The Haunt Slayer

Part 3: The Heart of the Matter

Harken sat beside the Elder's fireplace as the old man paced about the room. A fresh fire was roaring with life around a small cauldron with a spigot protruding at the end. On the table was the Krole's severed horn.

"Of all the bastards and jackanapes that have come into this village, you are by far either the most clever idiot I have ever met, or a damned good liar." The Elder had not liked the explanation Harken had given him about the Krole nor the Slayer's ability to control dreams, and with good reason too. An Axiomancer such as Elder Benson had probably spent a lifetime understanding the powers that he could control. Powers that could challenge the very laws of nature. For Harken he had no such power. His ability to control dreams was just a hobby taught to him by one of the Reavers during the war now re-purposed to fit his need in hunting spirits.

"Believe whatever you want, the fact is the Krole ran back to the forest to nurse its wounds. I likely have a day at most before that thing comes back with a vengeance." Harken said.

"You call this, whatever it is, a Krole. You've faced something like this before?"

"Nine years ago, before I knew what the hell I was doing. The last one was a lot smaller than the one were dealing with, but it still nearly gored me to death regardless." Harken pulled up his tunic to reveal the knotted scar that ran from his lower abdomen to his back. How he had not died from his wounds he still couldn't understand.

Harken lifted the lid of the cauldron and peered inside. The contents were bubbling nicely. He opened a satchel he had taken from his pack and pulled out a large ball of wax. Quickly, he chucked it into the cauldron and snapped the lid shit.

The Elder stopped pacing to watch. "What are you doing?" He asked.

"Cooking something up for my next encounter with the Krole. It's an old Willibian recipe I picked up called Allysian Fire. Burns when exposed to air and it won't stop even when doused in water." Harken pulled out a glass jar with a cork stopper and placed it beside him.

"Are you from Williby?"

"No, I'm Therean just like those damned Judges you hate so much." Harken chuckled. "But I spent some time there during the Iron War."

The Elder gave him a quizzical look and took a seat in a nearby chair. "You were a soldier?"

"I served with the Therean Reavers under Captain Howel. We were behind enemy lines most of the war, destroying anything of worth in Williby until they tried to siege Therea's capital. Stars, I remember when we heard the news. We never ran that fast before in our lives." Harken produced a handful of whittled sticks and some twine from his satchel.

"I remember the last stand," Elder Benson nodded. "I stood on Therea's ramparts trying to keep Williby's soldiers from crossing the breach into the city."

"The Reavers were there too," Harken said. "And so were the Chevaliers, the Knights of Callad, The Chosen. Practically everyone was there." Harken remembered them all so well. They were rowdy, foolish and arrogant people at times, but they were brave men through and through. They died fighting like real soldiers, unlike him.

"We all knew what would happen if we failed." He continued. "We proved a kingdom was built upon the sacrifices of good men."

"And you and I became heroes. National icons who represented the best that Therea had to offer." The Elder mused.

"Practically paragons."

"Then why did you do it?" Elder Benson erupted from his chair, his voice now piercing with accusation. "Why did you kill King Jerond's son? Why did you kill the Prince? You could have lived comfortably off of your soldier's pension for the rest of your days. Why did you just..." The Elder paused, at a loss for words. "Why did you just squander it?"