Cursed

1. The Best Adventures Are The Least Expected-4

His boots smacked the concrete cobblestones as he rapidly weaved his way down the stairs to the library where he regularly met Jon. The twisted way passing alongside the dungeons were darker—colder—than he remembered. He shut his mind off to the echoing thoughts of Tempest and the rest of her alleged conspiracy… He'd have to ask Jon questions strategically.

Torches flickered as he passed them by, the library nearly empty save Jon and several humpbacked librarians. The reek of something dead or dying hit Aldor's nostrils, but in this library… The smells wafting from upstairs were ignored. The only furniture were the dozens of shelves, three tables, and cracked benches eaten by some kind of worm.

Jon sat in the far corner, anxious. His face was turned to an open book reading The Anatomy of Flight with a flying ship on its cover but Aldor could tell by the way his eyes flickered that he wasn't reading anything.

“Question for you: would you classify us as sophisticated?”

“What?” Aldor raised an eyebrow and pulled up his chair with a loud grind. “I mean, you definitely are.”

Jon pursed his lips, flushing. “Thanks, but what about you?”

Aldor cleared his throat; knowing Jon, this was probably a trick question. “I bought a vegetable instead of cake last week. I think that counts for something. Why?”

“Well, I was wondering if you'd be the right person for me to bring on my hunt later this evening. The hunt for Tempest.” Jon couldn't hold it anymore. He grinned wide, his mustache suddenly seeming a bit too small for his mouth. He started to laugh with excitement, either failing to notice or ignoring Aldor's greening expression.

“Oh.”

“What? What's wrong? You know I was kidding with you, right?”

“Yes, I… I don't know if I'll be able to make it.” Time seemed to freeze— not wanting to get moving again. Aldor wasn't even cold when a shudder ran through him. “I don't see how that's sophisticated in any way.”

“It was a joke, brother.” Jon's face fell. “I thought we talked about it last night –”

“Glen needs to keep me home… Spring cleaning.” Before Jon could peep an argument, Aldor flew to his next thought, swallowing down the panic so wanting to arise about Tempest. “Anyway, I've got something to ask you… That plot? I think you might be right.”

It was a peculiar thing to watch Jon's face rise, fall, and splinter. There were far too many wrinkles embedded in his face for his age—the stresses of princedom were taking their toll.

“What made you think that?” said Jon softly, slow. “Aldor… Do you know something?”

Aldor didn't think twice about the lie. “Of course not, I'm not involved with anything. Nothing whatsoever.”

“You know, whenever you lie, you always say too much.”

Aldor rolled his eyes, acting annoyed as his heart continued to storm. “Of course not. I've just been thinking a lot, and since I've been studying my father… What if it's Farthan again, Jon? What if he's trying to kill off not just your grandfather, but all the kings left for revenge or something?”

Jon sat back in his chair, impossible to read. “I didn't even think of that. There's a chance… Then again, Farthan hasn't been seen for nearly two decades.”

“He never died, though. He escaped. That's what it said in the texts.”

“Written by your father, Rowan?”

“Rowan, King Jethro of Ormshire, and others.”

The roar of a disturbance going on upstairs made them catch their breaths. Several slaps of rushing feet upstairs cracked, yelling of perhaps an arrest echoing down in the catacombs of the castle.

Aldor leaned forward. “What do we do about it?”

“You're asking me?”

“You're the b****y prince! You're not powerless.”

“Right, well…” Muttered Jon, shuffling through papers, not even aware of how hard he was stroking the scraggly goatee on his chin. “We just have to watch my grandfather extra closely. I can send out undercover spies, too, all throughout the town so we know who comes and goes. After that… There's nothing much else.”

Aldor craned his neck at the ceiling, eyes narrowed. The sounds grew louder, metallic, c***k of armor switching together catching as someone unceremoniously threw open the library door.

“We need to get on top of this,” said Jon, nodding to the book in his hand. “Our last tests are coming up—can you believe it?”

Aldor, who'd been anticipating an uproar, flew automatically to his feet when a guard ran down the library stairs, without so much as an acknowledgment to the librarians' violent shushing. Jon stood up as well, the guard struggling to get to them through the bookshelves.

“Sir!”

“What's happening?”

The guard skidded beside them, chest heaving. Sweat beaded through his armor, skin raw. “it's your grandfather. He's alive, but we think he's been poisoned.”

The forest carried a velvet tinge—damp—the mist peeling from the woods like stale wallpaper. Aldor was far, far from Rorick now; he was deaf to his own lumbering as he battled through the undergrowth to get to the fort, slightly dazed. The waves of moonlight hit the barrier of the canopy, Aldor having the advantage of knowing the forest as if the entire thing were his backyard.

Aldor's mind blanked in horror; assassination. Everything had gone terribly wrong from the moment he met Tempest in the forest. It was like she was the first c***k in their wall of safety that murderers, thieves, assassins, and worse would leak into. He shot several petrified glances over his shoulder… He might be followed. Shortly after the guard's chilling message, Jon promptly organized a hunting party. For Tempest. To their logic, she couldn't have gotten far from the castle; after all, the king had only been just poisoned.

They'd been able to catch him quickly enough to save his life for the time being. If he made it through the night, everything would be okay.

Aldor kept his ears pricked for horses and the crackle of torchlight, weaving like a hunted animal, climbing across trickles of water left behind by the river and shoots. The slight crackle of a campfire in the distance told him he was close; he had to blink several times when he noticed the flame, having to adjust his vision to warm from ice black.

Aldor had no time to collect himself. “Tempest!”

Nothing. She might have already been caught with Jon on the loose. Aldor gasped in relief when a figure in a distinctive dragon-skin cloak peered around the edge of the hut. “Aldor?”

“Hey... Get back inside.”

“Wha –”

“Now!”

Aldor scrambled to the scrap of housing, lighting a single branch on fire before extinguishing the rest of the flames. Consumed with his own instinct driven to survive, he slammed the door behind him. There were several seconds of stunned silence in which Tempest watched him, the dread bleeding from Aldor's face and painting a picture of just how bad things were about to get.

“What's going on?”

“They're coming.” Aldor stole a breath, knowing that whatever was going to happen, he had to get her out of here. She was innocent for one thing— at least he hoped so. He couldn't let Jon get his hands on her. The prince could be ruthless in a rage—cold and unempathetic. The horror subsided for a minute, letting him think straight.

“What are you talking about?” Tempest began to tighten her knuckledusters.

“There's been an attempt on the king's life.” Saying it out loud added a whole new note of shock to it. Aldor pursed his lips. “Naturally, since your poster being up is the new gossip of the city, you've been blamed for it.”

Tempest's face turned papery: white, blank, and almost transparent. “As shocking as it is, I can't say it surprises me. It was only a matter of time.”

“Right, well… I've still got to get you out of here.”

“No, you don't.” Tempest, having no belongings to pack up, drew a dry stick from the floor and jammed it into the center of Aldor's torch. She straightened, setting her jaw firmly and dared him to argue. “it's dangerous and you've done so incredibly much for me already. I hate being indebted to someone, so—”

“I'm not fishing for favors,” said Aldor quietly. “I just want you to remember that I'm your friend. I don't want you to feel like you're obligated to do anything for me; you need help, Tempest. You're doing good work, and this is how I'll support it. This is something I want to do. Just… don't mention that I helped you to anyone around here, okay?”

Tempest's eyes glassed over. Something twisted in his gut; Tempest wasn't a person used to gifts of any kind. Aldor watched her with sad disbelief as she nodded, trying to accept the idea that he wanted nothing in return. “Thank you.”

“Follow me. I'll take you to the border, but that's as far as I can go. You should be safe from Jon and the king once you reach Longford.”

The slab of black sky was sprinkled with tiny winking bulbs. Aldor and Tempest each brandished their torches overhead, Aldor taking the lead. He led her along the edge of the forest road, ears and eyes sensitive to any unnatural jerks in the trees. Several rumbles of distant thunder kept them on their toes as the sky seemed to complain of their escape. The three moons of Eldoran provided little light, bodies of planets hovering over and even penetrating the land's atmosphere.

Several sharp cries, so convulsive that it was impossible to tell whether they were human or not, flew through the brush behind them. Aldor and Tempest picked up their pace to a painful run. They dashed across bracken, hearts screaming for a chance to slow. No hoofbeats came behind them, but the rustle of leaves was all they needed to hear to know they were being chased. Their purser knew its prey was close.

It was Jon. It had to be—no guard, knight, or anyone Aldor knew of, really, could navigate this mesh of green and dark as stealthily as he and Jon could. Besides, people tended to slow down the hunt; Jon knew that. What would the prince think when he saw his best friend helping someone convicted of nearly killing his grandfather?

“Hold up one moment.”

Aldor cast several helpless glances behind him, then met Tempest's eyes steadily. “Listen, this is as far as I can take you. The edge of the forest is less than a mile away—”

“No, I can't just leave you here!” snapped Tempest. “Not after everything you've done for me.”

“I appreciate the gesture, but now's not the time to play hero.”

Tempest's eyes flew wide, insulted and in complete disbelief. At that moment, Aldor really didn't care if he offended her or not; she needed to get out of here and leave him behind— he wasn't the one in danger.

“They're my friends, they're not trying to hunt me. If they catch me trying to help you escape, that'll be a different story. You need to go. Now. We'll be fine as long as they don't see us together.”

Tempest certainly wasn't an i***t. He could almost sense her brain clicking as its gears c****d into place. At last, her face slacked, the crackle of leaves turning just on the horizon hassling her thinking speed.

He didn't hesitate to reach out and squeeze her hand. “I'm so sorry about the bandits framing you, how you're being chased all the time…”

“Don't. Please. I'll never forget this. I'll repay you someday, Rowan-son.”

She was gone in a matter of seconds. Aldor stared at the place where her outline was quickly eaten by black, slightly wistful. He turned, pushing aside the wave of dread rocking his emotions as he prepped himself to face a frenzied Jon. He had to come up with a good excuse… Why did most people head into dark forests all alone in the middle of the night?

Aldor swiveled in the pine straw, the stench of something fetid seeping into his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose and drew his sword, his cloak flossing off his shoulders and exposing him to the sticky fog insisting on clinging to his skin.

The sound that tore through the air wasn't one of any animal’s. Or person. The raw shriek of pain reverberated throughout the woods. Aldor detected the sharpened noise of a cloak gushing across leaves close to his right— there were no footsteps.

Aldor froze to the spot, any thoughts of Tempest and Jon leaving his mind as panic took a slashing bite from his tummy. The outline of a darkened figure glided through the corridor of trees and roots, hunched, taking its poisoned time…

A criptos: an angel of death.

He must really be far from Rorick now. A slight cloud of dust frothed from under the freakish thing's cloak as it searched, vision-less, face-less, for Aldor's warmth. He'd never in a million years thought he'd see a criptos up close like this—Tempest was right. Something this evil shouldn't be anywhere near this close to the city.

The criptos were an ancient horror, once common criminals. They had drowned in a cursed river up north, past the very borders of All Is Lost and were forced to haunt the world. Cloth veils as white as ash, draped over its head as it made its way toward him. A mask drew across it in a nun's veil, etched into the phantom's very being.