A Tale That Could Not Be

Standing at the edge of the topmost step to his sanctuary, the man surveyed the wide land around him. The Final Night Mountains spanned far to the west, their misty peaks rising up like sullen spectres in the fog. He remembered when they had been called the Troll’s Teeth, so many centuries ago. Mountain trolls still lived in those rocky valleys and craggy vales, living off meagre plant life and scarce prey and yet somehow attaining massive girth and incredible toughness. Terrifying and dangerous as the trolls were, their threat paled in comparison to that which gave the mountains their new name.

He had himself to thank for that.

A grin crept across his face. “We were all doomed fools.”

He remembered the armies marching up the mountain he inhabited. He remembered the rival nations allying together against him. The man remembered all the forces sent to defeat him.

And he remembered the ensuing slaughter.

The battle, which felt more like a massacre, lasted less than hour. The allied forces scaled his mountain with surprising speed and he watched them do so. After the first arrows came streaking his way, he unleashed his power. The first wave of soldiers had fallen in seconds, their remains tumbling down the mountainside like rolling stones.

The spells came next.

This attack proved more successful as he had suffered a paralyzed arm and a burned shoulder in the onslaught. His second retaliation had then been far more brutal than his first. He scribed the end of days and it nearly came to pass. All allied forces were extinguished and, soon after, most cities and villages were attacked and razed.

It took the combined forces of a dragon queen, a worldly wizard, and all of Faeryum’s unicorns to stop him. Cursed into slumber for five hundred years, the man was lost to memory, remembered only by three that still lived. His story was then mostly absent to history and only those who searched most extensively could learn about his near total destruction of Faeryum. Those that knew of it, dubbed it The Final Night.

Five hundred years came and went as he slumbered. Faeryum’s citizens recovered and prospered without any knowledge that their way of life had nearly been completely extinguished.

Such is the fecklessness of the weak-minded, he thought with a grimace.

His curse now ended, the man had the world within his hands. His abilities were recovered and as soon as they had done so, he put them to use. He had been young and brash before but now he had wizened. He acted patiently, carefully, strategically, and with hardly an impact. Instead of blasting a hole into the side of a mountain to create an avalanche he now simply nudged the first snowflake forward. His actions were so subtle that they were nearly non-existent. Yet, even so, the avalanche was beginning to shift and slide down the mountainside at an ever-increasing pace. It would not be long before it crushed and buried everything in its path of destruction.

Two of the three survivors of The Final Night already knew of his existence and were both acting quite differently to the news. The dragon queen, alive and well, was now an empress and far more powerful than she had been those many centuries ago. She had not met or even spoken to him but he had sensed her and she had sensed him in return. She knew he was awake and had, as of yet, done nothing. Her lack of action was her downfall and the man had taken full advantage of it. With his greatest threat dealt with, he could focus his attention on the second figure.

The last unicorn had taken his awakening seriously, as all of Faeryum should have. Tasked with protecting the world of great, magical dangers, she had immediately come to end his life.

The man gazed downward at the thousands of steps hewn into the steep mountainside in a zigzag pattern. He remembered watching the unicorn gallop up those steps, her horn ablaze with white fire and her eyes shining with starlight. She had faced him at her most powerful and had battled fiercely, with intense determination and unmatched bravery. The unicorn had nearly succeeded in killing him, so soon after waking up, but in the end, he had managed to secure a damning victory. The unicorn had then been thrown down the mountainside, battered, bruised, and beaten.

Ultimately, he had erred in not killing her outright.

“Even the greatest of men make mistakes,” he muttered to the wind.

After healing her wounds and recovering her magic energies, the unicorn had busied herself with gathering powerful forces against him. She had alerted the third survivor of his awakening and though the man had expected an attack from that one, it never came. That man, the final survivor to know of his return, had never even bothered to reveal himself.

During her quest for allies, the man had tried futilely to stop the unicorn. After many failed attempts he had abandoned his efforts and focused on his greater task. All the while, the unicorn gathered aid and prepared for another attack.

Let her come, he had once thought. Let her try.

“There was my second mistake,” he said aloud.

The unicorn, to his great surprise, had then, somehow, gained an ally that could possibly prove to be his bane. This threat to his ultimate victory was young, inexperienced, and hardly intimidating in the least yet it was not her battle prowess—or lack thereof—that concerned him.

It was her origin.

The man turned and entered his domain, settling down at a desk where a blank parchment, a full inkwell, and a sharpened quill awaited him. He dipped the quill in the ink, tested its tip, and then began to write.

It is of no matter, The Writer thought as his quill scratched the parchment furiously. Amalthea’s little ally will soon be no more.

****

“Listen here, you little sugar junkies,” Grandmother growled from atop her horse. “My boys and I have passed here a thousand and one times and we’ve always paid you. That’s at least five thousand and five candies between the two of you. Can’t you spare us one free pass, just this one single time?”

On the main road in the Old Forest, within the kingdom of Midae, a common occurrence was happening.

Hansel looked at his sister Gretel and she looked back at him. For a moment it almost appeared as if they were considering Grandmother’s request. Her hands, clenched into fists of anger, relaxed slightly.

Hansel then turned to her and said, “I am afraid that—”

“—we cannot do that,” finished Gretel.

“If we let you go freely only a single time—”

“—then you would seek to do so again.”

“Also, if word spread of our leniency—”

“—every passerby down this road would make the same request.”

“We cannot suffer that to become reality,” they both said simultaneously.

“Yet I have to suffer you,” Grandmother grumbled. She glanced back at her sons, all astride their own horses and impatiently waiting to move on. None of their horses were as well-fed or healthy are hers but they were able beasts all the same. Her tallest and smartest son, ironically named Brawn, hauled a net behind his horse. Trapped inside was a satyr, a rare creature from deep in the Old Forest. It wasn’t the first one she and her sons have captured but they always fetched a decent price at the black market. It wasn’t a unicorn by any measure but it would keep them all fed for a time.

“Ain’t none of you boys have a piece of candy?” Brawn asked his brothers.

They all shook their heads and raised their palms helplessly.

“You know the rules,” Hansel prodded.

“No one goes past us without payment,” Gretel reminded.

Normally, Grandmother always kept a bag full of candy at her side for the inevitable meeting of the two golden-haired siblings but at some point during the hunt she had lost it. Now, with a good prize in her grasp, she was met with an unmovable obstacle. Hansel and Gretel looked like nothing more than two annoying children but Grandmother was no fool and knew better. Some her best hunting friends, thinking themselves better than the two siblings, had tried to ride past them or even through them.

Grandmother had not seen a single one of them ever again.

She had never witnessed Hansel and Gretel in action and, though she was curious to know the extent of their power, she was in no hurry to do so. If no payment could be made she and her sons would simply have to take the long way around the forest. It added many days to their travels and they were already low on supplies. She could head north to the city of Magdemona but it was populated with people far more vile, wicked, and conniving as her. She would get a despicable price for the satyr but it may be her only option. With what money she gained from it, she could then purchase a few pieces of candy, some supplies, and simply head down the main road to home, empty-handed.

Another useless hunt, she thought with irritation.

“You cannot pass without payment!” cried Hansel.

Grandmother snapped. “I know that! Just let me think!”

“He was not speaking to you,” Gretel said, her eyebrows furrowed.

“I was speaking to him,” Hansel clarified, extending a hand and pointing behind her.

Before Grandmother even glanced back the air around her suddenly cooled and her sons’ horses whinnied and huffed in terror. Her own horse became agitated but did not panic. She looked behind her and Grandmother’s heart, cold as it already was, wrenched painfully.

A knight armoured from head to toe in black steel sat upon a steed as dark as coal. He wore a tattered cape the colour of smoke and it draped over the back of his intimidating mount like a blanket. The horse’s eyes were as red as the fires of damnation and from its nostrils puffed out clouds of smoke. Through the thin slits of the knight’s visor, Grandmother saw eyes of crimson, like twin orbs of blood, staring directly at her.

“Step…aside,” the knight said in a slow, hissing voice that made Grandmother’s skin crawl. It was like the northern wind over snow-covered plains or the last dying breath of an old man.

Grandmother acquiesced and moved out of the way, giving the fearsome knight some room to pass. Her sons struggled greatly to control their horses and it was not long before several were bucked off, their cowardly mounts galloping away.

Hansel and Gretel did not move.

“You are new here,” Gretel stated, her eyes narrowed in curiosity.

“We’ve never seen you before,” added Hansel.

“Out…of…my…way,” the knight said slowly and deliberately as his horse huffed.

“All who ride on the Main Road—“ started Gretel.

“—must offer payment to continue,” finished Hansel.

The knight dismounted, his armor rattling with the action, walked up to the two children and looked down at them. Shadowy tendrils crept out of the cracks in his armour and began slithering around his body, like smoky serpentine guardians. The knight unsheathed his sword, a wicked thing with a serrated edge and veins of red streaked across the silvery black blade.

Gretel eyed the sword. “Is that—”

Hansel narrowed his eyes. “—a threat?”

Faster than Grandmother could blink, the knight’s sword plunged directly through Hansel’s chest, protruding out the other side and dripping the boy’s blood on the packed earthen road. The knight threw him aside, the lifeless corpse hitting the ground in a mess of twisted legs, shattered ribs, and glassy eyes.

The knight turned to Gretel but at the sight of her slain brother she screamed louder than Grandmother had ever heard anyone scream before. The old woman jammed her palms against her ears as her horse, unable to take the pain, reared up and bucked her off. Her sons’ remaining horses all did the same, including the one dragging the netted satyr, and fled the area, taking it along for a bumpy and panicked ride.

The knight didn’t appear bothered in the least and pulled his sword back, readying for another deadly stab.

Gretel ceased her scream and threw her hands forward, blasting out a wave of violet light that struck the knight squarely. It shot him back, past his horse, over Grandmother’s sons’ heads, and hundreds of feet down the road. Grandmother removed her hands from her ears and, eyes bulging, gazed at Gretel. The girl’s body glowed in multi-colored light and her eyes were as white as pearls.

“NO ONE PASSES!” she boomed in the voice of a god.

The knight’s horse charged at her, its black mane bursting into flames and long fangs protruding down from its upper jaw. Several curved horns grew out of his head and its tail hairs twisted together, forming thick strands that became living black snakes with golden eyes that spat and hissed menacingly. Rows of spikes burst out of its sides and along its legs as its hooves split into a trio of curved claws. Grandmother had never seen a more nightmarish beast in all her life. Her blood froze at the mere sight of it and she praised the gods in all their glory that its attention was focused on the girl and not her.

Gretel gave it a brief glance and extended her hand once more. This time a beam of golden light shot forth and struck the charging beast with thunderous force. The demonic horse screeched a howling wail and then exploded into bits of black fur and ebony claws.

Just like that, it was destroyed.

Grandmother made an eternal promise then and there that she would never in her life even shed the thought of angering Gretel. The rumours were all true. The children bore godly power and would make short work of anyone and everyone.

Or so she thought.

The knight returned, racing down the road at a steady pace, his tattered cape billowing behind him. Gretel shot a bolt of lightning directly at him, its crackling thunder nearly shattering Grandmother’s skull with its sudden bang. The knight blocked it with his sword and only slowed down slightly, his weapon absorbing the magical energy and rendering the bolt useless. Gretel then shot forth half a dozen fireballs in quick succession but the knight cut them apart with his blade, his actions all a blur. Gretel instead extended both hands and screamed again.

The trees along the forest road trembled and any birds perched in hiding took wing. The ground shook and rumbled, causing the pebbles and stones upon the dirt road to bounce about. A globe of light appeared between the girl’s outstretched palms and quickly grew in size. The knight closed in, now only a few paces away.

When the globe reached the size of Gretel’s head, she ceased her screaming and Grandmother shielded her eyes at the ensuing flash of light. Peering through squinting eyes, she saw a massive beam of light blast out, aimed directly at the knight. It burned the ground beneath it with its passing and gouged a path through the forest, incinerating any trees or animals in its path. When the beam’s energy was spent, Gretel fell to her knees and dropped her arms.

The knight was nowhere to be seen.

Before Grandmother could wonder if Gretel had won the battle, the knight came streaking down from above after having apparently leapt directly over the beam. Gretel looked up in time for the knight’s blade to run through her face and jab into the ground beneath her. The knight, back on the ground, gave his sword a shake and tossed the impaled child aside.

Boris, Grandmother’s youngest and gentlest son, approached the knight and gave him a congratulatory pat on his back. “Good goin’ there, bud! Those brats were always givin’ us trouble. This road is free again!”

The knight killed him with a single punch to the face.

Any coldness Grandmother had felt at the sight of the knight was immediately melted away by the fires of rage at the sight of her dead son. Much like Gretel had done, she engaged the knight, seeking to avenge the death of her child. Grandmother unsheathed her broadsword and cried out in defiance.

Her other sons did the same, brandishing axe, sword, mace, and daggers.

The knight slashed once, cleaving one man in two, and then thrust back, impaling a second, before spinning around and sweeping his blade wide, slashing the throat of a third.

In a moment, Grandmother’s sons, simple Brando, greedy Bill, and stubborn Bremon, were dead. The sight of their corpses nearly made her turn tail and flee but instead she kept charging, her rage and need for vengeance fueled further.

Brawn and Baron, her most skilful sons, fought the knight from two sides, hoping to find a weakness. Brawn battled with a broadsword as Baron wielded his trusty war axe. They traded blows with the lightning-fast knight for several hopeful seconds, proving their worth. Grandmother had never been more proud of them in all her life.

She entered the battle just as Baron was tripped up and fatally stabbed in the chest. Brawn shoved his sword into the crease between two pieces of black armour, sinking it deeply. The knight didn’t appear to feel any pain and instead grabbed Brawn by his neck and crushed it between his armoured fingers. Grandmother, in tears and crying out in utter defiance, leapt at the exposed knight and thrust her blade into the crack of his visor. She put all her weight into the attack and jammed the sword so deeply that it was stopped by back of the helm.

For a single moment, Grandmother stood in place, her arms outstretched, her blade plunged into the knight’s face, and her body burning with rage.

The moment ended when the knight pulled his sword back and then swept it wide, cleaving Grandmother in two, showering blood in all directions. She fell to the ground next to her separated lower body, her head already lightening with every passing second as blood pooled around her.

The knight pulled her sword out from his helm and tossed it aside, still clearly alive and undamaged. He looked down at Grandmother as she lay dying, as if savoring his kill.

“Black knight,” Grandmother called out, her voice little more than a gurgle as blood gathered at the back of her throat. “Why are you here?” Before she died—which Grandmother knew would come any moment now—she wished to know who’s unfortunate soul would have to face such an impossibly powerful foe. Woe be to them, she thought as her vision failed and the line between reality and imagination blurred. At least I died a fighter…

As Grandmother’s eyes began to cloud over and she breathed her last breath, the black knight hissed a single word, slowly, venomously, as if savouring each syllable.

“Sel…vi…na.”