Moonlight Banishes Shadows

by J. T. Wright

  Dreq had never doubted that he would. Of course, Trent was going to win. The question was, why had he left Dreq behind? Leaving the human and elf pair behind was fine, but Dreq didn’t get in the way like they did. Trent should know how useful he could be! Dreq had even picked up the elusive Dexterity Attribute, a rare trait in Beasts, while battling the Spiders on this floor!

  There had not been a chance to tell Trent because he had been told not to speak in front of the bumbling two-legged Adventurers. Had Trent known, would he have still left Dreq behind? He had a complete Status now; he could keep up!

  Dreq stood stiffly and went to press his nose against the stone door. Trent’s scent was long gone, but the cool earth smell was still better than listening to Kerry and Felicia bicker. Dreq whined softly. He was sure Trent was in trouble, while he was stuck back here.

  Dreq clawed at the door futilely. It refused to open. He laid down; his Status still open. All he could do was watch his XP and send silent good wishes along the party link. Trent had to face whatever came alone. Dreq would bear witness in a limited fashion. It was all he could do.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Minor Permanent Trial has changed.

  Recommended Levels 1 through 25.

  Keeper will be replaced or confirmed in 6 hours.

  A new floor will be open to all challengers after Keeper is determined.

  Exits have been sealed until changes are complete.

  5:59

  5:58

  5:57

  The message and accompanying timer had forced their way into Trent’s vision and broken him out of his fugue. He stood at the bottom of the winding staircase with no clear memory of climbing down. Dark water dripped from the ceiling, and a dirty mist swirled around his feet. Droplets and mist clung to him where they touched, prying at his armor and surrounding him with a cold helpless feeling.

  Six hours until the exits opened. What did that mean for Trent? He had received no Quest to explore the fifth floor. The staircase behind him was not sealed. There was no reason not to go back to the empty Guardian chamber above and wait out whatever was happening.

  The darkness was thicker on this floor. Like diving into the water, his vision was affected. He could see, but the shadows seemed tangible, closing around him. The dripping water made puddles that splashed as he stepped in them. That was the only evidence he had that he was moving. All else was surreal, dreamlike.

  Trent reached under his mask and rubbed his eyes to make sure they were open. He changed his cowl to the cloak and pulled it around him, hoping the warm material would keep out the pervasive chill in the air. When it didn’t, he returned to his cowl and brought out his sword. To some degree, the solid heft of the ugly weapon warded against the unnatural feel that was all around.

  Not enough. Steel couldn’t cut shadows. There were no weapons to banish the cloyingly sweet scent that hung in the air. The sword was a comfort, though. It was provided by the Trial; therefore, it should be primed for the Trial’s challenges.

  A drop of water ran down the wall. Trent watched it and saw the third floor Guardian in his mind. Like the droplet, unable to do more than slide down the wall, his sword hadn’t scratched that Beetle. He was only fooling himself by pretending he was equipped for what lay ahead.

  His feet disturbed the mist and slapped in the puddles as he continued forward. Trent could have walked silently, but the splashing of his footsteps was a defiant attempt to strike back against the weighted silence. He hoped it brought something he could fight.

  The thought occurred to him, and he immediately regretted it when a figure appeared. Shaped like a man yet like no human Trent had ever met. Thinner and paler than any Undead he had encountered, more insubstantial than any Beast he had seen, the creature swayed from side to side, it’s long arms swinging as it drifted forward.

  Long, scraggly hair hung from its scalp but did not conceal its face. It was a face with a round mouth, full of teeth that opened and closed like the creature was chewing at the air itself. There were no eyes or nose set in the unbroken white skin that shone with an unhealthy glamour. Where the creature wasn’t covered by scraps of black cloth, visible blue veins pulsed as if something was crawling through them.

  Trent drew Sorrow, and the knife quivered in his hand as the creature stalked towards him. It was the very need to fling himself at the Beast that held Trent back. It could have been a Skill of the creature, one that made his blood boil—a war between the instinct to flee and the need to attack raged in him.

  Trent blinked. A hand settled on his shoulder and tightened in an almost consoling way as if the creature understood his struggle and was offering solace. Six soft fingers, white worms connected to a slug of a palm, wrapped around his arm and then, with unbelievable strength, crushed it.

  Trent screamed. The creature was too close for his sword. He lashed out with Sorrow. The creature was gone. Once again, he had not seen it move. There had been a time when this lapse in his awareness had been common. Cullen, Corporal Francis, and Orion were all capable of speed that he couldn’t comprehend.

  But that had been in the past. Increases in his Agility and Dexterity, along with Perception, had eliminated that weakness. Of course, there were still men and Beasts faster than him. That could only be fixed by time. However, Trent had fought Beasts stronger than he was and had not felt this overpowered. A slap to his right shoulder that sent him stumbling forward, and numbed his arm, said Trent had become overconfident. There were things his senses couldn’t detect.

  Sorrow clattered to the ground as his hand spasmed. His right shoulder was nearly useless from the creature’s first attack, and as Trent whirled, his sword tried to escape his grasp. He managed to hold on, but the blade refused to rise higher than his waist, and that was due to his wrist. The rest of his arm was useless.

  With two attacks, the creature had crippled his arms and now faced him, its round mouth opened in a mocking approximation of a smile. It was in no rush to finish him off. It threw back its head, a gargling noise issuing from the back of its throat. Laughter. Cruel laughter, which held too much intelligence, too much true emotion for a normal Trial Beast.

  Trent was unable to reach across his body to draw Strife. Under the sightless gaze of the creature, he pulled open the drawstrings of his belt pouches. He had filled the pouches with items in preparation for his fight with the Guardian. Darts fell from fingers clumsy with pain. Vials of Health potions clicked against the ground. More vials vanished into the mist, six of them. They cracked on the stone, the sound drawing more laughter from the creature.

  Trent’s boots kicked at the glass, stomping on them, crushing them underfoot as his fingers closed around one last vial and managed to hold on. He tried to lift his arm, to hurl the glass tube at the creature that came for him like a striking snake. His arm wouldn’t rise. His fingers wouldn’t unclench.

  That soft, gentle hand, that bundle of unclean worms closed around his throat. Trent was lifted into the air by a strength the creature’s atrophied limb had no right possessing. Unable to pry at the fingers, Trent slapped his left hand against his captor’s shoulder, grimacing when the vial in his hand refused to break. Holding the glass with his thumb, Trent wrapped his fingers in the creature’s rags. He tried to spit out the trigger to a Charm, but the Spell wouldn’t come. His breath came in broken gasps, and the Beast squeezed rhythmically, interrupting the Charm’s short chant.

  “Die for me, Shadow Hunter,” the creature demanded in a coarse, cackling voice.

  “I'd…rather…“ Trent wheezed, fighting to speak, using the words to focus his mind as darkness crowded the edge of his vision, “…rather…Burn!”

  Flames shrouded his body as Trent activated Heart of the Inferno. He tightened his fist, and the vial of blue bile he had palmed burst against the creature’s shoulders. Where the Beast held him, white fingers turned black. Where the bile soaked its shoulder, the alchemical reagent acted as an accelerant. Fire rushed for the creature’s fa
ce, and with an unearthly howl, it dropped Trent and slapped at the flames threatening to consume it.

  Trent landed amidst broken glass that crunched under his weight. The aura of Fire that surrounded him boiled away the Health potions. The scent of evaporated restorative cleared his throbbing head somewhat, an unintended consequence.

  The white-hot flames spread across the ground and licked at the creature’s body as more bile, collected from Swift Beetles, was ignited. That was intentional. However, Trent’s improvised plan was more effective than he expected. A fresh scent of spice and flowers exploded as Trent’s darts caught fire and the Elwire wood they had been made from demonstrated how it was meant to be used, to enhance and refine.

  He had prepared the vials for the Spider Guardian, but that fight had gone too fast, and he had been trapped on the Beast’s back. Now, inside a fire raging from an outside accelerant, Trent remembered one of Cullen’s first lessons. Fire was unpredictable. It could be controlled, but it would always betray you if given a chance.

  The creature reeled backward, screaming. Trent wanted to join it, as his fire resistance was overcome by the increasing heat, but he couldn’t find his voice. His skin blistered and cracked. The pain from his burns was almost enough to make him forget himself.

  But Trent had felt this before. He grabbed hold of his sanity. Not too tightly. What came next was not for the clear-minded. Heart of the Inferno would last for thirty seconds, and he had to make use of each one.

  10 Points of Strength wasn’t the surge of power it once was. It was less than a fourth of the Strength he already possessed, but it was enough for him to lift his arm, despite the crushing injury to his upper arm. It pushed him forward, contrary to the weeping of his legs. Trent snarled through the torture as he launched himself at the torch the creature had become.

  Smoke seeped beneath his mask and tears ran from reddened eyes as Trent used the most barbaric techniques to hack and slice at his foe. The undulating cries of the Trial Beast were sure to bring others of its kind. Trent was beyond caring. Taking this one with him was enough. The others could chew on his bones and choke on his skin as long as this one wasn’t there to see it.

  His sword rose and fell. The creature collapsed under his blows. Its screams continued, and so did Trent’s assault. He had thirty seconds and he would make every one of them count. When Heart of the Inferno ran out, Trent would be finished.

  His sword smashed against stone the same instant the fire around him died. A sudden, welcoming numbness and a complete lack of energy announced that his Skill had ended. Trent fell bonelessly. Without Stamina, and with his HP still draining, he was unable to catch himself even if his arms had been capable of supporting him. He flopped against the stone, his face kissing the inside of his mask as it rattled against the floor.

  Trent tried to smile at the sound of metal on rock. It was a victory song. The creature had vanished along with the slowly dying flames as their fuel was consumed. Others would come, but the first was dead. He thought he could feel the items the Beast had dropped pressing into his stomach. That was probably an illusion. Had he been able to feel anything, he would be screaming.

  It was a hollow victory. The timer counting down at the top, left corner of his vision read 5:51. Less than ten minutes had passed since he entered the fifth floor, and the Trial had started its changes. He had explored twenty feet and fought one enemy. Not a stellar performance.

  And fought was a strong word to use for what he had done—stupid, useless actions without purpose, serving no cause. Cullen would call Trent’s actions those of a hero. Heroes died. That was their fate.

  Trent coughed weakly and tried to laugh. Cullen hid it in-between his jeering and yelling, but the truth was, the man trained heroes. Smart heroes, ones that tried to meet the standards the Sergeant set. Trent just hadn’t made the cut. That was why he had been abandoned.

  No! Trent managed to lift his neck and bash his head against the ground. He had left Al’drossford a wounded animal, a boy, alone and afraid, driven by remnants of magic he could not control. He could be more than that now. He recognized that he hadn’t been abandoned; he had been forgotten. Not just by those close to him, but by the world.

  He had seen it the moment the… Trent’s hands wiggled as he tried to clench them. He didn’t know what the terrifying Beast he had met outside of Bellrise was, but the second it had eaten the stone containing Fairy Cloak, the world had gotten brighter. He had seen people as people again and not betrayers and tricksters. That was when he should have turned on his heels and gone back.

  Trent tasted ash as he coughed, sighed, and coughed again. Well, he had learned. He was a good learner. This lesson had sunk in too late, but he had picked up on it, and there was no regret in him.

  If he had gone back, Dreq would have died in the Moonlit Forest, and Martin Vane would be alive. The Dog deserved to live, and those that broke the Truce qualified for every torment that could be devised for them. Had he gone back, Trent wouldn’t have met Kerry and the Warrior would have remained bound to a contract as harsh as the one that brought Trent into being.

  He would never have met Felicia. Never learned about Beggar's Taunt or farmer’s festivals. Small matters to most maybe, though not to Trent. The Trials brought wonders and opportunities, and he wished he could see more, but there was life outside of them. If he had a regret, it was that he hadn’t found a favorite color or learned why Kerry thought he shouldn’t wear pink. Those would be strange chains of doubt to wear. He wouldn’t put them on now.

  The Shadow Hunter has defeated a Cursed Foe.

  Conditions to active personal Title met.

  Developing Personal Trial.

  Time suspended for challenger.

  Prepare to enter Trial.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The road leading south from Al'drossford to Bellrise was never busy in the latter part of the year. Farmers and their wagons were at home. The summer crops had already been harvested, and the fields were being prepped for those plants which could be cultivated in winter by those Farmers with a Level high enough to draw life from the frozen ground. New Awakened who wanted to study at the Bellrise Academy were already taking their entry courses, and more experienced Adventurers would be working other Dungeon towns.

  This particular afternoon, one traveler had the road all to herself. The hooves of her steed pounded on the hard-packed dirt as Eliora Al’verren pushed it to greater speeds. Her silver hair and black cloak swept out behind her and a grin lit her face even as tears seeped from her eyes to fight the wind and wash away dust.

  She had completed three minor Dungeons in the few weeks since coming to Al’drossford thanks to the pitch-black horse beneath her. The summoned Beast had little intelligence and no use in combat, but its speed and nimble legs made it ideal for traversing the well-kept roads. With three Dungeons behind her, discounting the major one at Al’drossford, which she was in no way ready for, only Bellrise was left.

  Bellrise would also be where Eliora would have the most luck recruiting. She had kept her eyes open during her travels and met plenty of other Adventurers. All of them had been disappointing. Some would have served her purposes, but those who did already had parties to which they belonged. Parties and no ambition! They were content with small lives in safe lands. She could have joined them as a junior member, though none would join her.

  Bellrise would be different. Graduates of the Academy would be looking for leadership. They wouldn’t have fallen into the rut of farming a local Dungeon for a living and would be anxious to see what the world held. All Eliora would have to do is hold up her hand and they would flock to her.

  The wind bit at her reddened cheeks as Eliora’s brow furrowed into a frown at the sight of the city walls that were growing closer by the second. Pulling on the reins, she brought her mount to a halt half a mile from the gates. Dismounting with a graceful sweep of her leg, Eliora dismissed her horse, and the Beast returned to the Summon Mark located beneath
her leather armor on her right shoulder.

  The Beast was useful and submissive, never questioning its master. Adventurers weren’t so tame. Even uncertain rookies would require convincing. For her plan to succeed, to follow in her aunt’s footsteps, she had to be confident, in control. That wasn’t a problem in the capital. There, with a snap of her fingers, a hundred people would fall into line behind her. Here, the name Al’verren meant nothing, a fact she had enjoyed watching her brother discover. As an Adventurer, only your ability mattered.

  Casting Self-Clean to banish the dust of her ride, Eliora pulled up her hood and concealed her face in its shadow. She stretched, rising up onto her toes and arching her back to limber her muscles. Her body loosened, and she let go of her doubts.

  Technically, her plan resembled the actions of Lewis Al’dross more than those of her aunt. Baron Al’dross had recruited a band of companions and held his territory based on the strength of those who followed him. But there was one thing Lewis and his wife had in common.

  Confidence! Confidence was what Eliora needed. The butterflies whose wings brushed at the lining of her stomach would be no help. As long as she was straightforward and honest, recruiting a handful of young Awakened was a given. Eliora was born to royalty. Leadership was in her blood.

  Long legs covered the distance to Bellrise swiftly, and by the time Eliora was holding up her hand to greet one of the Guardsmen on duty, her doubts were long behind her. She smiled to herself as the young man standing at the gate returned her greeting. A professional look, polished armor, and a clean uniform lent the fresh-faced Guardsman an air of authority that his age did not.

  When her city was founded, the Guardsmen would be like this. Al’dross soldiers never had the sullen looks or greedy eyes that were all too commonly seen in other territories. They took their duties seriously, and Eliora had yet to sniff out any corruption. Not to say it wasn’t there, just that Lewis Al’dross cut it away when he found it. He did not foster conniving men like many nobles she had known.