Dark Creatures: A Simple Game

By Tim Ahrens and James Reich

The gods chose two unsuspecting players as their pawns in what was supposed to be a simple game of Dark Creatures, a game replete with dark things from a world gone mad and forgotten gods that play with life and death for their own amusement. When the rules for winning are ambiguous, the human beings are suddenly caught up in a contest of good v

• Language: English
• Publisher: Creative 2 a T, Inc. dba Lucid Style Author S
• Release date: Dec 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9780996015523

Book preview

Chapter One

Heart of Steel

She knelt in the mud of the crossroads, her head bowed, her long, raven hair floating in a muddy pool of water. Her pale face and bright blue eyes reflected in the surface of the brown puddle. Leather armor as black as midnight covered her toned and athletic frame, enhanced at the chest and back as well as the calves and upper arms by shiny silver chain mail. In the first light of morning one might imagine her to be a wraith or banshee, so still did she kneel, unaffected by the light rain that fell gently from the sky.

The sound of beating hooves suddenly broke the morbid figure’s repose. She turned her gaze from the road and looked upon the dark-cloaked man riding a white steed steadily toward her. Truly he resembled the pale-horsed rider—in her mind radiated the memory of a vague figure from her past reading to her from an ancient, practically discarded tome about a forgotten god. She stood up to face the apparition, if that was what it was, as he rode up beside her and stopped. The figure, its body covered head to toe in dirty, ash-covered cloth, turned its shadowy head to look down on the woman.

A dusky, rusty voice forced its way from inside the rider’s hood. Augury Paras.

The woman nodded silently, still directing her gaze at the pale horse and not at the rider who sat upon it.

One of those you must seek is near. The rider lifted his covered arm and mummy-wrapped hand like a scarecrow, pointing in the direction of the nearest village. How fares my sword?

The warrior woman became tense, then reached behind her for her intricately engraved sword. The bulk of the weapon gleamed with a ghostly light as Augury wrapped her palm around its handgrip. Carved ivory serpents coiled around the grip of the sword, twisting up to devour one another as they reached the crossbar. The section of the hilt from which the blade emerged was molded and engraved in the pattern of fire and smoke. From its center, a solid forged and graven skeletal hand extended up to join with and grasp the forte, the bottom of the blade. With one smooth stroke Augury slid the long bladed weapon from its sheath on her back. The dark blade moaned as she held it upright before her face. Again her bright blue eyes glowed in rhythmic pulse with that of the sword, much like a heartbeat.

La Mia Morte awaits, Augury stated in a plain, simple voice, as do I.

The cloaked rider nodded once, then with a flick of his wrist the horse bolted to life and was gone into the dawn. Sliding La Mia Morte back into its sheath, Augury Paras turned quietly in the direction of the village that had been shown her. A wisp of a smile played about her mouth as she quickly began to walk in its direction.

The village of Tolong looked more like a collection of mud, wood, and stone huts huddling around a somewhat larger structure that could only house the town tap. A small stone well occupied the center of the main street. Several old, exhausted women knelt around it, washing mud and sweat-stained clothes in the misty morning rain. Children chased one another in the muddy street, waving sticks they imagined were mystic weapons, striking each other down like heroes of old.

Augury took all of this in as she walked down Tolong’s main street. As she approached the well, the children stopped their game and stared at the tall stranger with the fancy sword hilt rising from its sheath on her back, whispering and giggling to each other as she passed. The women crossed themselves, then quickly picked up their wet clothing and hurried to whatever dilapidated structure they belonged. Augury slowed to a stop in front of the taproom. The weather-worn sign read The Dancing Wench and bore a faded picture of a half-naked woman gaily dancing just below its scrawling text. Music drifted from within the barroom, a slow, soft piece of music that complemented the wet, gray day. Pushing open the door, she entered the tavern.

The sound of a lute filled the air—not a sad song per se, but not a happy one. More a mixture of both flowed from the instrument played by the small, thin woman who leaned against the far corner of the room. Her sharp green eyes took Augury in at a glance, never once missing a note of the song she played. Her short hair, the color of fresh-picked corn, floated gently around her face as she nodded a greeting in Augury’s direction.

The room itself had a damp dirt floor. The wet weather was slowly turning the earthen surface to mud. A scattering of misshapen tables and chairs sat about the room. Three men in rain-soaked leather armor sat at the one nearest the window, several others sat at tables farther back in the room; there were seven in all counting the minstrel and the heavyset barkeep. All turned to look at Augury as she entered, then returned to their own muttering conversations. Augury walked up to the fat, wrinkled bartender.

Welcome to the Wench, mistress, the old, gray-haired, half-bald barkeep glanced up quickly at Augury. What be your pleasure? He returned his glance back down to the dilapidated counter he stood behind which passed as the bar.

A room. Her seductive voice caused the three soldiers to turn and give her a second look. I need a room for a day, maybe two.

We be a tavern here, missy, not no inn, the barkeep grumbled as he continued to wipe the counter in front of Augury with a dirty rag. Drink and music is all we offer here, we got no rooms. So saying, he set a clay jug down on the bar before Augury with a loud thud.

Are you sure? she placed her black-leather gloved hand on the counter, palm open, facing down.

I said, . . . The barkeep began to raise his voice only to have it fade away. Augury slid her open palm aside to reveal the gold coin resting beneath it. He quickly snatched the coin off the counter. Placing it between his gray and black teeth, he gave it a tug, wincing once before placing it in his shirt. I got no rooms, he grinned, showing his missing and rotting teeth, but I got a root cellar you can bed down in if you like. As if taking notice of Augury and the sword she carried on her back for the first time, the barkeep cleared his throat. If that please you, my lady. He took a step back, obviously hoping he would not have to return the coin.

It will do, she nodded, waiting for him to show her the way. Scurrying around from behind the bar, the barkeep bowed once. Peltion Laord, at your service. He gestured for her to follow him to the back of the bar, then through a door to the outside. If you need food or drink I can arrange both, for a price of course. He scuttled to two large doors at the back of the Wench, facing up from the ground. He pulled one open with a grunt. Mind the steps, my lady, he cautioned, his attempt at a laugh falling flat.

Augury followed the now sweating Peltion Laord down the narrow steps into the root cellar. She walked around the heavily breathing man to the far side of the room. Removing her sword from her back, she leaned it up against the wall beside her, then slid down to a sitting position on the moist dirt floor.

So is there anything else, my lady? Peltion rubbed his fingers together unconsciously, hoping that more gold might be coming his way.

No. Augury’s tone left no room for doubt. Just leave me be . . . She settled her back against the wall. Need rest more than anything.

As you see fit, my lady. Peltion quickly bowed to avoid striking his head on the overhead beams of the cellar as he bolted upright.

And Laord, Augury’s voice took on a dark and frightening tone, do not disturb me today. I will come to you when I have awakened. Is that understood?

Y-y-yes, my lady. The cold, dark tone of her voice made Peltion sweat even more. He turned more quickly than someone of his size would seem able, and scampered up and out of the cellar, shutting the door loudly behind him.

Augury slowly let her eyes close. The faint sound of a blacksmith’s hammer hitting an anvil reached her ears. The sound was at once comforting and hateful. She began to lose herself in a dream created by the pulse of its metal beat.

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The dream starts as it always has. An old man, perhaps her father, sits in what remains of a burned-down house. Ash and soot litters the ground and its smell still fills the air, even now, some five days after. He looks at the remnants of the small community that had been Shepenfield. Just a collection of burned-out farms now—empty, blackened structures—no more than frames really. The old man turns listlessly around to look through the gaping wall to the back of his burned-out shack, toward four newly dug graves. He then turns his gaze back to the floor before him, lost in his own world.

Won’t you eat something? A young girl’s voice enters the dream. You have to eat or you will die!

Shut up, ya worthless girl! the old man suddenly shouts. His eyes, filled with rage and despair, bore into her. If the gods had only given me one more son! he shouts to the heavens as he turns to look at the graves again. Then, maybe! He spits in the direction of the girl. Not some worthless girl!

I know, she weeps, tears clouding her voice. I’m just a worthless girl. Forgive me.

If only, groans the old man, beginning to cry as well. He stands up and shuffles away from the girl, walking, dispirited, to the area outside the house that used to be his blacksmith shop. He takes a heavy iron hammer in hand and begins to beat the worn anvil before him. If only ya were a boy! he is screaming now, If only ya were strong! If only there were a way!

Sometimes he would do this for hours before returning to his chair. He has been growing thinner with each passing day. The girl has accepted the fact that the old man would die soon, as would she, directly after him.

It is on the very eve of that day, as the sun is setting and the night’s twilight shines with all it purplish colors. That is when the rider first appears.

He is astride a pale horse and covered from head to foot in ash-colored rags. He rides straight up the main road, never once glancing at the wreck of Shepenfield. Stopping outside the burned frame of a structure inside which the girl and the old man sit, he glides off his horse, paying it no mind. It in turn does not stray or move away like an ordinary beast, but stands perfectly still, awaiting its rider. The bundled figure steps up to the old man. The girl watches in stark terror, unable to move or speak. The figure leans down and speaks in a dusky, rusty voice.

Are you the blacksmith?

Not na more! the old man shouts. All ma talent lay out there. He thrusts his hand toward the graves.

A fitting place, the figure nods, but I think there may be a bit of life yet left in you, blacksmith. What say you to a trade?

What would ya have of me? And what would ya render in return? For the first time in days the young girl sees a glimmer of life enter the old man’s eyes.

I would have your talent—your singular ability to weave metal into form and shape. As to what I can give? Well, that is what you desire most: Revenge, is it not?

The girl watches the figure step away from the old man and await his answer. He turns and bows to her but she still cannot move to return the courtesy.

Who is this little one? The figure reaches out to the girl, but the old man’s hand grasps its wrist, freezing it in place.

Your business is with me, grey rider! the old man growls, not with tha’ worthless girl!

Oh, she is far from worthless. The rider pulls back his arm and the old man releases his grip. In fact, she may be just what we need. The ragged, ash-colored hood turns back to face the old man. So what say you, blacksmith?

The girl watches the old man stand and pace back and forth in the soot, moving with measured steps left then right. The girl slowly conquers her fear until she is able to move again. Getting to her feet, she walks up to the figure.

I’m Augury Paras, and you are, sir?

Augury Paras . . .

At the sound of her own name seeping like a hollow wind from inside the figure’s hood, Augury feels the sensation of deathly cold fingers run down her spine. She does not like this man. But she would obey what the old man told her.

My name? You may call me the Pale Rider.

Aye, Pale. The old man stops his pacing and turns to face the figure. Are ya sure that ya can deliver on that boast ya made about revenge? Revenge, he thinks, against every last living soul in any way connected to the Horde.

Be assured that I can, blacksmith, the figure nods.

Na matter how long said revenge might take? The old man takes a step forward and faces the rider directly. The somewhat mad glaze over his eyes reveals no fear of punishment or death of any kind would sway him.

Until the end of time itself, if that is what is required. The rider walks around the old blacksmith and into the burned-out wreck of his smithy.

Aye, before I can work ma craft I’ll need a new forge. The old man follows behind the rider. He is followed in turn by the girl.

I see nothing wrong with this one. The rider lifts his robed arm.

Ya see noth—! the blacksmith’s shout dies in his throat. As the girl and the old man watch, the brick forge begins to glow with an unearthly blue light. The bricks, scattered, broken, and black from the fire, slowly pull themselves back together. The sounds of brick and stone being crushed and reformed reverberate in the musty air. In a matter a moments, what was a burned-out hole is again a smoldering, hot forge with working bellows. The rider turns to the smashed liquid channels coming out of the forge. They too begin to glow, then rebuild themselves. Last he raises his other arm and the walls of the smithy just appear around them, as if no fire had ever taken place. The anvil is the last to begin to glow. But this light is unlike the light blue color seen before. This light is darker. It pulses with an inner malice.

Behold, says the rider, a hint of irony affirmed by the voice’s near cackle, as I have stated, I see nothing at all wrong with this smithy.

The blacksmith drops to his knees, his eyes bug wide, and he smiles maniacally. Truly ya are a god or demon! the blacksmith croaks with joy and excitement.

No! the rider’s voice booms. Something far older. Now will you give me your skill?

Yes! the blacksmith leaps to his feet, tears in his tired eyes. I believe ya, Rider! I believe what ya promise! Ma revenge . . . he turns to the girl, our revenge! Tell me what ya would have of me!

The girl watches the smith and the rider confer in hushed tones. They walk together from bellows to forge to metal channels to the anvil.

I understand all that ya wish but one thing, says the smith, finally talking in a voice the girl can hear. Why does ma anvil glow different from the other part of ma forge?

But blacksmith, this is the heart of the item I would have you forge. I will have you concentrate all of your anger, your hate, your grief into this anvil. With each strike I will have you strike those who have wronged you. For what sits before you is no mere piece of metal. It is the pain and despair of centuries. It is the heart of broken dreams and forgotten love. It is called the Anvil of Sorrow. With it you will make me the finest weapon ever fashioned by your craft. And in return, I will grant you what you desire.

So be it then, Master Rider, with what life I have left in these hands I will craft ya what ya wish. And in exchange ya will give those who have wronged me and mine, death!

As you wish, blacksmith, as you wish.

The rider turns to Augury. What of this one?

I have need of her hands for this! The blacksmith waves a hand at the smithy. She is a useless girl but she can be of some aid in this.

Very well, agrees the rider, making a sweeping bow. I will return in one passing of the full moon. He raises his sleeve and points to the brightly glowing orb, clouds beginning to gather, encircling it. In that time your work will be complete or I will have my pound of flesh.

As the old man watches, the clouds form into the shape of a fang-filled mouth, engulfing the moon as if it were swallowing a pearl. As the mouth closes, the clouds explode and scatter, leaving only the silent silver moon hanging in the sky.

Aye, the weapon will be made and ready. The old man does not flinch at the rider’s veiled threat.

The rider drifts back over and onto his waiting horse. With a flick of his wrist, he commands the horse into a run and is gone.

Come girl, there be work to do! the blacksmith barks at Augury. She in turn runs toward him, eager to help in any way she can. The old man acts more alive than he has been since the Horde had taken everything from them. And if he wishes to come back to life, then she would live as well. With a small smile on her face, Augury begins her work.

Days of unending activity and little food fill their lives after that night. Working like a man possessed, the blacksmith and the girl heat the metal, pour the molten liquid into the molds, hammer it into shape, and fold the metal once again. This is to be repeated in so many instances that time itself loses its meaning. A dark magic engulfs the room when the old man uses the Anvil of Sorrow, like an old power is being awakened that is better off left asleep. Screams of pain or cries of sorrow—each time the hammer makes contact with the anvil, some otherworldly tormented howl is set free. Yet the blacksmith never notices, and continues to pour his grief and hatred into hammering the steel. The girl watches the old man and not the anvil—it is better that way.

In one passing of the full moon, the deed is done. The old blacksmith lifts from its velvet cloth the shimmering sword he has crafted. The handle is made of purest ivory. Two snakes have been carved therein, circling the handle until they devour one another. The hilt is made of the purest silver, shaped and polished into the forms of smoke and fire. Rising up from the hilt, a silver and iron hand, skeletal in structure, clutches the blade and holds it fast. The blade glows with an eerie black light. Its smooth, polished surface reflects the old man’s face.

Augury’s stare moves from the weapon to the old man and back again. With each passing moment, the sword seems to become more alive in his hand, and he more frail.

See, girl! The blacksmith’s voice is weak and wispy, his withered face and body paperlike. He turns to face her, Well worth ma life! Well worth. His words trail off as he continues gazing at the mirror blade. Something this fine needs a name. Yes, a name! He hisses a laugh, making Augury fear he may have lost his mind as well as his soul to the sword. But what to call it, what?

As the old blacksmith ponders his question, a strong gust of wind blows through the forge room in which they both stand. The Pale Rider appears out of the darkness outside and speaks with a dusty, rusty voice. I have the perfect name! proclaims the rider, seizing the shining weapon from the blacksmith’s hands.

With one smooth movement, he thrusts the blade into Augury’s chest. The wind suddenly howls as a terrific