View Full Version : Only In Salvation
(Solo)
Frigid waves crashed against the crumbling rocks and roiled with foam, cracking the frail ice that acted as a harbinger of an early winter. The coastline along the Namirov was already busy with fishermen well into season, but high along the cliffs another hunter prowled. Stooping low, Saxon brandished a stick and jabbed at the remains of a fire turning over ash and dying cinders, still wisping with smoke. "Just over a day old," He said.
Many things had been left behind by the warlock, mostly scraps of food and a few utensils here and there, but it said a lot to Saxon. Picking up an iron cup and smelling his contents, he grimaced and set it back down. "He isn't even bothering to cover his tracks any more. Am I really that close?" The hunter said to himself as he rose and felt his knees pop loudly like pistons.
After gleaning whatever he could from the campsite, Saxon returned to his horse, Ambrose, who had been tied to a nearby tree. Pulling at the reins as he untied them, the hunter led Ambrose towards the outer ring of the campsite, helping his horse carefully step over the runes that ringed the warlock's resting place. It was a feeble attempt at a trap that hadn't even been disguised after being quickly written and riddled with many mistakes. It seemed as if the long chase was finally getting to the warlock, and although Saxon knew the spell still had more then enough power to immolate him, he reveled in the idea that the pursuit was drawing to a close.
Meeting the tracks of the warlock and his own horse, Saxon had already examined them and saw that they went due north, straight for the grasslands. He'd have to check his map at nightfall, but it didn't take long for him to put the pieces together. "I'll be damned, Desmond of all people is going to find religion." He said, the mere thought of such a monster finding a home in that place made his hatred for the man smolder. "Anything to save his scrawny neck."
Realizing that this was going to be a run to the end, Saxon moved back to his horse and grabbed at the saddle. His boots had barely cleared the stirrups before he dug his spurs into the colt's flanks and drove him forward. In seconds, Ambrose ran at a full gallop towards the grasslands and eventually the towering mountains that lay to the north.
After a hundred yards, Saxon slowed the horse to a high trot, giving his faithful companion some time to recover as he intended to make the grasslands by sunset. And he couldn't do that with a horse with a broken leg. As he thundered along the cliffside, the hunter could scarcely believe that after he had pursued the warlock so far and for so long that it was almost over. It took awhile for it to truly sink in, but unlike earlier, Saxon couldn't relish the possibility of one of his toughest jobs almost done while the worst had yet to come.
By horseback, Saxon covered close to eleven miles before the last drop of daylight had left its radiant lantern. The skies had fallen into a gray and amber wash before he had reached the edge of the grasslands, but by then the hunter knew better then to travel at night especially with who he was dealing with. The grass was as tall as a man and while on Ambrose, it just managed to touch his knees. Like the cornfields that often flourished in Corone, grasslands like these made excellent cover, and on foot a man could run for miles with little chance of ever being spotted.
But, with John Desmond it was never that simple. Having been within arm's reach of catching him for more than a year, Saxon had quickly learned of the old warlock's cunning. Often times the hard way. There was no telling of what treacherous and unassuming dangers lay beneath the grass and the dark. Stopping amongst a rocky outcrop that had a few sparse oaks that had yet to lose their remaining leaves, Saxon decided to make camp. Having eaten on the trail, he had made an extra few miles during the day giving the hunter enough time to catch up early in the morning.
It didn't take long to make a fire and drop his bedroll by the rocks that lay against the dark, alluring grass. Within minutes, Saxon sat by the fire where a can of beans slowly began to bubble and simmer. With his back braced against his newfound shelter, Saxon dug out a map of the Salvar's western coast from his saddlebag. Eager to make the most of his down time, the hunter began to plan the quickest route to Kalev, the only place he could guess Desmond was heading.
Despite his heinous crimes, the warlock knew well enough that the people of Angvall which sat upon the highlands were model pacifists, unable to harm a living creature, be it man or beast. And sometimes that kind of idealism got them in trouble. If Desmond managed to reach Kalev and somehow found these legendary monks, however, he could seek asylum and absolution, finally giving him the protection he needed to fend off the hunter once and for all. It wasn't something Saxon was going to stand for, and he would be beside himself if he allowed that animal to absolve himself of all the unspeakable things he had did.
Too many people had died for that to happen, and the hunter would give his own life to protect the memory of the men and women he had pursued Desmond with.
It was a sick joke, Saxon thought. To have a man who was responsible for the deaths of dozens able to shrug off his crimes by accepting a religion he didn't intend to follow and to hide amongst sheep, it only proved to anger him even more. "I've got to get the sonuva bitch and stop him before he gets there."
It was the only way.
Looking down at the map, Saxon saw his choices were limited. While the grasslands that led north were a small, narrow strip of land it was long enough that it'd add two extra days of travel to go around. It was time that he couldn't afford to lose. Only by traveling through the grasslands could Saxon reach the edge of Darga's Run, a forest steeped in myth and said to be protected by a God of the same name. It was usually avoided by travelers and merchants alike for the tales of grim endings for all who tread there, but in order to reach the highlands before Desmond, he needed to cut straight through it.
What would normally take a week by going around these obstacles and traveling carefully, Saxon could make the trip in three days. Whether or not he was alive by the end of it was another matter. But, the risks were far outweighed by what the hunter had already lost in his pursuit of the elusive warlock, and he'd cut his own throat before he let Desmond slip through his grasp again.
As night fell fast in Salvar, as it usually did during the winter, Saxon had just finished his dinner and was scraping the last of the beans from the bottom of the can. One of the few remaining pleasures in his life and the hunter decided to skimp on it, tossing the can off into the grass with a loud belch. There hadn't been much need with remaining unseen in his pursuit of the warlock, for he could already guarantee Desmond was aware of his presence. "At least while he has that fucking charm around his neck," Saxon snarled, silently reminding himself of the ghastly fetish that he chose to wear. It wasn't what the charm did that made Saxon's blood boil but what it was made out of.
Quickly dismissing an image of his fallen companion, Father Edward Grey, that had come to the front of his mind, Saxon turned his attention elsewhere.
Standing, he walked over to Ambrose who he let wander over to the nearby creek to drink water. Patting his dark mane, the hunter looked into his colt's tired eyes and smiled. "It's almost done, friend," he said soothingly, "Another couple days and then you can rest all you want."
With a snort, Ambrose turned his head. Taking the reins, Saxon guided his faithful companion to a tree closest to the fire and tied him there. Patting him one last time, Saxon began to turn to his bedroll but caught sight of smoke broiling into the night sky in the distance. Unable to contain himself, the hunter scrambled up the rock that he would use for protection and looked down the miles of grassland to the source of the smoke. Less then eleven miles away perched upon a rock high above the grass, a man Saxon knew to be Desmond sat warming himself by the fire. It was too far away to make out any features or details, but the hunter knew it was the warlock who was too proud to sleep amongst the grass and sought higher ground. Crafty as he was, Saxon didn't doubt that Desmond would also use his presence to bait him into a trap.
If he were a younger man and a mite touch dumber, Saxon probably would've gone for it. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Desmond was too far away to catch without risking the perils of the grasslands or exhausting himself and his horse to dangerous levels. No, tonight both the hunter and his prey would sleep under the same stars, both within spitting distance of one another.
Holding the branch to steady himself, Saxon tipped his fedora and watched the blur of a campfire in the distance, his desire to run after him almost too strong to ignore. Only with what age and experience he had did the hunter stay his hand, soon finding sleep far more compelling.
"Enjoy your freedom while you have it, Desmond," He said in a voice that barely hovered above a whisper, "I'll have your heart soon enough."
With that, Saxon retreated down the rock and back to his bedroll. Covered in thick wool blankets and with a fire at his side, it didn't take long until the weight of months of exhaustion to cause him to fall into a deep, quiet slumber.
As Saxon dreamed, his mind flashed vivid, captivating images of the long, bitter year he had spent tracking John Desmond. It hadn't always been himself pursuing the warlock, and those same dreams he had every night reminded him of it. In the first five months, the hunter had worked with a posse to scour Corone and find the warlock so that he could be brought back to face justice. Despite how long Saxon had him on the run in the present, one shouldn't be fooled. Desmond was a powerful, old sorcerer who wielded the darkest of magic and studied the blackest of arts. He was capable of great destruction and despite his evil intentions, he was brilliant.
Only by a chase through every part of Corone and now Salvar that had taken up a year and a half were Saxon and his companions able to steadily wear down the warlock's power and erode his ironclad determination. Where he would once turn and chase the very posse that was after him every time they grew near, he was now exhausted from his travel and had come to learn to just what extent Saxon would go to catch him.
But, this hunt for one of Corone's most wanted during its Civil War hadn't come without its costs. The posse was often the ones who had to pay heavily while Desmond stayed one step ahead of them. Once there were four of them, each had sacrificed in their own way to contribute to the catching of John Desmond. The first had been a lawman named Pete Carson, a local sheriff whose town Desmond had destroyed after holding it for ransom. In the snap of fingers, the Sheriff's family and everyone he loved were reduced to ash and the town fulminated into a deep, bubbling crater. Unable to contain himself, and only two months into the hunt, Carson had made a fatal mistake in underestimating Desmond and was torn to pieces by his hounds.
His hounds.
Only by the grace of the Thaynes had Saxon remembered those terrible beasts. Standing tall at his waist, the black hounds summoned from whatever nameless, dark pit their master had chosen were ferocious and rivaled even the fiercest of enemies with their brutality. They had easily given Saxon and his friends the most trouble, but only when the posse had been whittled down to himself and the preacher, Edward Grey, had they made the fateful discovery of an artifact capable of warding off those blackest of monsters. It was the only thing they feared, and it was something that never left Saxon's neck so long as he was on this hunt. Ever.
While the hunter's mind continued to recount the terrible journey of himself and his companions, all now long dead, he kept his hand over the black sheath containing one of the few things John Desmond feared. Someone had died to make sure he had gotten his hands on it, and Saxon intended on making good use of it. With scars and wounds that ran deeper than flesh, this would be a journey that be long to forget, and Saxon intended on making the man he so despised remembering every moment of it before he killed him.
For once, fortune was on Saxon's side. An hour before dawn, the hunter had finished tending to his breakfast and broke camp, eager for an early start. Untying Ambrose from the tree and taking his feed bag, Saxon was quick to the saddle when the yolk of a newborn sun was still cresting the horizon. On a hunch, the hunter broke off into a dash towards the brightening sky while riding alongside the border of the tall grass.
Within twenty minutes of riding, he had found it.
Less than a mile away from his campsite, a broad swath of grass lay stamped to the ground by the work of hundreds of hooves, forming a wide trail through the grasslands and easy passage to the forests that lay over twenty-six miles away. Only taking a few moments to inspect the trail, Saxon moved into it, allowing Ambrose to tread carefully until he was able to get a feel for it.
With Salvar plunged into a civil war that had torn the country to shreds, it was likely that many of the kingdom's citizens and slaves would seek sanctuary in Angvall to wait out the gruesome outcome of the war. Much like Desmond, after escaping the clutches of their tyrannical barons, these refugees would cut through the grasslands and use a similar trail to find their way to the highlands of Kalev. Naturally, not all of these refugees that had migrated were responsible for forming the trail Saxon was now taking advantage of. Those responsible for his sudden turn of fortune had much darker intentions.
As he rode along the trail, the hunter began to spot spatters of blood amongst the smashed grass, small reminders of the horrors that must have been wrought within these fields. But, if the existence of the trail wasn't enough, it also confirmed the rumors Saxon had heard from fishermen before he left the port town of Gamhl along the Knife. This trail had been cut through by men much like Saxon, bounty hunters or agents of coastal barons running down refugees seeking to escape to Angvall for asylum. Though Saxon's motives weren't among those of greed or pride, his thirst for vengeance and justice had led him in the footsteps of cold-blooded killers who would hunt down those desperately seeking a better life and drag them back to face the wrath of their barons. It had happened so frequently in fact, that the people who spoke these dark rumors had coined a nickname for the trail itself. They called it the Road to Perdition.
However dark the irony may have been, Saxon found it sobering and a difficult truth to swallow. So much so, that aside from a watchful eye on the trail ahead and the potential for Desmond's foul play, he traveled in silence. As it would turn out, the hunter wouldn't have to wait long before his run of luck was plugged short.
It wasn't long before he encountered his first body. Over two hours spent on the trail, Saxon had been breaking off a piece of hardtack with his teeth that he had softened by soaking it in water when he had encountered the ghastly sight. Less than a yard off the trail in either direction, makeshift scarecrows had been erected high above the grass, and it was a wonder why he hadn't spotted them before. Only what Saxon had originally thought to be scarecrows, the effigies of farmers and their last line of defense against the plague of crows that would often eat insects and destroy their crops, was something far different.
Hanging upon a crude cross, the corpse of a woman who must have been one of the many refugees laid nailed to it. Her face was frozen in an expression of terror and it looked by the bizarre way that she contorted her body that she must have struggled for days upon that wretched cross before she finally perished. The peasant had been stripped naked and beaten, her bruises grotesquely contrasting her flesh that had long turned an eeriely bluish gray typical of most cadavers. Patches of flesh upon her person were black and crawling with maggots and her innards must have been spilled by the same wretched crows that also pecked out her eyes. Displayed as a warning to all of those who would dare to journey down the accursed trail, its message was clear.
Passing the woman with his jaw hung slack with disbelief; Saxon spat out whatever hardtack he had been eating and tossed the rest of it into the grass, leaving it for the devil's birds to feed on.
As if it weren't enough, the hunter passed more and more of the wretched men and women who had been nailed as warnings to refugees. The further he got into the trail, the more bodies there were as if it had just struck a bounty hunter or noble and their posse halfway through to send a grim message to all those who would defy their masters. Probably doing it on the orders of the barons themselves. A good and moral man, if Saxon hadn't been on the hunt for Desmond, he might have taken it upon himself to cut those poor souls down and leave them to the fields to rot. Unfortunately, it'd take time and it was the one commodity that Saxon couldn't spare any of. With a heavy heart, the hunter sped his horse faster along the trail and away from the twisted marionettes that stood as examples of man's darker nature.
Twenty minutes later and almost a mile and a half further down the trail, the crucifixes stopped. As strange as it was, Saxon didn't think much of it and exhaled in relief. Despite whatever grievance could be made against the bounty hunters, their terrible message used to drive off those who would dare to journey to Angvall using their trail worked. Not a soul stirred within the fields and up until this moment Saxon hadn't considered the potential of a refugee being ran down in front of him, but the reality of it was something he chose to ignore.
Driving Ambrose faster and faster down the trail with every intention to get off of it and back in pursuit of Desmond, the sun was reaching its zenith. It was already noon and he was only this far through the trail. At this pace, by nightfall he'd be almost halfway through the fields and despite whatever fortune Saxon may have had by finding this sinister road, he had every desire to get off of it as soon as possible and with Desmond to consider, he wouldn't be trapped here of all places at night.
As the crucifixes had warded off many of those kindred to the few that were nailed to it, it served to drive Saxon to make haste. He would eventually come upon another line of crosses staggered alongside the trail, but only this time they were bare. Only stains of dried blood, sweat and heavy iron nails remained. Not even pausing to consider what or who had taken the bodies from the cross, Saxon spurred Ambrose into a high trot. When he began to hear the sounds of the gnashing of teeth, stripping of flesh and other ghoul's work he advanced into a gallop.
It wasn't long after that that Saxon felt the very ground around him began to shake.
The ground beneath Ambrose's hooves began to bubble and rock as it shook so violently that the very dirt beneath the grass was coming apart. After almost two years in hot pursuit of John Desmond, it had ceased to mystify the hunter or give any inclination of doubt that a phenomenon like this was the handiwork of the wretched warlock himself. Pulling his whip from the saddle, Saxon smacked it against the side of Ambrose and drove him into a breakneck pace. Attempting to ride on and through the thunderheads of fate, he couldn't afford to pause and wait to see the outcome of Desmond's sorcery. He had traveled too far and experienced too much to learn of the awful end that was meted out to those foolish enough to battle against the arcane wrought by this man.
Another flash of Father Grey's terror-stricken face had come to him, but Saxon blocked it out. Knowing Ambrose was of fierce will and strong of heart, he also knew that his colt could take the punishment of his whip and the trauma of a quick escape. But even if he wasn't, Saxon was willing to risk his horse's injury to the tangle of grass or stumble from exhaustion. Less than fifteen miles into the trail, there was thirteen and then some to go. And with Desmond's black magic at their heels, it'd be done in a blink of an eye.
Storming down the trail as the ground began to come apart, the tremors grew worse the farther into the fields they went. Saxon drove Ambrose hard as he yelled and spat violent encouragement at his old friend, determining only to stop when the both of them had met their end. Faster and faster the horse and his master went along the trail until everything became a blur. Only pausing to look back once as he sank further into his saddle, Saxon could've sworn the ground was falling into nothing! Unable to bear to look at whatever black abyss Desmond had conjured, he tore his eyes from the awful sight and back to the task ahead.
To his credit, Ambrose's noble heart and famed lineage as a steed stolen from a fallien sultan's royal stables, he came from a legendary breed. Because of that, Ambrose tore at the ground with his hooves with the ferocity of a dervish, enduring the ushering of his master with a snort and braved whatever inklings of exhaustion he must have felt by now with will alone.
"Com'n!" Saxon roared, "Com'n, Ambrose! Get us to the end!"
Much to his surprise, the very abyss they were both fleeing from chose to roar back. An awful, primeval roar that told of unspoken hells and horrors that couldn't be imagined was let loose from the depths of that darkness, and it struck the blackest of fears within the both of the companions. Both of strong constitution and with no way to go but forward, the hunter and his colt stormed on to the sound of the ground crumbling behind them. It was only when the sound of something emerging from that pit that true terror struck the heart of Saxon.
It must have been gigantic, almost the size of a leviathan if Saxon could've guessed, for it's very presence behind them exuded the feeling of something old, massive and hungry. Unwilling to spare a glance backwards to learn the truth of the monster that pursued them at the risk of losing his nerve, the hunter stared onward until tears from the frigid winds whipping at his face began to get to him.
Almost on top of them, the leviathan snapped its mighty jaws and smashed together teeth that must have been the size of redwoods. It was so much that Saxon could scarcely believe that Desmond had the energies and stamina left to conjure such an awful thing, and it gave testament that the warlock's terrible power had not yet waned.
Fleeing for their very lives, the pair covered mile after mile in what seemed like an eternity. What had become a run for their lives had turned into a race for the finish as soon as Saxon spotted an opening at the end of the trail that lay in the longest stretch of his life. It wasn't until he could make out what looked to be trees in the distance that the hunter could've sworn that the behemoth behind him was picking up speed. Only with ferocious willpower and thirst for life that Saxon risked to whip Ambrose onward until the risk of injury was so great that the colt surprised him by complying.
Feeling the cold sweat and exhaustion that burned on the surface, the horse's iron heart continued to pump blood that burned in his very veins and spurred him onward. It was a fierce pride for his friend that flashed into Saxon's mind as he began to understand what grueling torture Ambrose must have been going through, but even the colt kept up a brave face. He was unwilling to give up and because of that neither was Saxon, and as that burning pride and love for his friend grew, it began to push out whatever black fear of death, the monster, and memories of the terrible end all of his friends on the trail for John Desmond had met.
Immediately, it seemed as if the leviathan was losing speed as Saxon's heart swelled and before they even left the trail, the pair began to put some distance between the creature and moved at a speed that should've been their undoing.
Closing in on the end of the trail, Ambrose snorted and gave one last push as he ran faster than he ever had before and when he finally broke through the last of the fields, the horse continued to run onwards. The leviathan had stopped at the end of the trail and sank back into the darkness of the abyss from whence it came, but neither the hunter nor his horse dared to slow down for another mile until they were in the safety of the hills and the sun had began to sink at their back.
As night fell upon the black hills that bordered the southwest edge of Darga's Run, Saxon was busy inspecting his horse for injury under the soft glow of a campfire. Ambrose was exhausted, and after their narrow escape from Desmond's latest display of power, Saxon could remember the horse's black, wet flesh literally beginning to steam when they had slowed down on another trail through the hills. It was something they should've never been able to do after the months of exhaustion and wear that lay upon their shoulders. Traveling well over twenty-five miles in a day under that kind of terrain was unheard of, and it made Saxon's heart swell with pride every time he thought of it.
Letting go of a hoof that was beginning to splinter, the hunter grimaced, "Going to have to take it easy on you, Amby," he chided, "If we keep having to make these escapes like this, I'll be digging you an early grave."
Ambrose gave a light snort and began to pick at the frozen grass with his good hoof.
Getting up on his feet, Saxon walked over and rubbed his colt's mane gingerly, his companion's exhaustion palpable by his very demeanor. Despite whatever face he tried to put on it, Saxon had used up whatever reserves Ambrose had left in their escape and if he traveled at a gallop again within the next couple days there was a great chance that his horse was going to break one of his legs. The only remedy to that would be a quick and merciful knife to the throat.
Almost kindred in their friendship, the two stalwart companions said everything they needed to in their silence. Turning from his horse who he had chosen to let roam free tonight, Saxon moved back to the fire.
The frigid temperature had plunged considerably low, and it was by fortune alone that it hadn't begun to snow within the hills. But, the good news was that their journey through the fields had put them farther ahead in the chase for Desmond then Saxon had realized. Still nearly out of reach, the warlock must have decided to camp within the forests of Darga's Run, willing to brave the dangers and potential risks of angering a primordial God then to chance the hunter coming up on him in the night. Several times Saxon had attempted to spot some sort of fire or smoke within the forest that held sign of Desmond, but there was nothing.
Only a fool would light a fire within Darga's Run.
But, despite it all, Saxon knew he was closer than he had been in months. Though they both played this cat and mouse game of a chase across the countryside, both Saxon and Desmond knew that the warlock's run for Angvall was desperate. It would certainly stop the hunter from pursuing the warlock any longer, but how long was Desmond willing to live amongst monks who were renowned vegetarians and pacifists? Days? Months? Years?
Could he really count on the fact that Saxon wouldn't be waiting for him to come out eventually and end it all? They both knew the score and how much was at stake. It had taken an entire posse over the course of a year to wear the warlock down this much and if he recovered, it'd be suicide for the hunter to try and have another go at him at first sight. But, with everything that had been sacrificed and lost on either side, there wasn't any doubt in either of their minds that Saxon would try it. He had to.
Sitting on his bedroll while he stared into the roaring flames of the fire, Saxon began to doubt for the first time in weeks his chances at taking Desmond down. With his heart heavy under the burden of the memories of his dead friends, their sacrifices, and the job ahead, the hunter found himself going to sleep earlier then expected. That night, he didn't dream.
By dawn, only years of practiced discipline as a Coronian soldier had allowed Saxon to awake after such an ordeal. His muscles burned, his joints were knotted and the hunter felt every bit as haggard as he looked. Despite all that, he got out from under the woolen blankets and forced himself to start the day anew. Still, even as he got back on his feet that morning, it was the first time in many months that Saxon felt the weight of so many years upon his shoulders.
The man felt old.
Despite that, if there was one thing that was going in Saxon's favor, it was that the nagging doubt that had plagued him the previous night had vanished, almost as if a fit of deep sleep had been enough to swallow the torment.
After breaking his fast with some hard, bitter cheese, an old apple and the last of his jerky he had made from the leftover meat of a deer he caught back in Corone, Saxon was ready to start the day. It was a meal that had taken much longer then it was supposed to, but whatever guilt he must have felt for indulging himself, the hunter ignored it and broke camp. Some time after day broke, Saxon walked along the trail that snaked through the hills whose size bordered on that of mountains. Holding Ambrose by the reins, the hunter led him quietly down the cobblestone road that was cut into the hillside, now overgrown with weeds and flora as Nature attempted to reclaim it for her own. For several hours, Saxon spent the cool morning stewing in his own thoughts.
Even in his meditation, Saxon glanced at the beauty of scene before him, because despite however deep in thought he might have been, he couldn't ignore the sight. It was breathtaking. As the sun crested over the craggy mountains, its glimmering rays found the hills early that morning. The sky still in twilight as the day broke was washed with shades of orange and purple and even the faintest hint of blue. The effect of the rising sun upon the weathered, rocky hills was profound as its radiance cast the crags not yet burdened under the weight of so many tons of snow into hues of stark purple and dim reds.
Several hundred feet below the evaporating morning dew from the nearby redwoods and ashes formed into a mist that settled over the small river that snaked its way through the outcrops of the towering hills, giving the illusion that the little giants who had forsaken the name of mountains were taller then the clouds themselves.
It was something that Saxon and his companion observed and relished in silence.
What had bothered the hunter now more then Desmond still eluding his grasp was the condition of his companion. What Saxon thought merely to be a splintered hoof proved to be more grievous as the hunter remembered waking up briefly at least once during the night to the whiney of Ambrose, his voice heavy with torment. The hunter had done his best to quiet the colt and let him drink from the cool waters that night as he looked as his hoof again, but there wasn't much he could do. If that weren't enough, Saxon began to observe the sudden limp of his friend's front right hoof as they walked along the majestic hills, the pitter patter of his blood into the dirt thundering in Saxon's ears. It wasn't until well into the morning that the hunter faced it.
Ambrose was hurt.
To drive the colt any further or harder then he already had would crack the colt's hoof, and the chances of him breaking his leg would become a certainty. Saxon wasn't even sure if Ambrose's heart could stand another gallop. A friend and companion of his for many years, the horse was closer to the hunter then few people ever were. And it was at the risk of losing time and Desmond slipping through his grasp forever that Saxon made the hardest decision he ever had in months and left vengeance trail to care for his companion. John Desmond's life and settling his vendetta once and for all wasn't worth it to Saxon, and it was something he spoke of honestly, if it meant he had to bury his only remaining friend.
And even to ignore the problem now would've been foolish. Had he spurred Ambrose on and sought Desmond once again, the horse's leg would break and any gain he may have made on the warlock within the past couple days would've been for not. The reality of what kind of situation he was in and the seriousness of it made Saxon's mood darken, but he did his best to support his friend along the way.
Stopping several times along the way, even to Ambrose's protest, the hunter looked at his colt's hoof again and again trying to think of what he could do to treat the wound. He gave the horse words of encouragement and even thought of applying a salve and bandage he knew of from his old days in the field. But, no matter how many times he looked or tried, he could do little. Whatever Saxon planned to do himself to treat his horse would do little good as it was well beyond his abilities to treat such an injury, even to an animal. What they both needed now was help.
Walking further into the hills, his shoulders heavy with the burden of the task before him and his mind clouded in melancholy, Saxon soon found himself lost in the hills searching for help.
The stellar beauty that had enthralled those that dwelled within the hills had been washed away by the storm that followed later that day. The skies, once a vibrant and stellar blue, became awash with gray and blotches of black as the thunderheads rolled over the hills. It wasn't long after the sun had vanished behind the black ichor of the clouds that the land below darkened.
It started off as a drizzle, at least that's what Saxon remembered. Guiding his colt down the unsettled path and around upturned rocks so big that they could break the iron band of a carriage wheel, the hunter felt the first drops of rain begin to patter on his sweat stained fedora. A mere drizzle wasn't cause for alarm, but as Saxon glanced at the sheer, stonewashed hillside that stood beside him, it didn't taken long to spot the weathered rocks that dipped in the cliffside that would act as funnels for all of the water during the time of a great storm. With nothing but the winding road to stop it from flooding the valley below, Saxon realized the new and awful danger of a mudslide.
Pulling Ambrose faster along the path for the first time all day, Saxon heard the colt whinny from behind, but he ignored it. As he watched the sky grow darker and darker until it grew an almost malevolent black, giant thunderheads that heralded an even bigger storm were rolling past. The hunter could smell the rain in the air and feel the coming storm in his bones. All the signs were pointing in the wrong direction, and Saxon found himself picking up speed as he moved quickly through a pass. He needed to beat the storm before it started, because if he hadn't and he was caught in the full might of nature's fury, the rain would come down from over the rocks and wash them over the side and into oblivion. Saxon's mind raced for a solution, but found himself leading the colt further and further down the path that didn't seem to have an end in sight.
The first flash of white lightning cracked across the sky and hit land only a few miles away just over the next hill, and with a grim certainty Saxon counted in his head until he heard the awful rumbling of thunder that began to shake the valley. "Six miles," the hunter said in awe, never having quite been around a storm where lightning had struck so close. Suddenly, every part of him wanted under cover and out of his first Salvarian storm.
Signaling the beginning to a terrible storm, the rain began to pit and patter with the same sound as the blood from Ambrose's injured hoof. First a sprinkle and then the heavy rain grew stronger and thicker until it began to come down in sheets. As with most of what man was exposed to with Nature in Salvar, there was always a price to be paid for witnessing its staggering beauty.
It didn't take long.
The torrent of rain that came down over head hit the pair hard as violent, shrieking winds blowing through the path laid out by the mighty hills threatened to sweep them from the man made road and into the dark abyss. The rain came down so savagely that Saxon was forced to pull his fedora down to his eyes and stare at the ground as it stymied and already slowed their progress to a hobble. Barely covering a tenth of a mile within the next twenty or so minutes, Saxon realized he was already being hit with the full brunt of the storm.
Which meant..
Forced to shield his eyes and stare at the ground, Saxon could already see the first of the rainwater that spilled from overhead running from underneath his boots. In another ten minutes it would be lapping against them and in another ten it'd be up to his ankles. After that, well, there wasn't much reason to hurry towards the nearest cave as the first wave of water to wash over the craggy cliffs would carry them over the edge.
His mind frantic, Saxon felt himself utterly helpless as he felt himself at the mercy of the storm, something so terrible it made a hurricane in Corone look tame. As lightning arced across the sky and a clap of thunder resounded so loudly it shook the ground, the Coronian's ears began to bleed. This onslaught was so foreign to him in savage lands that were once so rich and vibrant. It suddenly occurred to the hunter of an old superstition he heard of that was commonly held by all Salvarians, which said that when the land was at its most vibrant, traveler beware. It spoke of an untamed and savage Nature that cast its most enthralling spell upon a wayward traveler before crushing them under its full might. The warning was useless now, but Saxon remembered the strangeness of such an idea.
Minutes passed into eons as Saxon trudged along the wet and turbulent road, his side scraping against the side of the rocky hills, trying to keep himself from being blown over the side. The ever present danger of the roaring winds that tore at him and his soaked, beaten body with that heavy, turbulent rain began to fade away. Eventually the noise of the rain hitting the ground mixed with the howl of biting winds and awful thunder began to bleed into one another until eventually Saxon couldn't hear anything, not even the protests of his injured colt.
The ebb of water only began to lap over his boots when Saxon dismissed the thought of riding Ambrose to safety. The road was now too slippery and the weather too violent for even a horse as mighty as Ambrose to undertake the burden and expect the both of them to live. The time for such things had passed.
And that was the last coherent thought Saxon remembered having during that awful day.
As his mind was dulled and eventually made submissive to the wrath of Nature, Saxon and Ambrose were both on a death march, only awaiting the end. Thoughts of safety, care for their wounds, rest, and even revenge were washed away by the storm. To Saxon, he became nothing more then the same creature he and others like him hunted. Driven to primal instinct and unable to prescribe to a higher morality, those creatures were people that had lost their humanity. Sometimes to madness, sometimes by misfortune or choice. It didn't matter, what did was Saxon, deep in his heart, was vaguely aware of what he was becoming. And he didn't like it.
But he and Ambrose trudged on.
Saxon's clothes became heavy as he was soaked all the way through. The water that washed overhead was already up to his ankles and he found himself beginning to have trouble standing as he saw his feet beginning to slide to the edge. A grim, animalistic fear of his coming demise rose and the Coronian clanged to the side of the wet wall of rock as waves of brown and gray washed over him and his horse.
His senses dulled, his mind clouded and any sign of his humanity suppressed by the storm, the creature known as Saxon knew his end was imminent. It was at that moment he accepted death, knowing it was certain and would be coming quickly.
And then an old, liver-spotted hand reached out of the darkness of a cave he trudged dumbly past and pulled the hunter into the safety of black nothingness and out of Nature's terrible reach.
The awful, howling wind that threatened to tear Saxon from the ledge had dulled to a moan from the safety of that dank, dry cave. The shadows played as they tumbled and danced around the walls of the cave while Saxon, Ambrose and the old man that saved him sat warming themselves by the roaring, crackling fire. Saxon sat naked under his woolen blanket that, remarkably, somehow managed to stay dry under the beating of the storm they had all suffered. His wet, black mane pasted to his head and face, Saxon could only shiver as he stared at the fire that roiled before him. Deep down, he had craved for warmth so much that when he found the fire he must've felt like the man who first discovered it.
What an awesome and triumphant feeling.
Much like the warmth that was gradually rekindling the fire in his body, Saxon could feel his humanity flow back in him. No longer a victim of his basic instincts that had been forced upon him by that accursed storm, the hunter gradually felt himself returning to normal after such a terrible ordeal. It was a good feeling. One that Saxon intended to savor as he sat with his hands to the fire, occasionally feeding the flames with a stick or two.
A hiss from an old iron kettle sitting by the fire interrupted the welcomed pause as it began to squeal. The old man who had been tending to Ambrose's hoof looked up and tended to the kettle, taking care to pour its scalding contents into a clay cup he carried. "Ah there we are!" The old man exclaimed as he leaned over and took a whiff of the bubbling drink that was beginning to froth and whistled. "Mighty strong, friend. Careful not to burn yerself now, but it should be the stuff to put the fire right back into yer belly. Trust me."
"Thank you, friend." Saxon said as he accepted the drink. Having already smelled the pungent odor of herbs and various flora that had been mixed into the concoction, Saxon stared down at the cup dubiously. However, unwilling to offend the man who had saved his life, Saxon raised the cup to his lips and sipped carefully at the fiery liquid. And then immediately spat it out, sputtering to get the taste of something between an old, sweat stained sock and warm, rancid butter out of his mouth.
"Easy, easy now!" The old man chided as he moved to pat the hunter on the back. "It doesn't go down easy but it'll do the job. Just drink."
Having already felt the subtle and chilling grasp of hypothermia grip his heart, Saxon only paused once more to clamp his nose shut and drained the entire cup and its foul, scalding contents as fast as he could. For awhile, the remedy sat heavy in his stomach like cold, liquid lead but eventually the hunter could feel himself rejuvenated as heat returned to his body and the threat of the killing cold staved off once again.
"There now. Feel's good, doesn't it?" The old man said, his soft green eyes dancing in the light cast by the flames.
"If you say so." Saxon belched before pointing to the cup, unable to resist. "What is this anyway, old one?"
"Lil' of this, lil' of that." The old man said as he gave the hunter a warm smile. Immediately Saxon began to notice a distinct accent that seemed to have been bred within these hills, for he hadn't heard it anywhere else. "It's fine whiskey, though."
"This is whiskey?!" Saxon exclaimed in disbelief.
"Yup. Brewed it meself." The old man explained, tapping the end of the old kettle with a toe as if to suspend any lingering doubts.
"Oh." Saxon replied, pausing to smell the cup one last time before setting it a fair distance away from him.
"Name's Bodb*, Bodb of the Clan of the MacCraiths. Yerself, friend?" The old man said warmly, turning the conversation in a different direction.
"Saxon." The Coronian said flatly before correcting himself. "Thomas Saxon."
"Ah! Well a pleasure to meet you, Thomas! Tell me, what is a Saxon like yerself doing caught in a storm in a place like this?" Bodb asked as he gave the hunter his undivided attention, his green eyes almost unnatural in the fire light. Saxon would've sworn that they might have been glowing, but he dismissed the foolish idea.
However, it wasn't the only thing that was unnatural about Bodb MacCraith.
*Prenounced "Bode". Irish in origin.
Saxon noticed that Bodb was of average height and small build. He was clad in a soft cotton shirt and black trousers held up by suspenders, he looked like a man whose age had gotten the best of him, and literally looked as if he was withering away. Liver spots speckled his face and hands while his flesh was old and latticed with a network of varicose veins. The remains of his hair, for he had a severe case of balding, was as white as the large bushing moustache that covered most of his mouth and hung suspended from his nose. Despite the clothing, Saxon could tell he was emaciated from hunger. Or consumption.
Despite the appearance, typical of an old man or woman back in Corone, Saxon didn't think he'd come across somebody this.. ancient in a place as savage and treacherous as Salvar. It didn't fit. He was too old.
Setting aside the question for later, Saxon answered the old man who had been sitting quietly while watching him, stirring a cup of his own homebrewed whiskey. "I'm after someone and he disappeared into these hills before I could catch him. He ought to have passed through, but I'm guessing he's trying for some place else a further up north."
". . Some place else." Bodb repeated, a far away look cast on his face as he looked from Saxon to the crackling fire. "We don't get many visitors."
"What?" Saxon said as he tried to snap the old man back to reality.
"Oh," The old man replied softly, the same warm, peculiar smile returning to his face. It was starting to make Saxon uncomfortable with how he managed to return to that same expression, even when in deep thought. "I come from a village tucked away in these hills, called Granach. Don't bother trying to remember, you've probably never even heard of it. Anyway, we hill folk ar'a secretive bunch often keeping to ourselves as the world spins on and the rest of you outsiders fight yer wars and shed yer blood.
The hills hide us from the rest of the world and we do our best to repay the favor, ya see. Worship our own Gods in peace. We farm up in the grasslands tucked behind these parts, brew our own liquor and make everything ourselves. I heard of the word once that fits our existence... one of you outsiders said it once. ." Bodb explained with a wizened look upon his face before returning to deep thought, a puzzled look upon his old face.
"Uh.. you mean self-sufficient?" Saxon said, trying to jog the old man's memory.
"Ya! Ya!" Bodb cried, "That's the word! Anyway. We tend to ourselves and our Gods return the favor, ya' see. We don't normally get outsiders in our parts very often, and when we do we usually turn them around and point 'em in the right direction, telling 'em they took the wrong fork. We bewitched that fork in the path, y'know. Little farther from here. Right'll take you all the way to the woods over yonder.. left.. well to you outsiders there isn't a left with the glimmer we put there.
Everybody always takes the right turn, y'see. Everybody. 'Cept us. And occasionally someone of strong mind or heart can see through the glimmer and take the path to our village, never even noticing there was a trick bein' played in the first place, y'know. Rare, though."
"So what's this got to do with the man I'm chasing?" Saxon said inquisitively, the air of someone with far more cunning then meets the eye heavy in his words. "Did he come to your village?"
With another look through the dark glass of his memory, Bodb's eyes glazed over as he repeated. "Don't get many visitors."
"Yeah, I know that, Bodb. What happened." Saxon said, already losing his patience as he pulled his woolen blankets closer to his wet, exhausted body.
For a long while there was silence, but eventually Bodb spoke again, this time his voice was barely above a whisper and there looked to be of a great sadness on his face. "A man with many winters under his belt came to our village awhile back. Yesterday.. a couple days ago.. I don't remember. He and his slouch hat..
He said he was passin' through, but he knew we knew he was lyin'. The man in the slouch hat was drawn to us because of that glimmer. Said he hadn't see anything like it before. He wanted to know what we were hidin'. But we wouldn't tell him. We could smell the evil on him. Ya see, outsider, the MacCraiths always can smell the good and evil in people. Gift given to us by our Gods. But this.. man.. he stank of it. Smelled like rotten eggs and flesh that turned. But, I smelled the wickedness of him just like I smell the good in you now." Bodb finished before adding, "Our Gods gave us that gift.. they protect us. Or at least.. we thought they did."
Saxon knew of a Pagan when he saw one, and this ability to smell someone's aura reminded him of many of the stories he heard over the years of their odd, secretive nature and their gifts. Pagans were renowned and condemned for their communion with Nature and worship of different primordial Gods and beasts. Their bond with their Gods through blood and ritual were said to grow so strong that eventually they began to take on traits of those they worshipped. They also kept secrets that if uncovered could be promises of great power or wealth which was often why Pagans shunned outsiders and their mistrust of them was as renowned as their gifts given to them by their Gods.
However, the stories of their abilities were legendary. Some could run hours, maybe even days before they stopped from exhaustion. Others could plunge leagues under the sea and survive the pressure that would crush any other normal man. Saxon had even heard darker stories from other hunters of tribes of Pagans they met whose ferocity and bloodlust allowed them to slaughter any adversary. But those were just stories he had heard.
At least they were.
Eventually, Bodb continued with his story, his green, vibrant eyes already red with tears as he tried to recount the terrible memory and traced back to an earlier part of the tale. "The man spoke to us at first, trying to uncover our secrets. He offered hoards of gold, great power or anything that we could possibly imagine in exchange for whatever secrets we may have, but we kept silent."
"And then what did he do?" Saxon chided him, a knife of regret stabbing him in the heart as the old man from Granach began to cry. That awful sound that Saxon heard from Bodb was that of a man who had lost everything. Saxon didn't need to hear the rest to piece it all together. "When did he leave?"
"N-nightfall. Yesterday." Bodb said, the salty tears like fire upon his cheeks. "Said a storm was coming."
"Why are you out here then?" Saxon said suddenly, his eyes narrowing as he looked Bodb up and down.
"I ran for help!" Bodb cried as he glared at the hunter balefully. "From people like you! He slaughtered our village. Killing everybody! He even placed a curse on us! I watched him tear my eldest grandson's heart out with his bare hands, Oh Dagda! He placed a curse on our fallen brethren allowing their mangled bodies and tortured souls to rise again with a hunger for flesh. Those that survived are holed up in their homes, but it won't be long before our kin get in! You have to save us! Please!"
Saxon heard the story and considered it as Bodb continued to plead with him. It didn't take more then a minute to decide. Looking the old pagan square in the face, the hunter smiled warmly. "I'll help you, Bodb. I'll help cleanse the village of Granach."
Bodb smiled and wiped the tears from his eyes, "You will?! Will bless it, thank you, Thomas! I'll even show you the way!"
At that moment lightning cracked, the entire cavern covered in an unholy glow. Staring out the cave, Saxon turned back to the old man, hardly able to believe his eyes. It was a glance, and it may have been that the whiskey had been getting to him, but the hunter could've sworn he saw horns sprout out of the old man's head! But with the flash of light gone, the illusion vanished as the two men staring at each other. In the end, Saxon chose the whiskey as the culprit.
"Tomorrow we'll go," Saxon said with finality. Shortly thereafter, the expected clap of thunder shook the cavern and its inhabitants.
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