sighed wearily from the memory, but pushed it all from his mind. It didn’t matter anymore; it was over now. In another week, he would be back in his hometown, working in the tavern’s kitchen, and telling stories to curious patrons. Assuming anyone recognized him, anyway. His ordeal had changed him. He looked older, the last vestiges of his baby-face gone. His brown eyes were more intense, his brown hair curlier and longer, and his frame was whipcord-lean and fit. He wasn’t the same lazy child that had left the tavern almost a year ago.

A large town slowly appeared in the distance. The glow of several dozen fireplaces escaped the windows of most every house, making the distant settlement look like a handful of burning embers tossed over the dark hilltop. Then, oddly, the metaphorical embers died one by one as the lights went out, leaving a cold emptiness in their place. Odd.

He recognized that town; its name was Tirel. He’d passed through the town with his mother a few times growing up. It made no sense for them to put their lights out so early. Whatever the cause, Elijah’s track record with luck and fate tempted him to believe that it wasn’t good.