The Twins of Devonshire and the Curse of the Widow Read online

  “Rise, Gaition. What news do you bring my humble court?” rumbled the man, his head rising from his fist and leaning against the marble back of the throne.

  “My lord, I bring a traveler. This man says he has killed the Widow’s beast, the Nighen. The destroyer of our lands,” responded Gaition. His light green eyes harbored both deceit and fear. Hands grasped one another, twisting against each other nervously. The king leaned back in his throne and closed his eyes. His throat exposed for a moment, the crest about his neck visible as he paused.

  “Let him in,” returned the king, departing from his thoughts and staring ahead.

  “As you wish, Lord Verifal. He waits as we speak.” Gaition bowed and turned from the king, his light blue robes swishing across the polished floor. His movements were more a scurry than anything else. Gaition gripped the iron ring that held the door in place and pulled it forward, revealing the shadowed hallway and the solitary figure of the hooded man.

  He walked forward, his brown hair hidden beneath the robes once again. In his left hand, he gripped a cloth bag drawn tight with a string. As he walked through the congregation, some members grasped their noses, others covered their mouths. And some even became ill as the man walked past.

  It was considered disrespectful to allow your hair to grow longer than that of a king. Verifal’s coal black hair rested around his shoulders, far shorter than that of the wary stranger who had graced the hall. The stench that emanated from the cloth bag reached Verifal’s nostrils and he rose quickly, pointing a finger at the approaching man.

  “What manner of devilry do you bring upon my doors?” roared the enraged Verifal, as he stepped down from his throne to intercede in the robed man’s way.

  The man stopped in his tracks. Reaching his hand into the bag, he produced the mangled head of the creature he had bested. “The Nighen.”

  “You have defeated the Nighen?” queried Gaition, astonished. His thin face was drawn bloodless, and his hand covered his mouth at the putrid smell.

  The king looked from Gaition to the hooded stranger who stood before him brandishing the head of the Nighen. “How did you defeat the Nighen?”

  “Steel: the blade can defeat even the greatest creatures of the shadow,” replied the hooded man, tossing the putrid head to the bewildered Gaition. Wiping his hands along his cloak, he pulled the hood completely from his face. Gaition let out a panicked scream as he caught the head, and then dropped it unceremoniously upon witnessing the horrid image of the deceased demon.

  “Are you a hero of Me’lein?” queried Verifal, regaining his composure and sitting back upon his throne.

  The hooded man looked from side to side and then moved forward, closer to the throne. He coughed lightly into his hand. “I am from a place far from here. But I have heard of the Widow who plagues Telen, especially the providence of Me’lein. I came to aid you in your peril, for a price,” returned the warrior.

  “A man in pursuit of wealth, I suppose it matters not. You have destroyed a powerful monster that has ravaged the people of Me’lein for many moons, and would have for many more without your intervention. What is your price?”

  “I do not desire your money, King Verifal, but rather a trinket stolen by the Widow. I have come to kill her,” returned the hooded warrior. Laughter echoed in the crowd and was silenced quickly by Verifal.

  “That is a tall order for a man who looks more the part of a beggar than a warrior,” called a voice from behind the hooded warrior. A man approached the throne, his armor tarnished silver and his head hidden beneath a steely skull cap.

  A sheath at his side supported a grand broadsword almost as tall as the man himself. His dark brown eyes were hidden beneath the confines of the skull cap, and his size was obscured by his armor. But as he neared the hooded warrior, the size difference was evident.

  The knight was certainly the larger man.

  “Captain Uthen, this man deserves respect for destroying the Nighen,” commented the king as he rose from his throne once again.

  Uthen placed his hands on his hips and towered over the warrior. The captain moved one of his hands over the hilt of his broadsword.

  “I can see we have a problem here. Let me make it simple for you. You will lose that arm before you can even draw that sword,” cautioned the hooded warrior.

  Uthen’s face darkened and his lip curled in anger, the grip on his sword tightening. The ripples of his glove made an abrasive sound.

  “You might watch your tongue…”

  Before the man could finish, the hooded warrior’s blade was in his hands and he had cut the sheath from Uthen’s side. Returning the blade to his back, a smirk was planted firmly on his face. Uthen glared at his fallen sword. Bending to retrieve it, he noticed the astonished glances of the gathered townspeople and the bewildered face of Gaition in the corner. He rose and met the warrior’s eyes, but did not speak.

  His gaze went immediately to his king.

  “Most impressive, warrior. You must pardon the brashness of Captain Uthen. Many have come before the court and announced such things. Some have turned to evil upon witnessing the power of the Widow,” spoke Verifal.

  “I can understand such things, but I am here for that one reason and that reason alone. This beast was merely in the way, a spawn of the Towers of Darkness. Your captain…” replied the warrior, but was interrupted by Uthen.

  “Pardon my inability to control my tongue. I have witnessed the horrors of the Widow first hand and know that she can turn a great man into nothing, no matter his skill with a blade. Please accept my apologies,” spoke Uthen, extending his hand to the warrior.

  The warrior gripped it loosely and then let go.

  “Apology accepted.”

  Lord Verifal sighed with relief and sank into his throne. “With that aside, I feel that introductions are necessary, mysterious warrior. You have us at a bit of a loss. You know who we are. But we know nothing of you, not even your name.”

  “Xeno Lobo. I am hunter from a faraway land,” replied Xeno, his eyes roaming the gathered masses. Their attention had already returned to their idle, individual conversations that had enraptured them before his entrance.

  “What is this trinket you seek?” queried Uthen.

  “That is my affair and will stay as such,” snapped Xeno. Uthen nodded, not wanting to provoke the man who had so easily disarmed him.

  The king saw the tension and broke into the conversation. “When do you plan on leaving for the Tower at Sel’verene?”

  “Tonight, by the light of the moon,” returned Xeno.

  “But the Widow’s were-beast hunts in the night,” spoke Uthen.

  “Karian’s playthings are no concern of mine,” replied Xeno dismissively.

  “Karian?” queried the king.

  “Who is Karian, Master Hunter?” asked Uthen.

  “The Widow, the master of the Tower of Darkness at Sel’verene,” replied Xeno, his attention brought back to the conversation after realizing his words.

  “You know the Widow by name?” asked Uthen.

  “I am afraid so,” replied Xeno uncomfortably.

  “This is why you go to Sel’verene?”

  “In a way, but she had taken something from me the last time we met. I am going to retrieve it at any cost,” replied Xeno as he moved away from the throne and paced the small area in front of the royal seat.

  “Last time,” whispered Uthen to himself.

  “We are in your debt for killing the Nighen. If the Widow has truly taken something from you, then we would be honored to help you defeat her,” replied Verifal graciously.

  The townspeople whispered among themselves.

  Xeno looked at the boastful king and pondered for a moment. “How could you possibly aid me in my quest?” queried Xeno, and then continued. “No army can enter the windy paths that lead to the Tower, and there is no weapon that I can use better than my own. No magical artifact or incantation will suffice to defeat Karian, the Widow.”

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nbsp; “Then what can we lend you? We wish to help you,” pressed the king.

  The presence of the dark lord Chaos flooded the land in shadow. The appearance of the Widow was another test of humanity, to see if they could truly outlast the dark tides of malevolence.

  Xeno parried the question and looked around at the apprehensive gazes of the court of Me’lein. “What of Chaos? Surely his coming far outweighs my journey?”

  “The Widow is a part of the evil that is Chaos, and all must be cleansed in order to restore peace across the land. Allies must be chosen and lines draw in the sands of war,” replied Uthen with his grand arms across his chest.

  “Indeed,” returned Xeno with equal dissatisfaction at the options. “So be it then. Let me reside in Me’lein for the duration of the night, and then in the morning provide me with a fresh mount and supplies. This is how you may aid me.”

  “Very well,” replied Verifal with a grand sweep of his hand as he rose from his throne. “Your request is granted. Gaition, prepare the guest chambers for Master Warrior Xeno.”

  Gaition bowed and exited the chamber in haste, a spiteful glare upon his features as he pushed past the congregation of citizens. Uthen nodded to Xeno as the chatter and conversation of the antechamber was restored. The vagrant warrior melted back into the surroundings, awaiting his journey to the north.

  *

  The guest quarters were fit for royalty.

  The bed was a construction of pure mastery.

  The four corners were pillars of ivory that strangled their way into one another. At the top was a grand canopy of linens. The sheets were sewn of the finest silks and were plentiful in the wake of the extreme cold that had gripped the lands. Xeno lay surrounded in the sheets, his body writhing in a nightmare. His arms flailed and his head shook from side to side.

  Muttering, it was the incoherent rambling of sleep.

  The remainder of room was darkness, except the dwindling flame at the side of the bed encased within the iron-cased lamp. The cold winds manipulated the fire like a dancer as the warrior slept.

  The door to the chambers opened slightly.

  Shadows of the hall merged with that of the room. The figure that accompanied the shadow slithered, as if without form.

  Xeno remained undisturbed.

  His mind was still trapped in whatever nightmarish world gripped it. As the shadow neared, the gaunt, featureless face of an imp moved close to the bed. Its wicked fingers gripped a ragged, curved blade.

  Xeno mumbled in his sleep as the creature crept close. Its pale, sickly features curved into a grin of malevolence as it hovered above Xeno. Drawing the thin edge above its head, the imp prepared to plunge the blade into the slumbering warrior’s chest.

  The moon shone behind the listless clouds that drifted by lazily. As the imp brought the blade above its head, the metal glinted in the moonlight and flashed across Xeno’s face, waking him in an instant. The imp screeched and slammed the blade down. It was too late. Xeno rolled and drew his blade from the table at the bedside.

  “What in the name of Exodus?” roared Xeno as he brandished the blade. The imp thrashed about the bed linens, spitting and growling like the feral creature of the night that it was. The creature stopped upon hearing Xeno’s voice and cocked its head to the side. Its eyes glazed as it watched the warrior standing there.

  “Kill––the––warrior Xeno,” gargled the beast as it leapt from the bed. Approaching Xeno, it slashed at the air with its savage edge. It moved like a beast upon four legs as it rushed toward the warrior.

  Xeno swung his blade from the ground into the air with a deep arc, tearing the creature in two as it leapt. It squealed as it crashed back into the bed and convulsed momentarily, until it moved no more.

  The blood pooled on the sheets.

  Xeno sighed and moved toward the bed.

  The half-light of the moon provided the only visibility; the torch had long since burned down to embers. Moments passed and Xeno felt the pressure of the solitude and silence of the massive castle and the halls that lined it.

  The door burst open, revealing light from deeper within the recesses of the edifice. Hooded, shadowed figures emerged, their motions hurried and confused.

  Xeno strapped his sheath along his back once again and pulled the straps tight, the leather groaning as it gripped against his back and along his chest. He pulled his cloak and wool shirt from the side table as Verifal approached, flanked by Gaition and three faceless guardians of Me’lein.

  “Master Xeno, what happened?” queried the sleepy king as he surveyed the room.

  The imp lay in blood.

  Xeno sat in light of the moon.

  He smirked and placed the blades into their hidden sheaths around his waist. He sighed at king. “That is a question I hoped you would answer,” replied Xeno as he pushed past Verifal and into the hallway just outside his room.

  The corridor stretched far into the darkness. People had gathered because of the commotion. They ambled about like cattle in a pasture, waiting for a command, a reason.

  “What are you saying?” began the king.

  “I’m not saying anything,” interrupted Xeno as he leaned back into the room and glared at Gaition as he passed. The attendant lowered his head as he met the hateful gaze of the traveling warrior.

  Xeno made his way across the room to the opposite end, his head peering out the stone window, looking to the darkened forest below. Shaking his head, he watched as the guards crossed paths and circled around the corner once again. “How many guards are posted along the outer wall?”

  “Seven. Two at the gates and five roaming along the wall,” replied Uthen.

  “And inside the castle?”

  “At least ten or twelve more depending on the hour of the night,” replied Uthen once again as he leaned against the wall.

  “What are you driving at, Master Warrior?” queried Verifal suspiciously. His regal robes were pulled tight around his frame, combating the biting cold of the night.

  “Unless you are in the practice of keeping forest imps within the castle walls,” began Xeno. Turning with an accusing finger, he continued. “If that is not the case, then an imp with about as much intelligence as a stone wall managed to sneak past almost twenty guards and into my room without even the slightest bit of notice.”

  “Are you saying that someone let it in?” queried Uthen trying to follow Xeno’s train of logic.

  Xeno shrugged and looked from the king to Uthen, to the cowering Gaition. “It knew my name. It spoke it before I put an end to its life,” finished Xeno with a sigh.

  “It spoke your name? You must be mistaken,” burst out Gaition. It was the first time he had spoken since coming upon the scene.

  “You doubt my word,” returned Xeno, his anger seething. It seemed to rise from his person.

  “No, it is not that. It is merely….” stammered Gaition, backing away from the angst and venom in Xeno’s words. Uthen glowered at Gaition, and then looked to the astonishment on Verifal’s face.

  Verifal could feel the mounting tension and stepped forward quickly. “This cannot be decided here tonight. We will convene in the morning and discuss this further. Let us leave it until then.”

  “Will that be alright, Master Xeno?” queried Uthen, turning toward the hunter.

  “Fine, in the morning I leave for the north. I leave these matters to your court.” Xeno turned away from the congregation and looked out the stone window, out into the darkness that held both secrets and truths.

  Verifal motioned for the guards to leave and he followed them, flanked by Uthen and Gaition’s shrouded figure. Leaving Xeno to the solitude and soiled sheets, he would see no more sleep that night.

  4

  T

  he halls of the Tower of Darkness were bathed in shadow. The narrow corridors were draped with murals and texts older than time. A minuscule window that lined these pathways was stained in black glass.

  The tower rose high into the skies, higher t
han the greatest reaches of the frozen clouds that circled it. As the citadel neared the stars above, it became progressively smaller and smaller until only one room remained: the Widow’s chamber.

  The room was situated with only a throne of obsidian and a cold steel table on which an iridescent orb resided. Beside the throne lay the slumbering were-beast and the pearl whelp that resided atop her throne of death.

  She moved about the room like a dancer amidst a song, her head tilted back and golden hair spilling over her shoulders like a waterfall. Her arms reached out into nothingness and a hum echoed in the dim chambers as she made her way.

  The spinning stopped as she neared the orb and in one movement, she brought her head over it. Her hair spilled over the sides of it. She muttered to herself incoherently. As she pulled back, the orb had gone from a swirling mass of indistinguishable colors to pitch black, the change extraordinary.

  “Mighty orb of darkness, what do you see?” she called into the darkness. The orb imploded upon itself, the darkness reverberating within the shadow until it stilled.

  A voice emanated from it, a dark voice that boomed from wall to wall. “A force approaches. A man bound to the Light, a servant of the enemy of the Towers of Darkness.”

  “Enemy of the Towers of Darkness, how enjoyable,” she cooed.

  Her voice was elegant.

  The voice came again, as monotone as it had previously been. “The servant brings a second, and soon a third. These forces align against your reign, against the reign of the Towers of Darkness.”

  “Karian, the Widow, fears no mortal, especially enemies of the darkness,” she laughed at the orb manically. She danced about the room again, the were-beast lifting its head as its master gallivanted like a child to a tune that had ensnared her soul.

  She danced and danced until she came to a stop abruptly, her hair tossed across the face. Her brow was furrowed, lost in thought, her finger raised in question. “Who is this servant of the Light? Has he, she, a name?”