Chapter Twenty

  The Dark Cleansing

  “I thought a Winter Hunter’s only luck was in battle,” the Silverwing Bar’s patron, Tycolm’s local chicken farmer, said as he gathered the iron dice back in the stone cup for another roll as Baltair scooped up his coin and slid it to his side of the table.

  “I’ve some bad luck the Goddesses are letting me make up,” Baltair said, thinking of that horrible night in Mythis. Every man of his was likely killed if they couldn’t scramble off like a Knifewolf sulking away with its tail between its legs. Poor young Cailean probably went first. That boy could barely hold his sword against a Wood Scraper and those damn Shadowfaes probably made quick work of him. So young, so inexperienced, and while smart as a whip Cailean lacked the inborn strength and talent that used to be required of a Winter Hunter. Had he not died on the night of the turning, he likely would have died in the first monster raid where he had to face a beast one to one. May the Red Lady bless that poor young bastard.

  “Come on boys, it’s getting late, but I got another roll or two in me, making a trip to Kal-Dovean at sunrise tomorrow, King of Night put the call out to the Winter Hunters, and wants us gathered for some grand siege to the Northern Heights,” he leaned over the table. “You didn’t hear it from me, but they say that you’re going to need us this winter more than you’ve ever needed us, Northern Heights is where they say monsters stay themselves and sleep in the Spring before the cold weather wakes them up to start breeding so they can come down and fight us in this cold,” he said. “Now gather the dice, and pray for luck,” he sat back, pushing forward a manageable bet that the other patrons matched. They had to at least win some of their coin back before the night was over if they hoped to sleep in the same warm beds as their wives tonight.

  As the dice were shaken, the bar doors opened, and in walked a young man clad in black leather, hood over his head, a log bow around his back along with a quiver of steel-tipped arrows, a ring of throwing knives on his thigh, and two weapons on his belt, both steel, a sword, and dagger. He approached the bar and requested a drink. He didn’t open a tab, just paid for it with a royal-marked coin of gold. Royal currency wasn’t seen much in Tycolm, but it wasn’t out of place either, with all the traveling people were taking between the Winter capital of Kal-Dovean and the central city of Mythis for the turning festival, a royal coin wasn’t too out of place in the weeks before and after the ceremony.

  The young man took a swing of his drink and put his glass down. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and gathered his focus before getting up and approaching the Winter Hunter’s table.

  Just as Baltair turned to see him, the man in the black leather armor wrapped a strong around him, pinning his arms and back to his chair as his other hand reached for his steel dagger. Just before the barkeep could tell him, “We don’t pull metal here!” he whipped it out and flipped it over in his hand to bring down and stab the chest of the Winter Hunter nine times, and a tenth stroke finishing off the warrior with a slit across his throat.

  Baltair writhing in pain collapsed out of his chair, grabbing at his throat as blood poured from his neck and chest onto the wooden floor. The young man in black let him fall and turned to leave the bar, leaving behind patrons who were shocked, but in no position to try and challenge the criminal they just saw kill a man that it was said only monsters could kill. The young Dark Stalker kicked the door to the bar out as he sheathed his dagger and swung the bow off his shoulder in one fluid motion grabbing an arrow from the quiver on his back and losing it, sending it flying across the street, right over the shoulder and through the hair of a young woman that another Winter Hunter had been flirting with. It embedded itself in the Winter Hunter’s eye causing him to fall forward on the girl and knock her to the ground as she screamed.

  The Dark Stalker knocked another arrow and began to make his way through the town. Another Winter Hunter saw this madness and drew a bronze blade and held his shield up as the young Dark Stalker drew and loosed an arrow in his direction. The Winter Hunter blocked the arrow, embedding it in his shield.

  “Have at me, villain!” He said, sizing up his opponent as he made a careful approach to the young Dark Stalker.

  “You’re time is done, the world doesn’t need heroes anymore, the new order doesn’t need you,” he said as he drew his steel blade. The Dark Stalker took the offensive stance he was trained to take when facing one of the old heroes. He took a controlled step forward never showing any tic or tell that the Winter Hunter would be able to pick up on and try to predict the moves of his opponent.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  The Dark Stalker lunged, he looked as if he was trying to attack from the left but easily spun around to dodge the Winter Hunter’s counter, looking to his opponent's exposed side and flipping his sword down to ram into his back. “The time of heroes is over,” he twisted his sword as he turned around to wrap his arm around the Winter Hunter’s neck. The Winter Hunter felt his whole body tense up at the pain, then found he could no longer feel his legs as the steel sword severed his spinal cord, “There is no light left to fight for,” the Dark Stalker reached up and grabbed the Winter Hunter’s head and snapped his neck, causing his body to fall completely limp and lifeless, falling to the ground and slowly sliding off the bloody steel sword.

  After kicking the Winter Hunter off the tip of his blade, the Dark Stalker made his way down the main road, to the Guild Hall. He grabbed his bow again, drawing another arrow as he kicked the door open and, almost as if he knew from premonition, let it fly as soon as he entered. The steel tip of his ammunition embedded right in the head of another Hunter. The old Guild master jumped up and in a flash, the Dark Stalker reached for a throwing knife and flung it with total precision into the master’s throat.

  The Dark Stalker’s movements were not his own. He was moving as if guided by some otherworldly force, his body knowing every step it had to take before his mind could even process it. Prince Edmund told him about this power, this state of mind, it was the will of the Voice of Winter. He drew another arrow, knowing by the Voice where his next enemy would be, he turned to a stairway and without even looking loosed another arrow up the staircase and ending an unsuspecting Winter Hunter who felt like going to town for a hardy drink.

  He put his bow back over his back and drew his bloody steel dagger as he slowly ascended the stairs. He passed an empty meditation room and came to the bedrooms. Inside was a Winter Hunter laid out in bed, finding peace in sleep. A quick slice along the throat ended him before he could even open his eyes. He just fell on the floor and bleed out coughing and gagging on his own blood. The Dark Stalker drew another dagger and flung it with almost inhuman strength and precision over his shoulder, catching an interloping Winter Hunter in his eye and falling him before he even knew what it was that he had seen.

  “I am a Dark Stalker,” he said to himself, as he drew and knocked his bow again, “Winter has come,” He stalked the darkness of the Guild’s hallways as the sun set on Tycolm. “The time for heroes is over,” He put his body against the hall and loosed his arrow, having faith that it would connect with a passing Winter Hunter who had no idea his sacred hall was under attack. The arrow hit his side and buried itself so deep it pierced his ribcage and embedded itself in his heart, “Heroes fight for the light that will never come,” he threw his bow over his back and pulled out his dagger as he put his back to the edge of a wall, another Winter Hunter passed the hallway and just before he saw the body of his fallen brother, he caught a blade of steel in his throat, “There is no light left to fight for,” the Dark Stalker said to himself as he ripped his wrist across the Winter Hunter’s neck and guided him to the ground.

  He made his way to the last bedroom, the door to it just barely open. The senior Winter Hunter studying some such text as the Dark Stalker drew his bow. The Senior Hunter felt those old hairs on the back of his neck stand, he grabbed a bronze dagger from his desk and turned to the intruder, face to face with a knocked bow and a steel-tipped arrow that was in a deadly range.

  “Who are you?” He said trying to size up how he could possibly dodge a trained shot at this close.

  “I am the Steel in the night against the endless Winter,” the Hunter tried to dodge to the side and bum-rush the Dark stalker. He was fast, had the Dark Stalker’s hand not been guided by the Voice of Winter itself. he may have been able to dodge. He took an arrow right under his arm, in his ribs. He doubled over but forced himself up, extending his arm trying to get a slash in on the attacker. The Dark Stalker dropped his bow and caught the old Hunter’s wrist, twisting it around and putting him in a hold.

  “When man is at his greatest need,” he reached his other hand up and put it to the Old Hunter’s throat, choking the life from him as his blood began to leak down his side, “They must turn to those who stalk the dark,”

  The Old Hunter bucked and tried to get away, but with all the blood he was losing, he felt himself getting weak. Each gasp and attempt to pull himself away grew weaker as the Dark Stalker kept him from taking a breath. It wasn’t long before the Old hunter sulked, and fell to his knees, and then the ground.

  The Dark Stalker wrestled his arrow from the dead body and slipped it back into his quiver. He took a deep breath, he had done his master’s work, had done the Voice of Winter’s work. Just as the oath said, the time for heroes was over. He collected his bow and made his way from the now empty and decimated guildhall. Collecting his arrows on his way out.

  No Winter Hunter was left in Tycolm after this night. The Young Dark Stalker had seen to that. Right now, all over the land, the Dark Stalkers just as trained, just as guided and blessed as himself, were ridding the world of the Winter Hunters. Ridding the world of that last false hope people would have of the spring ever returning. This was a cruel rite of passage the people of the land would have to endure, cruel but necessary. The time for heroes was over, the Spring would not be returning, and people would need the old ways of prayer and hope cut out of their minds like a tumorous growth. This winter would never end, the darkness was here to stay, and just as his oath said, in their time of need man must turn to those who stalk the dark.