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Bréa tapped her heels into the sides of the old, grey pony pushing him to go as fast as his arthritic legs could carry her. The icy rain hitting the small horses eyes and the thin road up the hill getting muddier with each falling drop made every one of the old horses steps fraught with danger but ever closer to the procession trudging mournfully toward The Crypt At The Hilltop. The farmers and millers of the aptly named Millerton were not the most imaginative bunch when it came to naming things, but they knew how to honour their dead heroes. The Crypt At The Hilltop was built to honour the valour and bravery of the only knight the town had ever known, Sir Henri DeGaur was knighted by the dwarf king for his heroic deeds almost forty years ago. Bréa shook her head in a feeble attempt to move her frizzy, black curls off her face and out of her eyes. She released a short, sharp exhale as her failed efforts to move her hair frustratingly resulted in the mottled green hood of her cloak falling limply away and exposing her head and hair to the torrent, wet cold of the fittingly funereal weather.
The pony huffed and brayed, sensing the frustration of his rider and clopping in indecisive steps along the dirt road that was slowly becoming a simple waterway. The aging animal defied its brave and adventurous nature from its youth and decided to stubbornly stop marching up the hill merely ten metres away from Bréa's destination. She slowly lowered herself off the pony, attempting to keep the frills of her freshly sewn mourning dress out of the mud, her care did not extend to the same level for her riding boots which were already stained brown with dirt and mud from years of exploring the outskirts of the village and running from the dangerous creatures that roamed the untamed wilds.
"Shit!" Bréa swore under her breath as she felt the ruffles of her dress around the ankles dip into the mud and begin dragging. She thought she had got away with both the cursing and her tardiness until she caught the scolding eye of her Mother who was mouthing the words 'get over here' through gritted teeth and pointing her finger at the ground as the other four fingers clenched tighter around a , now crumpling, paperback prayer book.
Bréa lifted her dress out of the mud to please her Mother even though she knew how pointless the action was now at stopping the dress from getting dirty and approached her mother at the mid-point of the funeral procession. The male dwarves of the village all shared a portion of the heavy stonework art piece, if one could call it art, that was Sir Henri's coffin while the women and children followed behind, speaking the prayers to the Ascendant Elfin God Hilicus, the Warden of mortals.
"Of all the days, of all the times I have asked you not to be late, why this day?" Bréa's mother, Amelie, whispered to Bréa as the women behind them in line continued their prayer.
"I had to get Marcel. He deserves to see Granddad's last rest as much as we do." Bréa whispered back, with more juvenile defensiveness than she intended.
"That pony is not made to ride hard. Not anymore. Your Grandfather has already said his final goodbyes to that smelly old lard a week ago." Amelie brushed a hand dismissively behind her in the direction of the once majestic creature.
"You didn't see him, Mother. Marcel knew something was wrong, he was nervous and strutting about back and forth, I had to bring him." Bréa turned her head to see that the pony Marcel was now slowly following along the procession of dwarves up the hill. He even had his head bowed.
"You missed the eulogy, you know? In the church. Father Julian gave a rather moving speech." Amelie said, seemingly intent on discussing all of Bréa's transgressions here and now.
"Another one about tilling the fields and church donations to appease the Ancient Elfs was it? Riveting, I'm sure." Bréa rolled her eyes as she stared daggers at the elderly bearded priest and the ten hairs that clung desperately to the space above his ears leading the funeral procession to the modest - by Dwarfish standards - crypt atop the hill.
"Enough." Amelie thwapped her prayerbook against Bréa's arm, hoping that one lashing made up for her childs blasphemous insolence. "You're here now and you're going to be respectful to your Grandfather and all he did for this village and the world at large."
"I've got acres of respect for Granddad. It's the rest of them I don't like." Bréa said, scanning her eyes across the Dwarfish men carrying Sir Henri's coffin. Aside from her father, who had an obligation to, not one of the men carrying her Grandfathers coffin had come to visit him
over the month that he was ill and unable to leave his bed. Not one of them brought flowers or made poultices from the surrounding fungus and flora to try and ease his passing. Not one of them even offered condolences to Bréa's mother or herself for their loved ones imminent passing. They were all too preoccupied with their own work to bother with the one man that put Millerton on the map and in turn allowed these men to keep their business flowing and families fed. Even her father didn't much care. He simply stood in the corner of Grandpa Henri's bedroom and waited to do the bare minimum of what his wife Amelie had asked him to do for her father. Bréa felt betrayed by them all. She took some solace at least in the knowledge that she could share her Grandfathers legacy with all those who passed by.
"Keep your voice down!" Amelie hissed. "Show some reverence! If not for them, then for me!"
Bréa sighed and nodded. She had opened her mouth to respond but a stern look from her mother shut Bréa's mouth tighter than her mother was gripping her prayerbook. Crying was
not a trait that dwarves often possessed, but Bréa was sure that if ever a dwarf were to show such strong emotions in public it would be today. She and her mother led the women and children while the men carried the coffin directly in front of them. Bréa's father walked with the priest in front of the coffin as tradition dictated. Bréa was irritated by the whole affair of tradition, before he died, her grandfather had told her that his wish was to have his ashes spread on the winds toward the Westward forests so that he may re-embark on his adventure from all those years ago. The dwarves of Millerton, a pragmatic bunch if they had one redeeming feature, had already begun constructing the tomb upon hearing Sir Henri was on his deathbed and had therefore decided how Henri was to pass into the Ascendant Elfin Heavens for him. The women and children chanted their mournful prayers ever louder as the procession rose higher on the hill.
*
The crypt itself was of rather mixed quality. Crafting was spearheaded by a stonemason who passed through town a month ago under the supervision and payment of the folk of Millerton to honour their local hero but before the crypt could be built completely, the mill folk ran out of funding and decided to complete the rest on their own. A traditional design as crypts go; Its base was a box to house the coffin measuring four feet high, five feet long and three-and-a-half feet deep of smooth grey stone with the front section able to slide open for the Dwarf's spirit to be able to leave the tomb and fly to the heavens, and for the Dwarfish funeral procession to actually place the coffin within the crypt. The small parts that were unsealed by the stone were filled in by the villagers using pitch and tar, giving jagged, black definition to the smooth, grey stone. Sir Henri's epitaph was etched into the front panel of the crypt written in the jagged-lined, block writing of Dwarfish script. In Dwarfish, it took only twenty four letters to say "Sir Henri DeGaur. Devoted Protector of the Realm. Father. Born 524 3E. Died 672 3E." and the ever stoic Dwarf's liked it that way. Atop the cubish crypt atop the rolling hill was a surprisingly detailed front-half-of-a-bust of Bréa's grandfather in his heyday and a less detailed back half made of straw. The face of a handsome, middle-aged dwarf with a platted beard and long, braided hair peeked out from underneath a heavy, square, open-faced helmet. The heroic depiction of the Dwarf continued with two sleeveless arms as thick as tree trunks that protruded out from a barrel chest covered in a heavy, Dwarfish breastplate. It was assumed they were both arms. The one made of stone was absolutely perfect. The other arm was made of thatch and twine and it may have had an elbow joint. The Dwarfish bust held a large gleaming sword over his head and was riding a younger, fitter version of the family pony, Marcel. Even Marcel had an improved sense of style back in the day, outfitted with his gilded saddle, matching braids to his rider and even an armoured helmet covering his own head and neck. It was a stark juxtaposition to the old, skinny little horse wearing his tilling harness that stood half awake behind the funeral procession that surrounded the crypts opening.
While the crypt looked both impressive and incompetent, Bréa could not help but feel more than a little frustrated at the situation. Bréa's grandfather had told her what his wishes were upon his death and none of them had to do with being buried on a hill overlooking a town which bored him so much that it inspired him to go on the very adventure that made him, and in turn the town of Millerton, famous.
*
'I want to move on from the world the same way I found myself in it' Sir Henri would say to her. Bréa would read to her Grandfather in his bed as the days rolled by, filling him in on stories of the other famed heroes of the world, the beasts they slew and the deeds they performed. All the stories were full of adventure, intrigue and heroics but to Bréa none of them matched the story of Sir Henri DeGaur. The slayer of the Wild Man, the fearsome Demon of the Elwyn Forest, the Ghoul that Haunts the Wilderness, the Beast. Before her Grandfather braved the danger of the Elwyn forest, merchants and travellers would purposefully avoid it. The Elwyn forest spanned the space of a small continent and surrounded a range of mountains, going around it meant a detour, weeks in length, either through the mountain passes or all the way around them instead of taking the large road through the centre of the forest. The forest was once more safe to travel through after Bréa's Grandfathers adventure and in the brief time that it was free of monsters, Henri DeGaur became Sir Henri DeGaur, a noble knight in the Dwarf kings Court of Heroes. Upon his return home, Sir Henri DeGaur was hailed as a saint to the people of Millerton and nine months later, by pure coincidence Henri insisted, Bréa's mother was born.
Bréa decided to skip the chapter of the journal that Sir Henri had dedicated to Amelie DeGaur's twenty hour long birth and the subsequent death of his fiancée due to the excruciating detail with which her bedridden Grandfather had remembered that particular story. Bréa was sitting in the old wooden chair that she used to read to her Grandfather. She blew out her candle and looked around. The room was once open and welcoming, it was bright even with the curtain closed because of the happiness of the man inside the room. Sir Henri's bellowing laugh could be heard across the other side of town but the rest of the village did not hear Bréa in the room with him as he told her stories of his heroics and the other knights he met during his service. Sometimes he would be feeling well enough to carry his sword and he and Bréa would swing it around and fight imaginary dragons. The glistening mithril was ever so slightly bioluminescent, even when the curtains were drawn and the lanterns were out, the room still shone a calm and welcoming light. But now it was dark in the room and the distant, cold fluorescence of the moon had hidden itself behind clouds in reverence to the fallen hero. Even now the sword is buried in The Crypt At The Hilltop with the other source of light from the room. As Bréa put the leatherbound journal back on the bedside table and looked out the window as the moon peeked out from behind the clouds and illuminated The Crypt At The Hilltop in solemn, blue light. In that moment, Bréa knew what she must do.
*
The door to The Crypt At The Hilltop would not budge. Bréa had seen three burly, muscular farmhands seal the tomb at the funeral and now to complete the task she had set herself, she had to reopen it with three less famhands than it took the first time. Bréa pushed and pushed as hard as she could but the seal did not slide an inch. Bréa grunted and threw her arms up in exhaustion. The light from her torch had already begun to fade and in a few hours, the townsfolk would be awake and they would know what she had done and that she had done it. Of course, at the moment all she had done was put dirty handprints on her Grandfathers tomb. Bréa picked up her satchel and from it, she pulled the hammer and nails she had stolen from her mothers workstation in town and began to strategically pound the longest pillar of rusty iron into the pitch line that held the seal in place. To Bréa's dismay, not one part of the stone slab had cracked. Bréa's face sunk, she let herself slump down to her knees and drew the hood of her green cloak over her brown eyes. She pulled the hood down over her face, tensing the woollen cowl as she made a long, exasperated grunting noise, frustrated at her efforts' fruitlessness. She heard footsteps approaching behind her and let go of her hood while wheeling around to see who may be approaching. To her surprise, Bréa caught the familiarly long, grey and tired old face of her oldest friend Marcel, the family pony.
"Hey boy, you missed me did you?" Bréa got to her feet and placed her hand lovingly on the little horses face and mane, slowly scrunching and unscrunching her hand to play with Marcels hair. Marcel however did not stop his slow walk toward the tomb and brushed Bréa off of him to walk as close as he could to the tomb without stepping his cracking hooves in the fire of Bréa's waning torch.
"It's not me you missed..." Bréa knew the animal could not really understand her, but she could have sworn she saw Marcel nod in response. She stood next to Marcel as they both looked up at the bust of their hero. "I have an idea Marcel. And I think you're here with me for a reason. You and I are going to help Grandfather."
Bréa worried of course for the ponies age but she knew from her Grandfathers stories, never to stop someone who felt the call of adventure and Marcel it seemed was ready for one more call. But first the two of them had to get what they came to The Crypt At The Hilltop for and getting it meant opening the stone door to the tomb. Bréa and Marcel had a plan and this time it was one that worked in their favour. Life on the farm had given Marcel and Bréa the opportunities to become quite skilled in knot tying and pulling heavy machinery from behind. Bréa hammered three more nails into the back of the stone door on its four corners and tied ropes connecting them to adjoining points on the harness Marcel normally wears to attach equipment Amelie uses to till the fields, but tonight it was to be used in the pursuit of heroics and adventure!
With a pony attached to a harness attached to ropes tied to nails hammered into stone, Brea thwapped Marcel on his equine behind and spurred the little horse to run away from the Crypt as fast as his stocky legs would carry him down the hill. The downward angle of the ropes wedged the nails further into the cracks and with a crunch and a creak, the stone slab of the Crypt tore off its foundation and scattered down the hill in balls of debris. Marcel slowed to a halt as the resistance on his harness suddenly and abruptly released its pull. Bréa took a cautious step toward the dark gash torn in the stone door of the small mausoleum. She peered inside, a knot looping over itself again and again in her stomach as she accepted that she may be about to see her Grandfathers corpse. Bréa let out a sigh of relief as all she could see inside was the wooden lid of his coffin and resting atop the coffin, the glittering mithril sword once used by the mighty hero lying before her.
Bréa clenched her fists and steeled herself, exhaling as she reached into the hole she had made and retrieved the sword, immediately noticing its deceptive lightness considering her strength and its size. She held the blade in her hands and was lost in the jewels embedded along the crossguard. Each one of the glistening hexagons of topaz had jagged lines carved into them. Runes, the Dwarfish blessings of protection, skill and luck. Bréa examined the tip of the sword as it pressed lightly into her palm. Forty years the sword had hung on the wall in her grandfathers bedroom and after forty years, the blade remained sharp.
Marcel's old hooves slowly trotted up next to Bréa. Perhaps drawn to the shine of the sword or perhaps Marcel was more aware of the situation than his pale, glazed eyes let on. Bréa took a content breath, more sure of herself and her plan now that she had completed part of her plan or maybe it was because there was no way to turn back on it now. Whatever it was, Bréa placed her grandfathers sword in its sheath and looped it between the straps of Marcel's harness, assuring herself that it was secure. She turned back to face the tomb and slipped her hands back into her satchel. Pulling her hands from her satchel, she looked into Marcels eyes and presented to him the keys to step two of her plan.
"Aha!" She smiled at Marcel and showed him a flint, steel and lantern oil. The horse snorted in response, Bréa decided it was a noise of approval. She stared into the gap in the Crypt door and tried to fight back the memory that her Grandfather was in there. She had to believe that the memory of the man she looked up to was not laying dead just a metre away from her. She had to believe that the hero of Millerton had a spirit that wanted to have its deathbed wishes fulfilled. She had to, or else she would simply be burning a corpse that had already been buried.
Bréa reached into the hole and poured the lantern oil over the coffin lid. She sparked the flint against the steel and the oil caught alight immediately. Bréa removed her arm from the impromptu oven she had created and stepped back from The Crypt At The Hilltop as the fire spread across the statues insides. The straw half of the bust of Sir Henri lit up and all of a sudden the stone statue had wings of flame reaching up into the sky. Each black line of pitch
that bordered every piece of the crypt and bust, the segments exaggerated by orange tendrils of heat that gradually melted the pitch away.
Bréa sat on the grass, wrapping her arms around her knees and holding them close to her chest. The sun would be up in a few hours and even though the fire infront of her was working its magic, Bréa taking the chance to sit down had allowed the cold morning air to creep in. Bréa allowed herself to mourn her Grandfather as she watched the Crypt On The Hilltop burn. Bréa felt the presence of Marcel lay down next to her and she immediately began stroking her hand lightly and rhythmically along the aging pony's mane.
The sun was creeping over the horizon and the morning birds had begun their chirping by the time the inside of the mausoleum was turned to ash. Bréa swore she could hear workers from the village waking up and beginning their day and suddenly she felt the need to hurry. Bréa tore herself away from the warmth of Marcels fur and pulled a small glass vial from her satchel. She reached into the crypt and carefully poured a handful of ashes from her hand into the vial. She repeated this process again until the vial was full. There was so much ash left in the Crypt, Bréa chided herself for acting so rashly that she did not find anything other than an old vial that used to hold Sir Henri's medicine to act as a surrogate urn. It was too late to turn back now and the small corked vial would have to do.
Bréa led Marcel to the edge of Millerton. Rolling hills stretched for miles infront of her until the sharp, pointed horizon of a mountain range covered in darker greens even visible from where Bréa was standing. That forest, perhaps days away, marked the very edge of what was once The Wild Man's territory and Bréa needed to find the merchants path through the centre of the forest. As she heard some frantic shouting behind her, Bréa decided it was time to mount Marcel and head on their adventure.
What began as one man seeing the remains of the crypt from his home quickly turned into many of the men of the village searching around for possible clues as to how a fire would have started. Bréa allowed herself one last look at her home. She swore she caught a glimpse of her mother in the window who looked back at Bréa knowingly, as if everything could have been said just through the eyes in this moment. Bréa smiled and patted Marcel on his side.
"Onward, Boy" Bréa said quietly, using her heels to spur the pony to start his walking. "Time for one more adventure for you and for Grandad."
*
Bréa was surprised at how easy she found cross country travel to be. Her grandfather had always described this relatively uneventful part of adventures as simply taking a step and repeating that action until you arrive where you want to be and Bréa now realised that as far as she and Marcel were concerned, that statement had no embelishment or exaggeration at all. Marcel plodded along the road, filling the serene silence of the hills with the clopping of hooves against cobblestone as Bréa tried her best to decipher the map of the land in the
first few pages of Sir Henri's travel journal. A book she had read time and again and had only now realised the map was wildly inaccurate to the real surroundings. While there was a cobblestone path to follow for most of the duration of the trip, Bréa could not help but try and compare her Grandfathers notes to the landmarks on the way. A creek that was supposed to run through the area was now a large river with a dilapidated bridge to cross it. Towns on the map simply did not exist at all or were many kilometres from where they should have been. The drawn map became more of a novelty to pass the time rather than a helpful guide to the surrounding landscape but Bréa was grateful to have it with her nonetheless as another reminder of her Grandfather and who she was journeying for. Bréa had no idea what creatures she may yet encounter when she reached the once-cursed forest and though she craved adventure, part of her hoped the whole trip would be as easy as it had been so far.
The next few days passed over rather quickly as Bréa and Marcel followed the road toward the forest. They passed by towns and villages, trading Bréa and Marcel's skills at tilling fields at farms, cooking food at the taverns, and her more recent skills of pyre making and stonemasonry whenever they needed food or supplies. At one point Bréa also traded her skill in fistfighting with a man who thought Bréa was willing to trade her body for a hot meal, the man did not ask again after that. In one instance, Bréa and Marcel delayed their trip by an entire day and night when an woman named Dagna gave them some bread after Bréa repaired the broken fence posts in her paddock and spent the afternoon waiting for an apple pie promised to them by Dagna, while they waited they let her children go for rides around the paddock on Marcel's back. Bréa and Marcel left Dagna's farm the next morning with full bellies, rested eyes and the promise of more pie on their return.
Bréa and Marcel walked at a faster pace the day after Dagna's farm, reinvigorated by purpose and the reminders of family. The days afterward passed by faster, the sun felt warmer and the mountain range in the distance rose into the sky instead of looming over them. The large forest surrounding the mountain range, their destination, looked welcoming and more open than it did on the previous days. Bréa found herself getting more excited to reach the forest as the hills rolled into grass plains and grass plains rolled into the beginnings of trees and suddenly the trees turned into a thick forest. The Elwyn Forest, she had made it.
*
Marcel trudged along the wide road that cut through the centre of the forest. Since the end of Sir Henri's quest this was the road taken by all travellers between the major cities, shortening the trip by entire weeks. It enabled wealthy merchants to cart their supplies to their buyers sooner and with greater inventory due to the safety of the road. If Bréa knew one thing to be true, it was that she had nothing to worry about on her adventure. Her heroic grandfather had made this place completely safe.
"Hold, traveller!" Called a voice from the treeline.
Bréa was filled with the anxiety and adrenaline that accompanies the fear of the unknown. She jerked her head up from staring at Marcels hoofprints in the dirt underneath her and quickly scanned her surroundings in search of the source of the noise.
She did not have to wait long to find it as two humans, their faces hidden by a green and a brown hood, walked casually out of the treeline about ten metres down the road in front of her. The one in the green hood held a bow but had no arrows drawn, the shine of dagger blades drew Bréa's eyes to Brown Hoods' belt.
"I said; hold." Brown Hood's voice grated and scraped in his throat as if he ate nothing but gravel for weeks to get to his low, growling tone. "Please." He added, flashing a yellow toothed smile surrounded by stubble from under his hood.
Bréa tugged on Marcel's reins and slowed him to a stop, trying her best to not let the horse sense her unease. Marcel chewed at his bit but only a little before stopping where he was. Bréa saw the Green Hood relax her shoulders a bit but not release the grip on her bow at all, Brown Hood maintained his composure the entire time.
"Greetings!"Brown Hood waved, putting a spring in his step as he moved "I don't mean to frighten you ma'am, I just have a few questions for you and then you can be on your way."
Bréa tightened her grip on Marcels reins ever so slightly, doing her best to remain composed. Brown Hood, though he was acting nonchalant, had never moved his hand too far away from the knife at his belt and Green Hood was standing completely still, her face was mostly hidden, Bréa could still see that she had dark skin and long, brown hair. The hand holding the bow had intricate tattoos patterned across the back of her palm and painted nails with a dark purple colour painted into a triangle shape, making her nails look sharper and cat-like.
"Firstly, are you armed Ma'am?" Brown Hood cocked his head to the side. Bréa glanced down at the mithril sword poking it's hilt out from underneath both a horse blanket and harness. The bioluminescent metal of the weapon suddenly made her more tense. She knew now that the sword was more of a hindrance than an ally.
"I am." Bréa announced. Keeping her head raised and her back straight to make herself look more imposing. Brown Hood relaxed himself but Green Hood seemed to tense, Bréa noticed that Green Hood had been tapping her foot. Rhythmically bouncing her heel up and down ever so slightly.
"Thank you for your honesty" Brown Hood said, taking a small step forward. "Secondly, what is your purpose here in the forest?"
Bréa mustered her bravest face. "I'm on a noble quest."
Brown Hood cocked his head to the side and relaxed his shoulders, impressed. "Is that so?"
"It is"
"Are you alone on this noble quest of yours?"
"Not really, no"
"Not really?"
Bréa leaned forward and pat Marcel on his shaggy mane. "I've got Marcel." As she sat up, Bréa held up the ash vial attached to a small chain around her neck. "And Sir Henri. Who you should be grateful to for your safety in this forest!" Bréa raised her head, pointing her nose to the sky. She thought maybe if these hooded folk assumed she was a knight, they would let her pass.
"Oh. Sorry miss, but it seems you've assumed you're safe in this forest." Brown Hood said feigning the same sympathy in his eyes as one would have telling a child magic is not real. "I'm going to need you to hand over your valuables."
Bréa took a sharp breath in. She assumed they were dangerous, but the fact that Brown Hood felt safe and comfortable enough to simply ask to rob her came as a shock in and of itself. Though she had tried to look imposing and knightly, it had no effect. Bréa cleared her throat and furrowed her brow, staring at the spot on Brown Hood's head that shaded his eyes from the light. "I will do no such thing!"
Brown Hood's polite demeanour dropped. "Look Darlin', you seem new to the wonders of the world so I went easy on you. But if you're going to make things difficult, then I'm going to be less nice about this."
Bréa did not fail to notice that Brown Hood had taken two more steps toward her since his first step but what worried her more for some reason was that Green Hood had not moved at all. She looked down at the mithril sword on Marcel's harness and looked back at Brown Hood. "I-I'll fight you!" She cursed under her breath as her voice betrayed the confidence
she was trying to exude.
"I wouldn't, miss." Brown Hood's voice betrayed him back, sounding more defeated than it did intimidating. Bréa was once again filled with confidence. And anger. Angry that after all of her grandfathers work to rid this forest of monsters, it is being infested now by monstrous men, angry that they dared to confront her and block her way, angry enough to fight.
Bréa tightened her fist on Marcels reins and leaned over to draw the sword from its scabbard. She kept her eyes trained on Brown Hood who simply shook his head, she put her hand on the hilt of the sword and slowly pulled it from it's scabbard. A flash of green hooded movement in the corner of her eye shot Bréa's instincts into gear and in her half-lean, she ducked under an arrow as it whizzed past her head, so close that it sliced through a few locks of her frizzy, black hair. The first strike had been made, no turning back now. Bréa bolted back upright, drawing the sword quickly as she did and raising it above her head as she leaned forward in Marcel's saddle. Definitely no turning back now.
For a moment, the world froze and Bréa could truly take in her surroundings and situation. Green Hood was still in the same place she was before, standing a fair few metres down the road. She was already drawing another arrow from her quiver, ready to shoot again. Brown Hood braced for action, standing much closer to Bréa and Marcel than his friend. His knees
were bent, his arms were at his sides, ready to draw his daggers. Bréa glared at him, the focus of her rage and her first target. If she did this right, she could charge at him, keeping him between Marcel and Green Hood's bow and hopefully by the time she had cut Brown Hood to the ground, Green Hood would be too close to use her bow effectively, allowing Bréa one final swing and winning the skirmish. Now all she had to do was stick to the plan.
In a flash, she sprang into action and dug her heels into Marcel's sides, spurring him on to charge forward at her quarry! The wind coursed through her hair and she raised Sir Henri's sword further over her head, preparing the swing. For a moment, she could swear she saw the spectral form of Marcel's old armour covering him once more. She felt her grandfather
sitting behind her, lifting her arm into the perfect place for a strike. Marcels mane bounced with each step of what the pony could muster as a gallop.
Brown Hood crouched low and centered himself. Bréa could see the whites of his eyes as he stared up at his charging opponent and just as she brought her sword down to strike, she felt a sudden lurch forward. Bréa's stomach slammed into Marcel's raised head as the old pony let out a weakened neigh . Sir Henri's mithril sword flew out of her hands and skidded across the dirt road. Marcels momentum transitioned sideways, his legs buckled and suddenly both him and Bréa were flying closer to the ground. Bréa felt a pit inside her as she slowly realised what was happening, as fast as she realised she was falling, she and Marcel had already hit the ground. The cloud of dust that was kicked up by all the commotion finally settled. Bréa's head pounded and she forced herself to open her eyes as the world slowly stopped spinning. She couldn't feel her legs. No, she couldn't feel her leg . Marcel lay on top of it, unmoving with a long, red feathered arrow jutting out from his shoulder, just under his neck. Dead.
Bréa let out a soft cry and placed a hand on Marcel's mane one last time. She was filled with a panic that overtook her grief as she heard footsteps approaching. From her position on the ground, she watched as the tip of her grandfathers sword slid out of view and moments later was replaced by two shoes. Her view of the sky was suddenly obscured as a large, stubble-covered head looked over her. Brown Hood, without the hood, was less attractive the more of his face that could be seen. His eyes were the same colour as his hood and his teeth were more yellow in the light. A large scar carved a canyon in his head from the middle of his forehead in a diagonal disappearing somewhere behind his left ear.
"Better luck next time hey, Hero?" Brown Hood smirked.
Brown Hood's head disappeared from view for a moment, running his dirty hands through Marcel's saddlebags and Bréa's satchel, admiring any valuable he could find and rifling through Sir Henri's journal before plonking it back into the satchel and slinging it over his shoulder.
A sword, her grandfathers sword tapped its point to her neck. Hard enough to feel, but soft enough as to not break the skin. It stayed pressing at the base of her neck for what felt like a lifetime. Bréa's breathing was sharp and whimpering, she stifled a gasp as the sword fell away from her neck, raising into the air towards Brown Hood's face and with it, the vial on the chain. She watched in shock as Brown Hood tugged on the chain with the sword and ripped it from her neck.
Brown Hood held the vial up to the sunlight. Examining every inch of Sir Henri De Gaur's remains and shaking it in his ear for any clinking of metal or perhaps gemstones. Hearing none, his smirk drooped and he tossed the vial away. Bréa watched as it rolled along the dirt path and swung her arm towards it to find it just out of reach.
"Wait! Please!"Bréa called out as Brown Hood's pale face disappeared from view. "My Grandfather! Please!" There was no response from Brown Hood or Green Hood. She heard them talking back and forth to each other as even the sounds of the happy highway robbers faded away into the forest. Bréa cried after them, struggling to wriggle free from underneath poor Marcel. Despite her efforts, she was stuck. Surely. The ashes of her Grandfather sat in a vial just out of reach, the sun reflecting off the glass vial and shining in her eyes as one final act of mockery. Bréa screamed out in frustration, throwing her fists to the air, feeling defeated by all of the world at once.
*
The sun burned across the sky over the afternoon and fell away into the evening until the light hid itself behind the looming mountain range nearby. Bréa lay on the ground staring up at the first visible stars of the night, she had given up on trying to squirm her way out from underneath the old horse hours ago. The sound of approaching footsteps spurred her on to try again. She wedged her hands underneath the horse and summoned all of her strength to lift the unfortunate remains of Marcel. Yet again, she was not able to lift even an inch. The footsteps grew closer. Bréa strained and pushed, huffing and puffing, squirming and wriggling all to no effect. The footsteps drew closer. Bréa screamed out, unsure if she was crying for help from the horse or from the approaching figure. The footsteps stopped.
Standing over Marcel, staring into Bréa's eyes was a monster. Eyes glowing like a mountain lion, green skin like a swamps moss, thick hair like a bears fur, and vile horns protruding from his brow like a dragonfruit going rotten. Even in the low light of the evening she knew from Sir Henri's journal that this was Him. This was The Wild Man.
Bréa was paralysed with fear, staring back at the animalistic, heavy set eyes that bore down on her. She tried feebly to break herself free from underneath the remains of Marcel. The Wild Man leaned down to grab at her, tear her head off perhaps. Bréa screamed and covered her head with her arms. While she accepted that this was her death, she knew she did not have to watch it happen. Which is why Bréa was surprised when she felt the weight of the pony on her leg suddenly lift away and also felt the absence of a dangerous beast-like man tearing apart her flesh. Bréa opened her eyes, confused. Her mouth dropped in shock as she saw the fearsome beast lifting Marcel by the straps of his saddle and moving the poor old horse to her side, resting peacefully on the dirt path, causing a small cloud of dirt to puff into the air. Bréa was freed but she could not bring herself to move even an inch, watching in disbelief as the man that her grandfather had murdered took Marcel by his back leg and began walking back into the treeline of the forest. Bréa pushed herself to do something, anything, anything at all.
"You-you're dead." Bréa called after him, confused. The Wild Man stopped mid-stride and turned to face Bréa.
"No?" The Wild Man patted curiously along his own chest as if checking for wounds. "I don't believe I am."
"M-my Grandfather..." Was all Bréa could force herself to say. "My Grandfather killed you forty years ago."
"Then I think your Grandfather lied." The Wild Man turned away from Bréa and lifted the heavy pony into his arms.
Bréa scrambled to her feet, snatching up the vial of Sir Henri's ashes as she did. Anger engulfed her as she stared daggers into the back of the muscled beasts head.
"Tell him that yourself!" Bréa held the vial up, clenching her fist around the chain necklace. Doing her best to hold her stare as The Wild Man once again turned to face her. It was he who looked away first, quizzically looking close into Marcel's eyes and scanning his face.
"I know this pony... This horse was owned by Henri." The Wild Man spoke so quietly that Bréa was not sure if she was speaking to her or to himself.
"Sir Henri was my grandfather. He travelled here on a noble quest to rid the forest of your villainy!" Bréa said, raising her head as proudly as she could muster.
"Villainy?!" The Wild Man dropped the corpse of Marcel in the dirt once more and approached Bréa rapidly, his large, heavy-set feet stomping enormous prints into the ground. "Do you think me villainous?! Do you think I shall deign to eat you alive after saving your life too?!" The Wild Man stood so close to Bréa's face she could see the pieces of food stuck in his sharp, jagged teeth and tusks. She leaned back away from his foul breath but kept her feet firmly planted, refusing to give in to every part of her will that told her to run.
"Your lying Grandfather and his bloody King thought they were right too, it's no surprise he's dead and left his steed to farm... what is that I smell on you both? Beets?"
"My Grandfather is a knight and a trusted man of honour! I don't know if he killed a beast that looked like you or tried killing you and thought he succeeded, but he was not a liar!" Bréa had found her confidence once again.
"Oh, he tried to kill me. Tried to rid the forest of the magic that flows in here. Tried to impress his feeble King by bringing them the head of this place's caretaker. But like all who enter the forest, he clearly failed! He just had the gall to run off and tell everyone that he in fact succeeded! I'll concede that you believe your grandfather told the truth, but don't you dare tell me that he was a man of honour!"
Bréa gasped sharply. The Wild Man's words hit her like a smiths hammer. Is it possible he was right about her grandfather? Sir Henri De Gaur, the noble hero of Millerton, the Dwarfish Dragon of the Kings court, a liar? A fraud? It was not possible, he was a decorated paragon of good, following the will of the King to help all his subjects. A knight on a nobles salary that returned to a paupers life of farming after finishing his grand adventure for the King, why had that made sense until now? Why was her Grandfather's estate the sum of an old sword on a mantle and a few beetroots? A wave of what seemed like every emotion under the dusk sun hit her all at once. Bréa was no longer just angry, she was also confused, frightened, downhearted, defeated, and betrayed. The world suddenly became too much and simply standing became too heavy a burden to bear. Bréa dropped to her knees, stubbornly sniffling and wiping away the few tears that breached their way through the eyes she had clamped shut. Bréa felt the presence in front of her shift and she forced her eyes open only to see a ghastly pair of dark green eyes staring back at her. The Wild Man crouched in front of her, so close she could feel his breath. He was cocking his head to the side, staring at her with a furrowed brow, studying her. She flinched as his gargantuan hand snapped out towards her and her breathing slowed when she once again found herself alive. The Wild Man's large green hand was lightly clasped around the vial of Sir Henri's ashes still dangling from the chain wrapped around her fist. With a soft clink, the Wild Man yanked the vial off the chain.
"Honourable man that he was or not, you did a noble thing bringing his spirit back here," The Wild Mans demeanour was calm now, almost sympathetic. "Their remains will make good soil."
The green skinned monster rose to his feet slowly and began walking back to the line of trees, back to Marcel's body. Bréa simply stared at a small patch of grass that had seemingly appeared where The Wild Mans foot once was. Settling in place as if it was both blowing in the wind and squashed to the ground at the same time moments earlier. Tears ran slowly down her face now, separating the dirt on her cheeks with small rivers. She called out to The Wild Man with no clue if he was still there.
"What? No revenge? Don't want to kill me for my Grandfathers apparent lies?"
The Wild Man lifted Marcel over his shoulder and pointed his sharp nailed finger at the small horse and the ash vial.
"This is revenge enough. Perhaps even too much." His tone almost sorrowful as he walked into the forest out of view, leaving Bréa on the path once more.
The final wisps of sunlight fell away behind the horizon and Bréa simply sat there, in the dark.
Alone.