Year: 25637

The deafening silence is broken only by the dripping of water in the abyssal cavern. The knight comes awake against the rocky wall with a gasp, his unlit torch at the fingertips of his left hand, sword held loosely in his right. The grim darkness a veil, unbroken by the meager eyesight of this lowly man. The pain in his head was sharp, but bearable, as he wipes the blood from his mouth and on his torn tabard.

He sits forward with a wheezing groan, broken rib crackling. The knight reaches into the pouch at his side and pulls out his flint and steel slowly, as if weighed down by water. He strikes once, twice, the third time setting alight his torch and savings grace. With a grim, shaky sigh he leans back then pulls himself up with a pained gasp, up and up along the wall. The torch, still weak, illuminates the small, open cavern around him, revealing nothing except the continuance of the cave, deeper into the earth, the rock and darkness engulfing and swallowing all.

The knight shifts the longsword in his hand, then sheathes it, using the wall to help him navigate. The only sound coming to him was the crunching underfoot and a wind that sounded like a monstrous moan. Caves always had a way of delivering fear in the form of absence, but the knight only knew his mission was close by. He could not stop, lest he fall and sleep for eternity. The blood smeared lion on his tabard, reaching forward through a large circle as if to pounce, was a grim reminder of what his life had been. As he reaches forward another step, and yet another, the darkness brings back the ghosts of his memory.

There was a woman and a child, his loves, his world. There was his mother and father, city tanners that aspired only to dream of each year's mid-winter and mid-summer events. His hardened commander came to him, along with his king and an entire hall dedicated to the group of knights and their mission. The knight winces in pain as the path takes a steep dip, but continues through it, breathing becoming more and more of a chore. The ghosts come back in time, the constant dull pain giving them solidity, memories flooding to him.

He had taken this mission only for the glory and money, the promise of his own lands. He was not nobility, but he had risen through the ranks of the military quickly and efficiently. What he lacked in knowledge, he had made up for in diligence and hard-work. The knight's mentor had taken him under his wing as a squire, seeing the promise of the young man, recognizing someone worth investing in. Years of devotion were dedicated to learn the way of a knight, though whereas some would be twisted and corrupted by the power they wield, his mentor had never allowed him to stray from his path. For that, he was forever grateful. One day he had asked his mentor, 'Thou'st allow thy fellows to tread such dangerous paths. Is't this not a sin?' His mentor had looked knowingly and replied, 'Mine charge, thou shall see. Thy peers may sin, 'tis the way oft we see, 'tis true. How'ver, mine Squire, remember this: thy peers are most important to thy life. In battle, twill be times when thy allies ar't thy only saviours.' The knight-in-training at the time, young and full of assurance of self, did not know the meaning, but took his mentor's lesson and asked no more. Three years later in a skirmish between the country's neighboring enemy, his mentor died from a sword in the back by a traitor he called friend. The knight knew then that placing your life in your 'allies' hands was dangerous, and peers should be watched. Keep your allies close and your enemies closer, as they say.

He sighs deeply, weariness dripping from him like a toxic sludge. It demanded he stop, rest, quit his mission. The Witnesses in the darkness would catch him if he did, though. He had heard their handy work and seen the aftermath enough to know that it would take him a long while before death would claim him. The thought of their flashing claws reminded him of his quarry. A creature of considerable size, the only survivor found of the many destroyed villages in the country had only said a single word: Lisk. The King, in his desperation, had called to arms as many knights as could be spared, calling a reward for the one who slew the Beast. The Third Prince had been given the task to bring the Beast down, of which he had readily agreed. Rumor only mentioned that his motivations were, perhaps, not wholly selfless. 'Greed is't a powerful motivator,' he thinks to the emptiness around him.

The man comes to a split in the cavern, marks marring the left side of the trail. His chainmail clinks as he illuminates the marks, his quarry's direction plain and clear. He huffs and continues through, following the damage, blood marking and pooling in parts of the cavern. He notices something along the wall, just out of torchlight. Coming closer, his eyes recognize one of the fellows of his troupe. A large man, he was a knight who knew only living day to day as best he could, loud in personality and appetites. Many a night was spent in feasting, drinking and women. Though the knight didn't really know him very well, he knew this man to be amiable and kind, well known amongst both the common folk and the nobility and considered a friend by many including the knight himself. Now the only thing he would be remembered for was a torso in pieces, the open horror on his face twisting his once ready smile into an ugly mask of fear and hate.

Ignoring the corpse, he continues along the tunnel, his thoughts turning back to the ghosts from his lifetime. Three and a half decades was a long time for many, and he had lived a fulfilling life. His thoughts softened as he thought of his child and wife, so far away now. His child had soft hair of golden wheat, unlike his own grey-streaked black. The little one wanted nothing more than to run in the fields, his bare feet touching green grass. This man, this father, missed his son terribly at that moment, remembering chasing after him, both laughing and calling toward each other. The memory of his wife always watching and sometimes joining, her own golden hair flowing in the sunlight, smile brighter than the sun itself. They were happy, and the time they spent precious to him. The grimness of battle and the corruption of court politics were left behind in that bright home, the healing balm to the stain of life. Tears fall from his eyes, unbidden and streaking his dirty face, a smile of bittersweet anguish showing his naked feelings. He remembers, until his exhausted body demands sleep as he teeters and falls, asleep before even hitting the ground, the clatter of armor deafening in the small corridor.

The knight wakes slowly once more within the darkness, the skittering of creatures in the darkness pushing him to get up quickly, reaching for his sword, adrenaline pushing the pain to the back of his mind. The torch that had once guttered hungrily before was out and nowhere near him as he feels around for it. Cursing, the knight pulls a spare from his side and strikes his flint and steel quickly, panicked. At last the torch lights and he raises it all around him, striking out against the darkness, back against the wall. One of the creatures backs away quickly, the only thing that could be seen was long, gangly white arms and legs, eyes glowing a low green in the light. It continues to back away, then disappears altogether as the knight pants heavily, adrenaline coursing through him. A long blood streak was pooled along the floor where something heavy seemed to have been drug, a grim reminder of a torso ripped apart and sitting against the cavern wall. He sighs and continues forward, the ghosts of his memories staying out of his view.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The man takes paths further into the darkness for what seems like days, gouges and marks from his quarry showing his way. The memories were his only companions, the creatures just out of eyesight hungry Witnesses of his journey. Though they did not hinder him, they waited for him to give up, willing to save him from more misery and pain. He rests for only short spurts, replacing his torch with another spare, eating while walking, the pain in his chest making every movement difficult. After a time, he shuffles into a large open cavern, bodies strewn about, scorch marks and melted rock marring all sides, chunks of the cavern in broken piles. The bodies of his fellows, squires and knights both, lay soaking in congealing pools of blood and entrails. He surveys the massacre for familiar faces, noticing both enemy rivals and acquaintances that did right by him, side by side to the last man.

Half-remembered truths showed themselves to him at the familiar faces. There was Falavel, a lad of only fifteen summers, spending his time as a squire to Sir Baer. Alexxand, a quiet man-at-arms that was touched in the head, but extremely talented with the flute he carried with him. Ser Olivier, a cousin of Duke Bastien, the military advisor to the King. He spies a bluish tint along the ground at intervals, the blood of his quarry staining the rock. The trail continues along through a large tunnel going yet deeper, causing him to sag visibly. Squaring his shoulders, he forces himself deeper into the earth's gullet.

The knight steps closer to the opening, a small gasp comes to his ears, and he looks toward the far wall, noticing one body leaning against the wall, another collapsed on his lower half. He shuffles over, his torchlight illuminating a familiar face, but not a friendly one. A rat-like profile shows itself to him, the man in front of him known to be a coward and traitor, but an unproven one. The contempt on the knight's face twists his bearded mouth into a snarl. A small, stringy voice issues from the thin lips of the man. 'Y-you there! H-h-help me! I-I-I dun want tae die! M-mine back, it hurts sa' much.' A whisper comes to the knight, deep from in his mind.

This man...this creature was a sniveling wretch, a traitor only good for fodder. He hadn't a scratch on him, and had probably hid from the quarry, but was thrown against the wall in the confusion, the man on top of him thrown against him, breaking the coward's back. He hears a shuffling behind him as a Witness comes just outside of torchlight, its gangly arms scratching the corpse under it, watching the two of them. He turns back to the mewling creature at his feet, sneers and reaches at his belt. Pulling his knife, he buries it into the fodder's chest just off from the heart, an old blood feud settled. This filthy animal would die slowly while the Witness took care of the rest, the man hoping that the Witness wouldn't be too quick. He takes the coward's supplies, then turns and follows the wall back to the cavern, shrill inhuman shrieks following at his back while the gnashing of teeth could be heard even well after exiting the cavern.

The knight could see the bluish tinted fluid splashed more and more frequently, as if the creature were badly wounded. His motivations cemented as he fought through the pain in his body, reaching deeply within himself. He would find the creature and finish the job his fellows had started, his memories once more coming to take their place as his silent companions. They appeared before him once again like phantoms, never quite within reach, but like a painting that moved. His next memory was one of his parents, poor yet happy. His father was a hunter and tanner, his mother was a weaver, but preferred to work alongside his father tanning hides he caught, working them into beautiful crafts. Every once in awhile, a merchant would buy their work and pay well, allowing them to survive throughout the winter in relative comfort. As a child he would help his parents by toiling away with his hands working the leather into a well formed suppleness, or spend his days hunting with his father, learning survival and tracking that other city children would never learn.

He learned quickly and was always efficient, thanking his quarry for their gifts that he would use, following the teachings of his father. After each day, nights were spent amongst each other, learning songs or telling stories. He even told some of his own that he had learned from merchants and travelers in the market. Market Day was always a special day for his family, as they could sell what they had made for good prices, and every ranking of caste would see their product and buy what could be afforded. He learned honesty in most everyone was surface only, and deep down most wanted what others had, electing to cheat where they could. His father was not one to be cheated, however, and his shrewd business strategies were passed to the young boy. His parents had been surprised to learn that he wished to enlist at the barracks, his father proud yet sad as he left behind their simple life behind.

The knight was forced from his reverie as a pained snarl came from in front of him, deep into the cavern. The blue liquid covered the floor in giant pools, his boots stepping through the gore and tracking his progress forward. The knight pulls his sword from its sheath slowly and grimly. What was the definition of his life, he wonders. Was it this moment? Was it the past that he had come to know and leave behind? Would he be remembered by his family and those surrounding? He had the intense feeling that these grim memories and thoughts were important, the calm happenstance of him being here a product of his own imagining. He steps forward to the ledge in front of him, the entrance of the large cavern in front of him widening more and more, bottom unseen and enveloped in darkness except for a gleam of silver striking at a golden figure down far below. He looks to either side and notices a narrow path leading downward to his left which he takes, increasing his speed as fast as he's able, picking his way down so as not to fall.

The figure seemed to be holding its own, the large creature lumbering, wounded yet still deadly. What is the purpose of this, the knight asks himself. Why should one be willing to sacrifice all for pride and glory when death is just the barest of lines, easily crossed within a moment's notice? He had no gain from this. He could turn back, head back to his family and simple life. The feelings of cowardice arose higher within him, catching in his throat. His limbs refused to obey, continuing down. The memory of the sniveling creature at his feet, knife buried deep in his chest, emerged from the chaotic sludge of his thoughts. These thoughts steadied him, allowed him to see his own failures and continue downward without a second thought. 'I will not die a traitorous dog,' he mutters to himself, all attention devoted to the path in front of him.

The knight reaches the bottom of the cavern just as the large creature rears back and slams its tail against the Prince's golden visage, throwing him far backwards with a cry of pain, his torch dropping to illuminate the ground and the creature's scaly barbed appendage. He runs forward, his sword held defensively, ready to strike. As he approaches, the creature's scaly head turns toward him, its silver eyes smiting him with its hatred and rage, blue fires seen deep within the sockets. It approaches slowly, the Prince's torch illuminating teeth as long as a man's forearm, its metallic muzzle deeply marred and bleeding the same blue fluid found in the cavern. The grinding of gears could be heard within the creature's body, damaged but still miraculously operating. It roars at the knight as he rushes forward with a war cry, his thoughts no longer frantic, no longer baiting. Only one thing occupies this peasant knight's mind.

'Mine memory lives.'