The Last of the Family [K+]

[Lex]

The Last of the Family


Howling, that was the banshee call of a winter wind through trees, their form corrupted beyond reckoning. Leaves were torn away, and blasted viciously down the path in a dead hail.

A man, clad in a pale green robe that flew up behind him, pushed his shoulder through the attacking gust. His dark blue eyes squinted, as he tried in vain to see his destination. After a desperate moment, he spotted the light of a lantern in the darkness.

His efforts against the weather were reinforced, and he piled through the onslaught that drove forwards through the dawn. Clouds overhead mustered, darkening with rage and ready to spew a steady sermon of grunted heresies that would light the blackened day.

The man battled on, spearing through the war going on around him. Thunder crack, and the sky was lit. No rain, this was a dry storm, a chaos spawned malignity. A dozen or so metres were like a thousand miles, but with a sigh of relief that was murdered silent by the elements, Hiron reached the door.

His fist, cloaked in rags, smashed down heavily on the door. Once, twice, insignificant against the noise. The handle was tried, and discovered locked. A profanity against the cruel forest, whipped away as it took flight.

Then, like the yawning maw of a forest ogre, the door was opened. A head peered out, balding and suspicious. Lips moved, but nothing could be heard. The man in the door, realising this, threw out a gnarled hand and grabbed Hiron by the shoulder, dragging him in. He took one last glance at the forest, and then slammed the door shut.

Hiron managed a few stumbled steps, before crumpling into a wooden stool at a robust oaken table. At the door, the old man struggled a wooden bar into position, and turned a brace of locks at the top and bottom of the door.

Finally, he swung his ancient gaze to the man he had just let in. He pulled a small dagger from his cloak, hiding it behind his back and stepping up to Hiron.

“The anger of chaos is about tonight. What is a young traveller doing in such a fury?”

Hiron was still drawing deep, exhausted gasps. He noted the old man’s hand behind his back, and made the necessary links.

“Old one, why do you fear me?”

“Can a man not fear for his life? Please reveal your weapons so I may be more at ease.”

Hiron gave an exasperated grunt, and levered himself out of his seat. He pulled back his cloak, and let it fall to the floor. The old man shivered, as he fancied the sound of whispering in the cloth’s folds. His attention was moved to the scabbard at the man’s waist.

He waited for a moment for the stranger to draw it, before realizing that the man was making no move to do so. With impatience born of grumbling age, he let the dagger be seen, holding it to point at the man’s neck.

“The sword, draw it.”

“I cannot.”

Before the old man could make a further complaint, the man unbuckled the scabbard and threw it to the old man’s feet. He held his hands high, and beckoned with his head that the old one could search him.

The innkeeper did so, checking for the cunning devices of the assassin that were rumour. He found nothing, and so turned an eye to the sword. Attention still held on his strange, and possibly dangerous, fellow man, the old man picked up the sword.

He seized it by the hilt, and held it up, thinking that its sheath might fall by force of gravity. This was not so, and so he tested out a few experimental swings. These were also unsuccessful, and he took the chance to drop the dagger and use might.

At this point the stranger moved again, causing the innkeeper to leap into a fighting stance remembered from military days, though Hiron was merely taking seat again. Bored, and slightly annoyed, by the innkeeper, Hiron watched the attempts to draw the sword.

“It won’t work.”

More struggling, and the old man began to curse. With a smash not often expected of one his age, the innkeeper flung the sword across the small lodge. He sat down on a table, facing Hiron.

“Why carry a sword you can’t draw?”

Hiron pondered this a moment, thinking whether to lie or tell the truth. Truth prevailed, which was a first for this particular topic.

“I can draw it, or at least I can soon.”

The barkeep’s mouth twitched at the corners. His brow unknotted his frown.

“That’s very interesting, and a tale is welcome. Come, if you will, speak it now whilst my interest is caught. I shall fetch us ale whilst your mind finds a beginning.”

Hiron nodded, and watched the innkeeper trace a slightly winding path between tables to get to a small door. He bent down, his back aching, and rummaged through his cloak. He seized upon several trinkets, which he laid upon the table. With a triumphant smile, he withdrew a small, battered book. He laid it gently on the table, reverence.

The innkeeper returned, rolling a small barrel with one hand whilst clutching copper tankards to his chest. He reached their table, helping the barrel onto a flat, and pulling a fist sized stopper from the top. A ladle was drawn from his rugged brown clothes, and he filled the two ale-vessels.

He scurried off for a moment to retrieve the sword, and placed it on the table beside their own.

He slid one ale over to Hiron, spilling it slightly and causing the traveller to move the tome to safety. A cloth, a wipe, and Hiron placed the book back down. He eased the tankard to his lips, drink… swallow. He wiped his mouth, and then cleared his throat.

“Before I begin, what is your name?”

“Turn Graynweaver, and yourself, stranger?”

Hiron was muttering, his eyes having widened since he heard the name. Turn moved closer, and caught the end of what this strange man was saying.

“…and so the seed shall be sown… very clever.”

Hiron recovered himself, shaking his hand and unconsciously placing a hand on the book. He ran a hand through his unkempt brown hair, long enough to reach his shoulders. He had found another piece.

Turn brought Hiron back.

“Your name?”

“Hiron, just Hiron. Graynweaver… then you are kin to Balnack, Yvensk, and Gidryth?”

The innkeeper jumped an eyebrow. He shuffled uncomfortably in his place, remembering the family that had cast him out. There was a long, piercing howl outside, strangely contrasting to the sound of the wind.

Then he remembered other things, of madness in the deep wood that surrounded his inn. Of a monster. Many travellers scratched and weary after fleeing such a beast, their companions killed in its madness. All they ever remembered was of the golden ring that shone in the dark.

One very similar to the one around his own, curled, finger. One which Hiron was eyeing.

“I see, Mr Turn, that you are of that breed. In which case my search is over, and this tale is all the more relevant.”

Another draught from his drink, the innkeeper did the same.

They both looked at each other, eyes scarcely blinking and never moving on. After a few minutes of this, the innkeeper looked away. He closed his eyes, as is recovering from a blow, and then drained his ale. He refilled it, and seeing Hiron’s he did the other empty tankard also.

Arms folded across his chest.

“Hiron let us not stop at the waystation before we embark. The road calls and we answer. Tell me your tale.”

A nod, very small. Hiron moved his hand away from the small book, revealing it to have a sword imprinted upon its cover.

“It all started, with this book. I chanced upon it, almost a year ago, in an abandoned chapel nigh on thirty miles north of here. I was travelling with two others, a young woman named Minoa, and a plucky man about my age called Plunt.

We had travelled for many days, in search of a rogue who called himself the Purple Minstrel. That man had slain a noble in the town I was in, and the locals, who had loved the noble, amassed a bounty to whoever would bring back the murderer’s head.

I had been travelling the area with Minoa for some time, and that night our money had finally run dry to buy us a bed for the night. We heard of the bounty through the rumours that had spread through the town even before it was officially announced.”

Turn nodded, recognising this from years of experience in his profession. His drink moved to his thin mouth.

“Almost three hundred crowns were on offer. For myself and Minoa, a staggering amount. We were young, and foolish enough to pounce upon the idea at once. By the time the bounty was officially announced, our minds were se in stone upon our goal.

We spent the night we had paid contemplating how best to approach such a task. The Purple Minstrel was a dangerous assassin, more than capable with a blade from the reports of his duel with the noble Guine. Minoa had quite some experience with a weapon, and I had fought in the free company on occasion, but besides that, tracking and any method of finding our way besides the use of the sun and luck, was beyond us.

When we met Plunt, who we found the next morning fletching arrows on the outskirts of town, we found the key to all our problems. He was a huntsman, born and bred of the wood our prey had fled into.

We promised him a cut in the prize if he would aid us. I knew that he couldn’t achieve such a thing on his own, as any men foolish enough to embark into the woods –with the exception of the Purple Minstrel himself, Sigmar d**n him- would quickly be slain by the beastmen who roam there. Both myself, and Minoa, were confident in our skills against them, and so we set off.”

The barman waved him into silence for a moment.

“Are we talking about Minoa Riekstein? Countess?”

“Miss Riekstein is countess?”

The barman grimaced, empathetic.

“Mrs Riekstein is countess.”

“Oh…”

Married… Hiron was crestfallen. He caressed his beer again, drunk, then placed it back down quietly. Despite the alcohol, there came a time of sobriety whilst even the wind muffled its screech.

Hiron pushed it to the back of his mind, and continued as though nothing had happened.

“We started as the other groups did. We took the path the Purple Minstrel had been seen running along to the north. Nothing eventful occurred for many days, and it was not until we reached the base of Chapel Mound that we were obstructed.

Beatmen. Maybe a dozen of them were feasting on the remains of several other bounty seekers. We fought a short, bitter, battle with them. I slew several, Minoa yet more. Plunt, Sigmar save his soul, was struck by a poisoned blade. Though we won, it was clear that Plunt would die if he was not taken to the nearest settlement.

And even then he could still die.

Just as we reached the decision to take Plunt back, we were spied by the Purple Minstrel himself. We fought all the way into the ruined chapel, cut in many places by bladestrokes, and I won by a bare scratch.

I took the head of the Minstrel, decapitated by my final stroke, and gave it to Minoa. I was wounded, though not mortally so, and told her to go and claim the reward and await my return a few days later.”

The barman laughed.

“No offence Hiron, but you hardly look the richer for it.”

Hiron nodded, a smile also clad upon his face.

“I was distracted.”

The barman shuffled in his seat.

“By what?”

“A book I found as I went to pray at the ruined altar. I couldn’t, and in fact still cannot, read, and so when I did indeed return to the town –which was not the same as the one Minoa and Plunt went to, such was my distraction- I requested that the local scholar translate for me.

The scholar was your brother, Yvensk. He had come to the town to mourn the loss of Gidryth, another of your family. I will not linger on how long it took Yvensk to translate the long passage, but once he had finished, there was certainly something different about him.”

He leant over the table, and closed Turn’s mouth.

“He would not tell me the nature of the manuscript. He did however; request that I go with him to your other brother, Balnack. I agreed, reluctant but interested, and together the two of us hunted after your adventurous kinsman.

I will not speak of what trials we faced to find him, but find him we did. He was hidden in the barrows south of the river Riek. On that day, as we had settled in for the night, Yvensk revealed to us what the manuscript detailed.”

He stopped, stood up, and stared fixedly at the outer wall.

“There is something outside.”

The barman nodded.

“A beast of much strength. Invincible they say.”

Hiron winked.

“It is, almost. It has been treated by the same magic that that book related to Yvensk. In fact, Yvensk is the one who gave it immortality.

For the reason we had searched so long for Balnack, was that the book had the very recipe for eternal life. Through the use of a brother, or sisters, blood you could claim immortality.

They both splashed blood into small wooden cups, greedy for the prize.”

“Why did they not seek me?”

Hiron indicated the bar with a sweep of his hand, he was still stood.

“You had come to this place, deep in the woods far from anyone to disturb you. A blessing, for you at least. For me, it was a curse.

Your brothers performed the acts in the tome, which can only be told by someone who can read the book. I, therefore, cannot tell you.

Of course, greedy Balnack was impatient, and the moment Yvensk looked away, he took a deep draught of his brethren blood. At that point, he became the monster that haunts these woods, and slew Yvensk with a single mighty blow.

I, helpless with fright, fled.”

The innkeeper nodded. It explained, in a way which no other explanation could, the mutilated corpse of Yvensk and the disappearance –the second in fact, for his adventures had taken him far beyond knowledge- of Balnack.

Hiron took a seat again. He took a long, steady, pull from his drink. He licked his lips.

“When Yvensk had spoken about the immortality, he had also mentioned the only method by which an immortal could die.”

He stood, circling behind the half frozen innkeeper and pulling a rope from his possessions.

“There was a blade, known as Soulbane, which could slay an immortal at a single touch. The task of acquiring it was easier than I could have prayed.”

The innkeeper heard another howl, and looked away from Hiron. Hiron took his chance and leapt forwards, wrapping the rope around the innkeeper. He quickly secured the man to the chair.

He stuffed a wad of cloth in Turn’s mouth, and then took his seat again, ignoring the muffled complaints.

“As I had fled the camp, I had had the thought of mind to take a pack with me. This turned out, upon further inspection, to be Yvensk’s, and within it I found the tome. I held it close to me as I fled, and only a day later, with my body ravished by fatigue, did I take the time to leaf through the book for any hint of an escape from the monster who probably hunted me.

Before, I had merely taken the book for its first page, which was packed with tiny script. However, in this new frame of mind, I thought to look through it. I discovered there were images, depictions of acts of violence. Even several pictures of the monster Balnack had become.

But these gave me no hope; nothing did, until a map on the final page. Yvensk had circled and arrowed various things, and I got the impression of a great treasure to be had at the location the map displayed.

The final page of the book was a depiction of the beast, dead, with a sword in its chest. I made the necessary steps, and realised that the sword the book highlighted, the one on its cover, was the way to destroy Balnack.

I suppose that if bothyour kin had drunk the blood, they both would have been immortal, as neither could die to let the other be vulnerable… but the gods did not curse me with such a complication.

The map led to a lonely barrow, on the borders of the forest. I dug with my scrabbling hands through the dirt, and eventually revealed the rotten roof of the tomb itself. I broke in, and found myself in a hall far greater than the mound would have reflected.

It should have been dark, but it was lit by a glowing sword laid upon a plinth in the centre. I recognised it, and took it. At this, spirits ascended from another realm, testing my will and abilities.

Many had died at this stage, as the bodies across the floor showed. But I prevailed, and it was then that the last of the spectres spoke to me all I needed to know;

Two requirements. Firstly, the sword could only be wielded by one of great strength of will, and sufficient skills with weapons to wield the blade. Secondly, it could only be drawn if all those who shared the immortals blood were slain.

Gidryth, and Yvensk were both dead. I took that to be all of you, as you were never mentioned, and neither was your mother. So I took it upon myself to hunt the beast.

On route, I discovered your mothers grave by chance in a lonely town, and was further encouraged. It was in this town that I learned a little of your family history, and of the son who had founded a rest place in the wood.

I found you.”

Suddenly, there was a crash at the door. A hand smashed through the wood, the ring about its fingers scratching for the wood that locked it out. The wood was found, and knocked aside, and the arm withdrew.

For a moment, a wolf-like face stared through the hole. The monster, Balnack, howled.

“My story has not ended, for this is the final chapter. This, which I tread as I speak.”

He retrieved the innkeeper’s dagger, and with a muttered apology, snapped Turn’s neck. He let the head role, and checked the pulse. Dead, deader than stone, Yvensk, and all the unfortunates Balnack had claimed.

The wind slowed to a sigh.

The dagger glinted orange in the lantern-light of the inn. The door buckled under a blow, then another. Finally, it caved, and Balnack stepped in. Immortality had robbed him of humanity, and the creature that snarled at Hiron was nothing of the innocent adventurer it had once been.

It charged, and Hiron rolled aside, cutting deep into its flesh with the dagger. It turned, its growl menacing, and lashed out. Hiron moved back, then under the blow. He drove the dagger through the creature’s chest.


The monster tore it out, and barreled into Hiron. The two were sent into a table, which was destroyed as they scrambled around. Hiron grabbed a stake that had splintered from the wood, and rammed it into the creature’s eye.

He leapt away, grabbing the dagger from where it had been cast. Balnack cast about for him, and Hiron pounced from behind, stabbing the blade into its spine. Its span, knocking him flat, and opened its maw to tear him open.

Hiron tried to struggle up, but it knocked him down. He spotted a hilt to his left, and grabbed it. He smiled.

Soulbane.

Balnack backed off for a second. Hiron leapt for the door, then realized he no longer had need to escape. Hiron turned, and placed his hand on the swords hilt; he pulled, and yelled in anger. The sword dropped to the floor, still frozen to its scabbard.

Fifty miles away, a young man raised his hand to stop a passing coach, and answered the enquiry to his name. Kengis Graynweaver felt a shudder run down his back.

Kengis Graynweaver, the last of the family.