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Walf's AdventureChapter 8: Keavur's Return
Jos was feeling better. After over a month of rest he was finally able to walk around. He had to be careful not to overexert himself though, for fear of the veins breaking out afresh. At this particular moment he was seated at the bar in the lower level of the inn, conversing with Biirn, the innkeeper.
“I like your proposal.” said the deep-throated man, “We could use a good baker around here. And it would be convenient for you as well in your current condition.”
“Excellent!” Jos said, pleased with the arrangement, “I might also mention my knowledge of jams. You might remember the stir last year about Dragonberry jam.”
“Dragonber..? You don’t mean that was you?”
“Oh, but of course.” Jos responded.
“Well my friend, I should like to shake your han—”
Just then Biirn was interrupted by a new customer calling for ale.
“A flagon of your thickest brew, bartender. Double quick!”
The young man sat down next to Jos. His pale eyes, starring blankly at the polished counter. Jos stared too, but not at the counter. The man was quite a sight. His clothes were askew and his face bore the look of someone afflicted with a great tragedy. Indeed, he looked as though at any moment he would crumble from sorrow.
“There you are.” said Biirn, slapping a large mug in front of the grief-stricken man, “Say, you look awful. What’s your affliction, lad?”
The young man took a long swallow and then answered.
“Oh, it’s me Milly. Me poor, poor Milly. And to think it was only the other day that I saw her at the market. Oh, and now…now she’s gone!”
With this the man collapsed into a bout of uncontrollable weeping that lasted for a good while.
“They say,” the man began when he came at last out of his stupor, “They say it started here. That dreadful weapon with a mind of its own. But why her? Why, oh God, why? She was on her way home that night you know. They say she was there late studying. Studying for her exam. The exam she would never take.”
“Ah, I’m sorry lad. We’ve all heard of the massacre last night. A terrible thing to be sure. The cavaliers are still searching for the demon that did it. And it is true that the strangeness did start in this tavern. Some called it black magic and others called it a demon. I don’t know what it was but I know it was some megabloks foreigners who brought the cursed thing in.
“It wasn’t their fault!” Jos said in defense of his friends.
“What do you know?” said the man, staring at Jos with his wide, grieving eyes, “Are you a friend of theirs? Do you know what was behind this?”
“Now, now.” said Biirn, “I’ve already questioned Jos on the matter and he said he didn’t know anything.”
It was true. Jos hadn’t known anything about the mishap. But that was before the letter. The letter from Logen had arrived just that morning, detailing all that had happened and giving an explanation for their sudden disappearance. Now Jos found he could hardly bear it. The thought of what Dale was going through. The sight of this miserable man and the knowledge that he was only one in an untold number of others who were likely going through the same thing. He had to do something. Jos knew it. But what could he do? What could one man do?
At that moment, the doors of the inn were flung open, as a dark cloaked person entered the inn. It was a man. A spear at his side and a storm in his eyes.
“I hear there’s some trouble with a demon in these parts.”
Biirn nodded and said, “Aye, that be right. Who ye might be?”
“I’m Keavur Stormspear.”
“Wot? Really? You that chap ‘oo defeated that megabloks demon a while back? Az something?”
“That was my brother.”
The olive-green-clad figure sat at the bar.
“Derrek Stormspear. He killed Azezezal. I did nothing. Megabloks nothing. Derrek saved me. But he hurt me too. And Kara. He hurt Kara bad. Tyco, I hate this job. Poor Kara…”
Biirn and Jos said nothing. The grief-stricken man continued his sniffling.
Keavur continued as if no one was there. “She took her own life, Kara did. Couldn’t stand the grief and stress. I nearly did to. Tyco them both, Derrek and Aezezal. TYCO!”
Biirn and Jos stared. Even the other man looked up. Suddenly Keavur appeared to come to his senses and rattled his large, silver pike-like spear officially.
“So...what type of demon is plaguing you?”
“It’s a sword.” said Biirn, “A demonic sword with a taste fer murder. I ought to know o’ course. It started right ‘ere in this inn you know. One minute it’s a normal Tuesday afternoon and the next there’s a sword swinging about through the air and impaling me customers. Killed one o’ them. I thought I’d heared the last o’ it when those tricksters scooped it up an’ ran off. Boy was I wrong!”
“Rumor has it,” said Keavur. “that there’s some manner of demon in the sewers as well. Do you think there’s any connection?”
Biirn shrugged. “Who’s te say? Would it make any difference?”
“I suppose not. So tell me, where is it now?”
“Well, I’ve heared rumors that it was last seen at the cathedral. No surprise either. Everyone says that place be ‘aunted. Ever since the war ended.
“Haunted? I thought you said we were dealing with demons?”
“Does it matter? Demons, ghosts, what’s the difference?”
Keavur raised an eyebrow at Biirn, as though he couldn’t believe that the man didn’t know. “I’m sorry. I suppose I should expect ignorance from the common people in this subject. Despite their similarities, there is a great difference between ‘unclean spirits’ and just ‘spirits’.”
A thud interrupted Keavur as the previously sobbing man, slipped off his stool and onto the floor: a victim of another kind of ‘spirits’.
“I don’t do ghosts.” said Keavur, finishing.
“Well don’ worry.” said Biirn, “I’m fairly certain the sword was possessed.”
“It uh…it could be ghosts.” said Jos, interrupting.
“I thought you said you didn’t know anything about this, Jos.” said Biirn.
“Well, yes I…I guess I did say that didn’t I.” Jos didn’t want to draw attention to himself but at the same time he felt that Keavur should know what he was getting into, “Um, what’s that thing around your neck?”
Jos was trying to change the subject. It was a silver cross with a blue gem inset in the center.
“It was my bothers.” said Keavur, “The only thing left on the scorched ground where he died.”
There was a deadly silence. Jos looked down at the tavern floor.
“Well, if that’s that I guess I’ll be going. Demons don’t die when hunters procrastinate.” Keavur stood and made for the door, the silver cross around his neck glinting in the firelight.
Jos sat there for a moment after Keavur left, twiddling his thumbs nervously.
“Well, I think I’ll head out for a bit of fresh air.” he said, excusing himself.
Jos practically ran for the door, but when he reached the street Keavur was nowhere in sight.
“Tyco! Where is he? Where did they say he was going? The cathedral.”
And Jos set out through the snow-covered streets for St. Henry’s Cathedral.
Dale was sick. Emotionally sick. Sick and tired. Sick and drained. Sick and sad. He was now a murderer.
Well, no, that was wrong. He technically wasn’t one who killing...but he felt responsible. Brugs was the one wielding the sword...but it was Dale’s (or mostly Dale’s sword, Reno certainly had no use for it now) sword that was piercing hearts and lungs, chopping off heads and laying open guts.
Fifteen. That was the number, fifteen innocent persons, slaughtered by the insane ghost of Brugs the Dragon Master. Fifteen lives snuffed out. And Dale could do nothing about it.
Since all of them had been killed by Reno’s cursed sword, all of them were now possessing it along with Brugs and Dale. All of them weak weepy and weak, and none dared confront Brugs, least of all Dale. But the guilt was killing him...except...he was already dead. He had failed. Dale, the pacifist bard, could of prevented the murder of a dozen innocent people, and hadn’t. He hated himself.
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