Cliff

  “I awoke this night from a terrible vision, my body covered in sweat, heart pounding against my ribs. As I write these words, Sarah is sleeping peacefully next to me, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that brings comfort my ailing mind. To see her alive and well is the greatest relief I could have been offered - and, in some ways, the greatest curse, for I now have a weakness beyond myself that I cannot bear to think lost.

  In my dreams, I bore witness to a great slaughter, its proportions grander than any other. The streets of Hilfen running red with the blood of the innocent, their corpses stacked by the thousands. A massacre of the people, conducted in his honor, by the strongest of his soldiers. I was powerless to stop them, for my blade could only slay so many at a time. As such, it did not matter how hard I fought, nor how many I killed. For with each fallen soldier, there was another to take his place.

  And as I struggled for naught, the Corrupted One stirred in his cradle, his leviathan form the image of oblivion. A promise of extermination, carried on sepulchral winds that would rend a man’s flesh from his bones.

  How can I bring a child into this world, knowing such a monstrosity yet slumbers in the west? Is it not the sworn duty of any man cursed with such knowledge to seek out the source of the infestation, and tear it up by the roots? For the sake of his family, and all that lives beneath blue skies?” - Writings of the Sword-Saint, 2152 Post- Separation (PS).

  The Merchant City of Galwen had, for as long as Cliff could remember, been something of a watering hole for the bold and daring. Situated close to The Long Divide, it marked the last bastion of civilized society before the Darkenlands, and thus played host to a grand gathering of adventurers, merchants, and daredevils alike, all lured west by the promise of wealth and status beyond one’s wildest imaginings.

  It was the kind of place where fortunes could be won and lost within the same day, where spoiled heirs to Great Noble Houses came to lose their purses to degenerate gamblers who forged lifestyles out of cards and hazardous wagers. Where avaricious and unregulated merchants took advantage of unsuspecting customers by marking up their wares to outlandish prices, and where young men drunk on ambition passed through on their way to The Long Divide, ready to meet their end with a blade in one hand and a bag full of strange anomalies in the other.

  It was no wonder Cliff despised it so. The entire town was a monument to greed and gluttony, an ode to the ugliest impulses hidden away in the hearts of men. There was little hope for the ones who came to this place seeking riches, for their souls were already tainted by the stench of avarice. Cliff would know. He had been just like them once.

  Remember this, Cliff... suffering is the only prize won by those who are ruled by their desires. Do not live your life chasing riches and gold, for the man obsessed with wealth shall surely know neither peace nor satisfaction for as long as he draws breath.

  How painfully true those words had turned out to be in the end. If only he had been wise enough to heed its call earlier. Maybe then, he would not be living this half-life, cursed with sin and burden alike.

  As such, expectations were not high as he led Brom through the southern gate of the busy town, its iron bars lifted high to allow visitors passage. A handful of guards stood watch on the inside, though in truth, they did not appear to be doing much in the way of inspection. Instead, they sat seated around a wooden crate, upon which a set of cards and coin purses lay spread out.

  Cliff trudged on by without bother, sparing the group a single look of disapproval before he was gone. They did not register his passing in the slightest, immersed as they were in their game.

  It was late into the evening, yet it felt to him as if the town was just waking, its streets alive with people and merriment. Nighttime in Galwen meant drinks, musicians and gambling, and this day seemed no different to any other in that regard, though Cliff thought he sensed a strange vitality amongst the people. The touch of a renewed spirit perhaps, one that had seen hardship and tough times, only to emerge on the other side unscathed and with greater confidence. An infectious mood swirling through them all, making them laugh harder, smile wider and drink stronger.

  It did not take him long to realize the cause behind the revelry.

  Several homes near the Town Hall seemed to be carrying scars of a recent burning, their wooden walls blackened and cracked in multiple places. Four buildings had been reduced entirely to rubble, leaving piles of broken planks and charred stone which were gradually being sifted through by the locals. It seemed natural to assume that the fire had originated there, then, before subsequently spreading from building to building through proximity. It would appear the inferno had been doused before it could grow to encompass the entire neighborhood, however, which was no doubt the result of an impressive rescue effort.

  That’s likely why they’re all in such a good mood, then, Cliff thought as he watched a group of older men revel in a toast to health and prosperity. They just saved their town from destruction.

  Guiding Brom down the flagstone-paved streets, he wound his way past stumbling drunks, joyous couples and boisterous men, all gathering in large groups to celebrate their victory over the inferno. It was a warm sort of celebration, the kind that invited any and all to take part and frolic in the festivities. Some were perhaps a bit too gripped by the spirit of jubilation, as more than once he laid eyes on couples rutting on each other for all to see, pushed up against buildings or outdoor benches. And whilst Cliff was certainly no prude, even he had to admit that some things were better kept to the privacy of the bedroom, rather than a public street.

  As he continued scouring the town for a place to spend the night, he happened upon a bustling square filled with people in decidedly-fashionable robes, tunics and dresses. A congregation of guards stood posted around a large table placed in the middle, the tips of their spears gleaming softly in the light of the many torches scattered about the square. It seemed to Cliff as if they were protecting something, though he could not rightly say what, as the table was surrounded by men in various states of inebriation, talking cheerfully to one another in loud voices.

  "Cliff? Cliff Fargo? Is that you?"

  The voice cut through the hubbub of sound, demanding his attention with a soft authority. Turning towards the source, Cliff felt his eyes widen in recognition as he spotted a familiar figure weaving through the crowd towards him. She wore the same reserved expression he remembered from years past, her ashen-brown hair tied back in a loose braid. An elegant dress of burgundy velvet was stretched above umber skin, clinging loosely to a slender frame.

  She was Rachel Baelford, daughter to Viscount Oberon Baelford, vassal of Lord Escanor Harthway.

  "Rachel?” Cliff asked as he brought Brom to a complete stop. "Is that you? By the Stonefather, you look... different.”

  “Yes, well...” she said, coming to a halt some few steps away. “That tends to happen whenever time is involved. How long has it been? Nine years?”

  He cast his mind back to his days as a tutor at the Harthway estate, and the two girls he had had under his care - one bright-eyed and eager, the other calm and composed. And though the latter had certainly retained her levelheaded demeanor, she looked entirely different to the short-haired child he had once known.

  “Sounds about right,” he said, dismounting Brom to stand at eye-level with the Baelford girl.

  “Funny how time flies.”

  “Indeed,” she said, her voice devoid of humor. “What brings you to Galwen?”

  “Assignment from Varus,” he said, rolling his shoulder to shake off some stiffness from the journey. “Supposed to meet with some lumberjack.”

  “Lumberjack?” Rachel asked. “What does the Stormbringer want with a lumberjack?”

  “That, I’m afraid, is confidential,” he said, casting his gaze towards the table flanked by guards. “Care to fill me in on what’s transpired here?”

  She followed his eyes to the gathering of men.

  “The city recently suffered from a great fire near the Town Hall. It took out a few buildings completely, and caused major damage to the surrounding neighborhood. Thankfully, however, it was put out before it managed to grow out of control. As such, the people are celebrating,” she said.

  “Any idea how the fire started?” Cliff asked, still keeping his eyes on the table. What was that thing there, on its surface? He could not make out its exact details from this distance.

  “Yes,” she sighed. “I know exactly how it started.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “It was Miss Harthway.”

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  That captured his attention fully. He turned his head to look at her once more. “What?” he frowned.

  “She started the fire by casting a spell inside my lamphouse,” Rachel explained. “Not the best idea, as I’m certain you understand. The entire building burned down as a consequence.”

  “Why would she do that?” he asked.

  “We were attacked,” she said, pausing for a moment to think. “It was done in self- defense.”

  “Oh, let me guess,” Cliff said, recalling his earlier conversation with Julien. “It was Umbrals.”

  A look of genuine surprise flashed across her features for a brief second, before she regained her usual composure.

  “Yes,” she nodded, narrowing her eyes. “That’s what Miss Harthway called them. How did you know?”

  “I ran into Julien on the way here,” he said. “He told me.”

  “Julien?” she blinked. “Julien was here?”

  “Yes, he was,” Cliff frowned. “You didn’t know?”

  “No, I... I didn’t,” she muttered, averting her eyes to stare into the distance. “How did he...?”

  “Either way, to face an Umbral is no small matter,” Cliff continued, interrupting her moment of reflection. “You should count yourselves lucky you’re still alive.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of defending myself,” she said, shaking her head. “But I will admit, those... creatures... were more resilient than I expected. And I only managed to slay a single one. I don’t know what happened to the other three.”

  “The other three?” Cliff said. “There were four of them?”

  “Yes,” Rachel nodded. “As I said, I killed one, but the other three took off after Miss Harthway when she ran to distract them.”

  “Stonefather...” Cliff breathed. “Julien must have gotten a lot stronger since last I sparred with him.”

  “... Julien killed them?” Rachel asked, furrowing her eyebrows.

  “That’s what he told me,” Cliff said, before an additional part of their conversation came to mind. “And what’s more, he also told me that there was a second person traveling with Amelie. A young man he’d never seen before. Know anything about that?”

  Her reaction was instant. An involuntary twitch of the mouth, followed closely by a sharp intake of breath. She looked about, her eyes scanning the faces of the crowd.

  “Not here,” she said, lowering her voice. “Follow me.”

  “What?” Cliff said. “But I have to take Brom to the stables, I can’t just-”

  His words fell on deaf ears, however, as Rachel was already moving, her burgundy dress retreating across the square. Cliff felt his jaw tighten with irritation, but grabbed the reins to his mount all the same, and went on after the Baelford girl. She much resembled Amelie in the way she made her decisions. Once her mind was set on a course, there was precious little that could dissuade her from it.

  He trailed after her across the square, which brought him closer to the table flanked by guards. Turning his gaze in its direction, he was afforded a good look at the object of fascination, which seemed to have the men gathered around it firmly intrigued. A grimace soon spread upon his lips as he took in the sight of it.

  At a glance, the thing resembled a smallish heap of entrails, roughly pear-shaped in appearance. Bloodied and slimy, it lay upon the wooden table for all to see, a grotesque amalgam of flesh and muscle. A bald man with a salt-and-pepper beard hovered above it, poking at it with a knife. Each jab caused a slight contraction to occur within the pile of viscera, which the man and his companions seemed to find very amusing.

  Cliff briefly wondered if he should stop and ask about the strange substance, but soon decided against it. Rachel was not slowing down, and it seemed likely that whatever secret she had to share with him would be more important than the truth behind some obscure flesh-thing. It was likely just the entrails of some dead creature, either way.

  As such, he ventured on, guiding Brom away from the square and towards a cluster of houses further down the street. They all looked identical in appearance, constructed in a half-moon around a small fountain, each one a two-story building with sod roofing and wooden walls. A series of poles had been hammered into the ground nearby, accompanied by a set of water trays, allowing for horses to be kept hitched.

  Maybe she heard me after all, Cliff thought to himself as he walked up and fastened the reins to one of the poles, giving Brom a comforting rub across his muzzle. The horse seemed unbothered by the sudden restriction, as he lowered his head to the tray and began slaking his thirst.

  “You have a good horse,” Rachel commented as she watched him by the entrance of the leftmost house, her hand lingering on the handle. “It’s clear how much you care for him.”

  “Yeah, well...” Cliff said, unhooking his bag and sword from the saddle. “We’ve been through a lot together, him and I. Though time has yet to strip him of his attitude.”

  “Much like his owner, then,” she smirked, before pulling open the door. “Come now. We mustn’t dally.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he sighed. He did not know why Rachel had led him here, but he figured he had precious little choice but to do as instructed. The secretive manner in which she was conducting herself had him intrigued, to the point where he was willing to put up with some theatrics.

  Entering into the building, he was greeted by a largely vacant interior lit by oil lamps mounted onto the walls, casting long shadows across the floorboards. It did not look like the place had seen much use, as it lacked any of the usual signs of occupancy. There were no marks or scratches on the walls, no dents in the flooring, no belongings scattered about. If anything, the interior looked good as new, as if construction had finished just the day before.

  He continued through a narrow hallway into a modest sitting room, where a small fire crackled in the hearth. A table set with four chairs occupied the space in front of it, as well as two matching armchairs placed near the flames.

  “Here we are,” Rachel said, gesturing towards the room. “Feel free to make yourself at home. I’ll fetch us some refreshments."

  Cliff sank into one of the armchairs, grateful for the chance to rest his weary bones. He watched as Rachel disappeared into the adjoining kitchen, the sound of clinking glasses and cupboards closing shut drifting back to him.

  As he waited, his mind raced with questions. What possible thing could Rachel want to tell him that would warrant such secrecy? And what did it have to do with this unknown man in Amelie’s company?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. Rachel returned to the room, carrying a tray laden with two glasses and a bottle of amber liquid.

  “I figured we could both use a drink tonight,” she said, placing the tray down and unstoppering the bottle.

  Cliff gave her a grateful nod as she poured, before reaching out to accept the proffered glass. He took a swig, relishing the warmth that spread through him as the liquid slid down his throat and settled somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

  “Mead?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  “A personal favorite of mine,” she said, lowering herself into the opposing armchair. “I quite enjoy the sweetness.”

  “Not a bad choice,” he said. “Though I am more of an ale man, myself.”

  “No surprises there,” she said, taking a small sip of her drink. “Now, let us get to the matter at hand, shall we?”

  “Fine by me,” he shrugged.

  “You wanted to know about the man traveling with Miss Harthway,” she started, her eyes hard and calculating.

  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” he nodded.

  “... His name is Maxwell,” she said. “Maxwell Balton. He first came to Galwen some time ago, claiming to be a traveler.”

  “Claiming to be?” Cliff said. “What makes you say that?”

  “The circumstances surrounding his arrival,” she explained, fingering the rim of her glass. “Firstly, he showed up in the middle of a Husknight, emerging from the forest with a whole group of them on his tail.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And what’s more, he wore no Bone-Lamp, and had no weapons to defend himself with.”

  “So he’s suicidal then,” Cliff concluded with a frown.

  “Either that, or remarkably stupid,” Rachel nodded. “And yet, there’s more still. When questioned by the guards who saved him from the Husks, he claimed that he could not remember a single thing prior to waking up in the forest. Not one detail of his life beyond his own name.”

  “So, what... amnesia?” Cliff said. “Memory loss?”

  “Maybe so,” Rachel shrugged. “Either way, he seemed as green as a newborn baby. He did not even remember the name of the country, or the existence of Husks and Bone-Lamps. He was, for all intents and purposes, a blank slate.”

  Cliff leaned back in his chair, his thoughts churning as he worked to unravel the mystery. An amnesiac kid, with no memories of the past, showing up in the middle of a Husknight? It sounded too far-fetched and dubious to be authentic. And yet... he himself had known stranger things to be true.

  “Are you certain he wasn’t lying?” he said at last, reaching for his glass to take another swig of the mead. “Claiming amnesia would seem a sensible course of action for a man with something to hide.”

  “I... don’t rightly know,” Rachel admitted with a sigh. “If he was, then it was the most convincing act of deception I’ve ever been subjected to. The way he carried himself, the genuine confusion in his eyes... The clothes he wore, even! No, I’ve known plenty of liars in my time. He was not one of them.”

  “... If you say so,” Cliff acquiesced. In truth, he was not entirely convinced. Any objection he may have wanted to express, however, was quickly subdued by what followed next.

  “There was... one more thing,” Rachel continued in an ambivalent voice, as if hesitant to speak the words.

  “Yes?” Cliff pressed.

  “If I tell you this, you must promise to keep it secret from all you know. You cannot tell anyone, not even the Stormbringer himself, is that understood?”

  Cliff narrowed his eyes. “That’s a big ask.”

  “I know it is. But you must promise all the same,” she nodded, fixing him with an iron stare. “Or I will not tell you.”

  He weighed his options. He supposed he could always lie, and make a two-faced promise. One he would break if and when it suited him. But such underhanded tactics had never sat right with him, not now, not ever. There was no honor to be found in the world of perjury. Only deceit, and the disingenuous hypocrisy of vile men.

  He could also bind himself to the promise, and give his word. Refuse to speak of whatever secret she retained, no matter who came asking after it. That would be a sizeable pledge indeed, and not one to make lightly.

  “I can see that you are giving it due consideration,” Rachel said. “Good. That means you realize the gravity of what I’m asking. This is no small matter, Cliff. You can trust me on that.”

  He gave a deep sigh in response. There had only been one option from the start. All this thinking was only prolonging the inevitable.

  “Fine,” he said. “I promise. I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Thank you,” she smiled. It seemed genuine, even if it did not reach her eyes. “You have ever been an honest man, Cliff. For that reason alone, I’m willing to trust you with this.”

  She took a long sip from her glass, closing her eyes to savour the taste. It was a delaying tactic, plain and simple, but the solemnity with which she had approached the subject made him willing to allow the indulgence.

  “As I’ve already explained, there was much amiss with Maxwell. He was, in most ways, a walking enigma, yet a forthcoming one all the same. But the strangest of it all happened when I told him to undress, so that I could inspect his body for any potential wounds sustained in the forest.”

  Cliff subconsciously leaned forward, as if resting on the weight of her words. Rachel took a deep breath, before speaking into existence that which would forever alter his course.

  “He had an alchemical sigil on his back, Cliff,” she said at last, looking him straight in the eyes. There was a fear in them the likes of which he had never seen from her before. “And it was a sigil unlike any I have ever known. A rune-set so complex and tightly constructed, I could barely make heads or tails of it.”

  He found himself holding his breath. For some reason, he felt certain that a single misplaced word could somehow ruin the moment.

  “I don’t know if there is a proper way to say this, but...” she breathed, shaking her head in disbelief. “It was the Empyrean Sigil, Cliff. The Essence of Astratum, right there in front of my very eyes. Carved into the flesh of a young man who could barely remember his own name.”

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