The Hollow Crown Page #6

• Fantasy
• Fiction
• Action and Adventure

								


Alaric moved to the bar, his hand resting on the counter. He said nothing at first, scanning the room with precision. Some patrons glanced at him, their whispers soft yet unmistakable. He caught fragments of their conversations: “The forest…”; “Something dark…”; “he’s cursed, no doubt.” Alaric ignored the whispers and turned to the innkeeper, speaking in a low voice. “Strange things are happening here at night.”

The innkeeper's face tightened. His eyes flicked up to meet Alaric’s, before dropping back down to his work. He placed the mug down, leaned in closer, and lowered his voice to a near-whisper. “Folk are talkin’. Say you were out there, stirring up old trouble. The kind that ought to stay buried.”

Alaric exhaled through his nose. “There’s more than old troubles buried in those woods.” His voice was barely more than a breath. The innkeeper straightened, his fingers tapping on the wood of the bar. “You found something, didn’t you?”
“I did.” Alaric’s tone was flat, allowing no room for further questions.

The innkeeper fixed him with a cold stare. “Don’t need to know what. I’ll give you this much though—things that come from those woods don’t leave without takin’ a piece of you.” He wiped his hands on his apron, though they were not dirty. “You’re leavin’ today, I hope?”

Nodding, Alaric spoke once more. “I am, but first I need information.”
“You won’t get anymore ‘round here,” the innkeeper muttered, almost cutting Alaric off. “The sooner you leave, the better.” The innkeeper glanced at the door as he spoke.

Alaric exhaled sharply, knowing full well that he couldn’t bleed more secrets out of the tavern. He had everything he needed—his next destination was clear. The city up north was a place where ancient texts engrossed scholars, and whispers of old still lingered among ruins.

The innkeeper's final words echoed through Alaric’s mind as he turned to leave. ‘Whatever you’re after… it won’t end well.’ It was as if the innkeeper could see straight through him, through the burden that weighed him down—the crown, the visions, and the scroll tucked away under his armour.

Outside, the chill of the morning air greeted him as he made his way to the stables. He kept his movements steady, each step measured, as the presence of the crown bore down on his mind like an unshakable shadow. The scroll too felt heavier, its secrets locked away, just out of reach.

Alaric withdrew the scroll, pausing as it rested in his hand, its presence echoing through his mind. After a moment of hesitation, he carefully tucked it into the saddlebag alongside the iron crown. Their combined presence lurking like a shadow at his side. He unhooked the reins and led his horse to the tavern’s entrance. Hoisting himself up, he rested into the saddle, giving a gentle nudge to his steed. As they trotted away, the rhythmic clop of hooves echoed out in the stillness of the early morning, fading off behind the quiet mist shrouding the path ahead.

The path stretched out in front of him, winding along the forest edge. His horse's steady march was the only sound, save for the occasional rustle of leaves as nature began to wake.

As Alaric rode down the dirt path, thoughts of what he had uncovered at the tavern swirled in his mind, refusing to be silenced. He tried to suppress them, to ignore them, but they clawed their way to the forefront of his mind, relentless in their pursuit of his attention. The twisted symbols, the cultists' lifeless bodies—they haunted him, demanding to be remembered in every gruesome detail.

No matter how far he rode, the memories of the ritualistic site weighed heavy on him. The path in front seemed never-ending as if the landscape conspired to trap him within his thoughts.

As Alaric pressed on, the road continued to twist and turn, winding ever deeper through the untamed lands. Ahead, partially covered by the thick undergrowth and towering trees, he spotted a decaying structure. Unable to make out what it was, he continued down the path, his eyes trained on the building.

Making his way ever closer, Alaric began to make out the predominant features. A cylindrical stone base rose towards the sky. Atop the base sat a wooden watchtower, its frame supported by curved timber arches, stretching down gracefully, connecting back to the stone foundation, as if they were the ribs of an ancient beast.

Alaric urged his horse forward as he approached the decaying structure. Although aged and neglected, the watchtower still loomed above the surrounding undergrowth. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out more details. The tower had been abandoned for years, yet something about it caused his hair to stand on end. He felt an otherworldly pulse, similar to the crown's, luring him in.

Although he knew nothing good could come of this, Alaric dismounted. Leading his horse to a nearby tree, he hitched it to a low-hanging branch, patting its flank, the warmth soothing his nerves. As he moved around the horse, he noticed the leather scabbard strung to the back of his saddle, inside was his sword, the hilt was elegantly wrapped and embroidered with the family sigil.

Unsheathing the sword, the morning sun reflected off the blade, highlighting its beauty. He took a deep breath. Exhaling, he swung it through the air with a masterful technique, watching as its blade sliced through the morning fog. Swiftly switching his grip, Alaric sheathed the sword on his side with precision, before moving towards the tower.

With the familiar weight of his sword at his side, he felt a small surge of strength. It had aided him through countless battles, always by his side like a faithful companion. Its cold steel whispered promises of protection and power, yet it carried the souls of all whom it had damned. The sword was more than just a weapon: it was an extension of his own body, an ally formed through blood and conflict. It had saved his life as often as it had taken the life of others.

As he approached the base of the watchtower, Alaric felt an ice-cold breeze seeping out from the cracks in the old stone. Following the breeze to its source, he found a collapsed section of the tower, just large enough for him to slip through.

Picking his way through the collapsed section of the tower, his boots met the cold stone floor, the debris from the crumbling structure scattering around him. He crouched low, brushing dirt from his hands, but before he could rise, a loud crack reverberated through the air. His heart leapt in his chest as a massive piece of stone broke free from the ceiling, crashing down next to him with a deafening thud. Dust and fragments exploded into the air, forcing him to shield his face.

Instinctively, Alaric drew his sword, his breath ragged as his eyes darted upward. His pulse hammered in his ears. Above him, through the haze of dust and shadow, an unnatural light flickered, casting eerie shapes against the crumbling walls. It pulsed, faint but steady, from the floor above.

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