The Hollow Crown Page #4

• Fantasy
• Fiction
• Action and Adventure

								


And then he saw them—the bodies.

They lay scattered across the clearing, their limbs twisted and broken, their faces contorted in expressions of horror and agony. Their robes, once black as night, were stained with blood and dirt, the symbols of Marowen embroidered on their chests, now barely visible beneath the grime. Each one of them bore the mark—the twisted, thorny circle carved into their foreheads, the same symbol that had been etched into the wall of his room.

Alaric knelt beside one of the bodies, his hand hovering over the symbol carved into its forehead. The whispering returned, louder this time, filling his mind with dark thoughts, urging him to take the crown from its hiding place and place it on his head. But he resisted, pulling his hand back as if burned.

The truth settled on him like a shroud—these visions were far from mere hallucinations. The sacrificial ritual had been performed in the name of Marowen. If Alaric did not intervene, this would merely be the first of many encounters with her dark, malevolent presence.

The sight of the dead cultists weighed heavily on Alaric’s heart. Despite the dark purpose that had brought them to this grim end, he felt pity for their twisted bodies, left to rot in the cold, indifferent forest. It was not in his nature to leave the dead unburied, no matter what deeds they may have committed in life.

With a deep sigh, Alaric began the solemn task of digging shallow graves in the soft earth. The storm clouds overhead rumbled ominously, the air thick with the scent of rain yet to fall. He worked in silence, his breath fogging in the chilly air, each movement methodical, driven by a sense of duty rather than urgency.

As he moved one of the bodies, Alaric’s hand brushed against something hard and angular beneath the folds of a tattered robe. He paused, frowning, and carefully pulled the object free. It was a scroll, ancient and worn, the parchment brittle to the touch. Unfurling it slowly, Alaric found the surface covered in a script he did not recognise—an intricate web of symbols and characters that seemed to pulse with a faint, eerie light in the gathering gloom.

He knelt by the cultist, trying to make sense of the markings, but the language was unlike anything he had ever encountered. It reminded him of the dimly lit chamber from his vision, where the shadowed figure whispered of dark pacts and betrayal. The symbols etched into the scroll seemed to echo those same whispers, filling his mind with fragments of thoughts he couldn’t quite grasp.

Alaric stared at the scroll, frustration growing as he realised he had no means to decipher it. Whatever secrets it held were locked away, tantalisingly close yet impossibly distant. He felt a strange pull toward the scroll as if it contained the answers to questions he hadn’t yet asked.

The wind picked up, tugging at his cloak and rattling the branches above. A distant rumble of thunder echoed through the forest, the first drops of rain beginning to spatter against the earth. Alaric looked up, the storm that had been threatening all night finally breaking, the sky darkening to an almost unnatural black.

Reluctantly, he rolled up the scroll and tucked it securely into his cloak. There would be no time to decipher it here, not with the storm descending upon him. He finished covering the bodies as best he could, marking each grave with a simple stone before turning back toward the path that led to the tavern.

The wind howled through the trees as Alaric made his way back, the rain beginning to pour in earnest, soaking him to the bone. Each step felt heavier than the last, the cold seeping into his limbs, but the pull of the scroll and the unanswered questions drove him forward. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the scroll was connected to the crown, to Marowen, and to the visions that had haunted him since he first touched the iron crown.

By the time he reached the edge of the forest, the storm was in full fury, lightning flashing across the sky and thunder booming like the footsteps of some great, unseen beast. The sight of the tavern, its windows glowing warmly through the sheets of rain, was a welcome relief. Alaric quickened his pace, eager to escape the wrath of the storm and seek shelter within its walls. 

The door to The Broken Wing Tavern swung open, and he stumbled inside. He was soaked to the bone and shivering from the cold. The warmth of the fire immediately induced a wave of comfort, with the chatter from the other patrons settling Alaric’s mind after the eerie silence within the forest.

He went to the bar, greeting the innkeeper with a silent nod. The innkeeper raised an eyebrow when he saw Alaric’s sodden state, but refrained from speaking. The scroll was heavy in his cloak, reminding Alaric of the mysteries he uncovered and the fog that still engulfed the answers.

“Rough night, sir?” the innkeeper asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. His voice was ragged yet kind. “Looks like ye’ve been caught in the worst of it.”
Alaric nodded, took off his cloak, and shook off the excess water. “You could say that. The storm took me by surprise.”

The innkeeper gave an acknowledging grunt before pouring a drink for himself and Alaric. Sliding the drink across the table, he began to speak once more. “Not many folks brave these woods, ‘specially after dark. The old tales keep them away. Word is the place is cursed.”

Alaric took his drink, the warmth further easing the chill within his bones. “I came across… something,” he said slowly, trying not to say too much. “You ever hear about strange folk in these parts? Having symbols marked on them.”

The innkeeper’s expression changed. What was once lighthearted became dark and serious. “Cultists ey? Sure, I know of ‘em. Been creepin’ round here a few times. Worship some forgotten gods, call ‘em the Ancients or some such.”

“Do you understand their language?” Alaric asked, pulling the scroll out and placing it on the counter. The innkeeper eyed the scroll warily as if it could burst into flames. “Language of the Ancients that is. Folk don’t speak it any more, not here anyway.” The innkeeper became unsettled, his movements awkward. Alaric could tell there was more to be said.

“So, will you tell me who can read this, or must I find out on my own?” Alaric snapped at the innkeeper, taking him by surprise. Alaric himself was confused about where the anger came from.

“Some folk in the city up north might know; they study it there.” The innkeeper seemed disgusted by how easily he gave up the information. Alaric, however, didn’t stay long enough to notice, heading back to his rented room.

As he ascended the creaking tavern stairs, a weight settled on him, heavier than the sodden cloak clinging to his back. A lightheaded feeling appeared, intensifying with each step, the walls seeming to close in on him. Every creak of the wood under his boots reminded him of the fine line between sanity and madness, between the visions he experienced and the reality he was facing.

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