The Grave Digger

The Grave Digger, Part 3

Old Grey and Maela walked down the long hallway towards Ardin's door, carrying fresh bandages and hot soup. They opened the door quietly, intending to wake the poor lad gently. They were stopped in their tracks by a gruesome sight. His sheets where covered in blood, his blood. It had run off of the bed and pooled on the floor. Bloody hand prints were scattered across the room, and it appeared as if someone had rolled a bleeding corpse across the middle of the floor, several times. Old Grey stood by the door, surveying the carnage with a look of horror on his face. He had been the one that shouted. Old Maela stood behind him, equally as concerned, at least until she saw Ardin move in the pale light shining through a slit in the wall. She pushed past the shaken Grey and rushed to Ardin's side. Quickly, she checked the wound on his neck, her fingers pulling aside the remains of a sodden bandage. She froze, her fingers resting lightly at the spot where the nasty cut had been seeping blood the night before.

"By the gods." She murmured, as she beckoned towards Grey with her free hand, gesturing for the lantern. Wordlessly he obeyed, still stunned by the gore splattered scene. She examined Ardin's neck carefully, looking for any signs of additional trauma, but found nothing. Gone was the oozing blood and neat row of stitches. In its place was a long scab, running the length of the wound. Miraculously, it appeared that his healing had rapidly progressed over night. She began chanting a prayer of thanks in the ancient tongue as she marveled at the sight before her. Ardin reached up and ran his fingers across the wound, an unreadable expression on his face. Grey was ecstatic as Maela informed him of the changes in the young hunter's condition, but even as she delivered the good news a shadow passed over her face. She looked at him with an expression of curiosity and concern. Something was amiss. She could sense it, something about him had changed since she last tended to him. His gray eyes met hers, and she stared into the granite depths. Tendrils of terror gripped their icy fingers around her heart at a single glance. She swiftly looked away, shaken by what she had felt. Bold Maela, fearless and proud, couldn't even meet the young hunter's gaze. He sat on the blood stained mattress, unnerving her with his unblinking stare. Silently she gathered some of her more important instruments, mumbled a hasty farewell and hastily exited. Old Grey too, noticed something was amiss. The young man sitting in front of him looked like Ardin. He possessed the same dark hair, falling over his face in a tangled mat, the same somber expression, the same eyes...

No, that wasn't right, it was the eyes that where different. He could feel the young hunters gaze like waves of heat falling across his skin. He could feel those gray eyes piecing the veil of his mind, probing his deepest thoughts and desires. Old Grey looked down towards the floor, confused and frightened. Fear swelled in his chest unprompted, like floodwaters bursting a damn. He hurriedly hobbled out the door and down the long corridor as fast as his aged frame could carry him. He could feel those terrible gray eyes watch him leave. He didn't even stop to think until he was passing by the armory. He sat heavily down on the bench outside of the old metal door to catch his breath. He peered fearfully down the corridor, straining for a glimpse of the the young hunter that was surely following him, but the passage stayed empty, dark and ominous.

Ardin stood in a snow covered field just outside of the village of Kent. He looked out across the open expanse to see a grove of evergreens, their green foliage vibrant against the snow, and beyond them, the tall outcropping of rocks that marked the entrance to the mountain pass. The pass was the only easy trail down the mountain, as it was maintained by royal decree. Almost all foot traffic came through the pass, mostly merchants, the occasional tax collector, and if they townsfolk where fortunate, the rare minstrel. The sun sat high in the sky, its warm rays reflecting off the snow, glinting with the promise of spring. Spring was coming early this year, made evident by the rapid thawing of the mountain pass, which was normally blocked for at least another couple of weeks. Ardin stood over a hole in the ground, longer and deeper than it was wide. It was a grave. His grave. It stood beside the graves of the other victim's of last winters attack. It was hard work, digging into the frozen ground in the middle of a howling blizzard. They had laid the others to rest months earlier, but not him. He stared down into the hastily dug hole, now filled with snow. The rest of the village had left about five hours before, at sunrise. Fearing the retribution of the Lord Mordske, they had fled as soon as the path had cleared enough to make travel possible. He alone had stayed. He stared up at the sky, trying to gauge the time. He had many hours before night fell, but he still had plenty of work to do. He picked up the old gardening spade that had been lying next to his grave, and headed towards the middle of the field. Finding a spot that was satisfactory, he started to dig, the moist earth giving way easily as he worked. He worked tirelessly for hours, not laying aside his spade, not resting for a moment. He guessed that the raiders would come any day now, even tomorrow, so he had to be ready. The thought of those fifty odd men, marching through the pass, arms bristling, made him smile. He supposed, at one time, the faces of those men, leering at him as he lay bleeding, would have enraged him. He supposed the thought of Mordske, with a cruel smile on his fair face, cutting down young Falon as he ran, would have whetted his appetite for revenge. That was the old Ardin, Ardin the weak. That Ardin had perished on the chapel floor, gasping for breath as his precious lifeblood poured across the thirsty stone. He was Ardin the hunter, and he was out for blood. Not for some selfish desire for personal vengeance, driven by shame and grief. Still not some quest for justice, or some foolishness about defending his spited honor. He only desired bloodshed, lusting after the thought of that precious liquid spilled across the ground. Blood for blood. His prey had spilled much in their lifetime, gorging themselves on the corpses of their countless victims. Soon, very soon, they would pay for their gluttony. He then would have his share and be satisfied, drunk on the blood of his quarry, until the hunt began again. Endless, eternal, the cycle would continue. A low raspy chuckle escaped his lips. Blood for blood. The shadows lengthened as the day wore on. His work was nearing completion Soon the moon would rise, casting its silver rays across the mountain peaks like the spear of the great Galagrym. Soon, the hunt would begin.