disappeared in the fog. Off in the east, the morning sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. The blue glow of the moss was fading and the cricket could no longer be heard. There was nothing more to do here. Nothing to do but go forward. He put the morning light at his back and headed off to the west. In the fog he had found new hope — faint, but sure — and this new hope gave him the strength to persevere, to move forward and face whatever future remained to him.
Chapter 6: A Fateful Choice
Thunder sounded in the distance, announcing the impending arrival of a storm in the quiet northern town of Kantu, a common enough occurrence in the north. In another two months, perhaps less, they would bring snow rather than rain, and bury the land of Vorstal under a thick blanket of white until the spring thaw, some five months later.
Darien sat at a table in the Iron Kettle Inn, the liveliest, if not the largest, inn to be found in Kantu, awaiting the soup and bread he had ordered. All around the room, people were making merry and drinking themselves stupid. The Executioner ordinarily disliked such environs. The noise made it difficult to concentrate and the dim half-light of candles and lanterns was worse than darkness to his eyes. Even so, he enjoyed having cooked food now and again, and this inn was frequented by travelers from the south and east. He paid close attention to anyone who appeared to be from lands controlled by the Master, who was known to all outside his domain as the Demon King.
How long has it been since that day on the island, Darien asked himself? He could no longer recall the particular date, only that then, as now, it was in the early autumn. Whether by some side effect of the spell that strange old man had cast upon him, or of the sword itself, he now found it difficult to recall any specific time from before that day in the fog. He remembered the faces, the names, the places, but he was no longer sure of when any of it had happened, or in what order. The events and people from his life before the Demon Sword possessed a strange unreality, a disconnectedness, as if they were someone else’s memories planted in his own mind. He remembered his training, all of his magic, and every skill he had ever been taught, tracking, hunting, combat, geography, military strategy, history, and lore, but when he tried to recall how and where he learned it, he often found that he could not. More than this, there were gaps, empty spaces where something should have been, but wasn’t, and that troubled him most of all. Much of his memory only surfaced in dreams, nightmares he wished he could forget. Only the memory of his mother’s execution felt certain, etched into his soul, impossible to erase.
The last five years, however, were quite clear in his mind. This was the fifth autumn Darien had seen since his escape. He stared out a round, glass window, stopping to consider his reflection. Most of the scars of his youth had faded, and were now barely visible, whether as a result of his elven blood, or some unknown property of the sword, he could not be certain. Only the scar above his right eye remained prominent. His hair was longer now, as he cut it far less frequently, but it remained perpetually spiky and disheveled, as he paid little attention. He was no longer quite as conditioned as he had been, but he had finally grown into his frame. His shoulders had broadened slightly, and he’d gained size, cutting a far more imposing figure now than on the day of his escape.
He gazed beyond his reflection at a scraggly tree growing in a small patch of grass between the Iron Kettle Inn and its stables. Its leaves were just beginning to show a tinge of orange-yellow on their outer edges. The evening sun was setting, casting its last slivers of light down the alleyway, at just the right angle to shine upon the lower branches of the tree.
He had remained in hiding for these five years and so far had managed to remain
Chapter 6: A Fateful Choice
Thunder sounded in the distance, announcing the impending arrival of a storm in the quiet northern town of Kantu, a common enough occurrence in the north. In another two months, perhaps less, they would bring snow rather than rain, and bury the land of Vorstal under a thick blanket of white until the spring thaw, some five months later.
Darien sat at a table in the Iron Kettle Inn, the liveliest, if not the largest, inn to be found in Kantu, awaiting the soup and bread he had ordered. All around the room, people were making merry and drinking themselves stupid. The Executioner ordinarily disliked such environs. The noise made it difficult to concentrate and the dim half-light of candles and lanterns was worse than darkness to his eyes. Even so, he enjoyed having cooked food now and again, and this inn was frequented by travelers from the south and east. He paid close attention to anyone who appeared to be from lands controlled by the Master, who was known to all outside his domain as the Demon King.
How long has it been since that day on the island, Darien asked himself? He could no longer recall the particular date, only that then, as now, it was in the early autumn. Whether by some side effect of the spell that strange old man had cast upon him, or of the sword itself, he now found it difficult to recall any specific time from before that day in the fog. He remembered the faces, the names, the places, but he was no longer sure of when any of it had happened, or in what order. The events and people from his life before the Demon Sword possessed a strange unreality, a disconnectedness, as if they were someone else’s memories planted in his own mind. He remembered his training, all of his magic, and every skill he had ever been taught, tracking, hunting, combat, geography, military strategy, history, and lore, but when he tried to recall how and where he learned it, he often found that he could not. More than this, there were gaps, empty spaces where something should have been, but wasn’t, and that troubled him most of all. Much of his memory only surfaced in dreams, nightmares he wished he could forget. Only the memory of his mother’s execution felt certain, etched into his soul, impossible to erase.
The last five years, however, were quite clear in his mind. This was the fifth autumn Darien had seen since his escape. He stared out a round, glass window, stopping to consider his reflection. Most of the scars of his youth had faded, and were now barely visible, whether as a result of his elven blood, or some unknown property of the sword, he could not be certain. Only the scar above his right eye remained prominent. His hair was longer now, as he cut it far less frequently, but it remained perpetually spiky and disheveled, as he paid little attention. He was no longer quite as conditioned as he had been, but he had finally grown into his frame. His shoulders had broadened slightly, and he’d gained size, cutting a far more imposing figure now than on the day of his escape.
He gazed beyond his reflection at a scraggly tree growing in a small patch of grass between the Iron Kettle Inn and its stables. Its leaves were just beginning to show a tinge of orange-yellow on their outer edges. The evening sun was setting, casting its last slivers of light down the alleyway, at just the right angle to shine upon the lower branches of the tree.
He had remained in hiding for these five years and so far had managed to remain
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