Het and the Three Companions (Patreon)

(Here's an upcoming story about Het that will be posted under the comic - I thought you might want to read it early and all at once. Enjoy!)

There came a time when the dust of the road grew too thick for Het and her great stave grew heavy, and the days grew dead and cold. She lifted her brow to the horizon, and spying the faint light of shelter, set her shoulder to the wind and drove on. It was not long before she came upon a cramped and hardy town, set into the earth as though frozen there. The roads were well used, and smoke and steam coiled from hot chimneys, but although the light had not yet died, there was not a soul about, only a few spare and desperate looking dogs. This troubled Het, being a former watchman, but she pressed on, for travel by then had worn her so thin she feared to trust the strength of her arm.

It wasn’t long before Het came upon a narrow and weather-stained hall, and there a door with iron nails in it. As she entered, something caught her eye. Over the threshold was an old sprig of holly and and a writ of forbiddance against the things that preyed on men, the paper fresh and crisp. Inside the hall a long hearth tried fitfully to push back against the chill that seeped in through the cracked walls. There gathered on the straw were some dozen locals, their faces haggard and creased, and sitting some ways off were three others, who stood out by their color - for the rest of the place was dull and smothered with gloom. The first was a man with a crimson cloak, a beggar knight with a knotted beard and bulging eyeballs. The second was a priest in a stained white vestment, chewing on sweetroot and spitting the juice into the straw. The third was a golden-haired woman with milky skin and burnished armor. She had on her a great number of weapons, all polished to a sheen, and many emblems were fastened to her breastplate, which was fashioned in the likeness of a snarling beast.

Het thought it a strange scene, but stranger still was the cold and hollow silence in that place, broken only by the shuffling of feet, the light tap of utensils, and the occasional sound of the priest spitting into the straw. “Ho friends,” said Het, feeling as if she was breaking glass with her very words, “May I sit by this hearth? The nights grow long and the path is hard and stony.” There was no response, so Het took a second step into the room, and saw at once the grey and downturned faces, the hollow and reddened eyes, and the empty expressions of those seated there. Het saw that the hall, narrow that it was, was built for far more to supper there, and she was suddenly aware of the great emptiness in that room.

“Death has made her abode here,” said Het.

“So she has,” said the red-cloaked beggar knight, and bade Het come share bread.

Het sat down amongst the three strangers. The bread had been broken some time ago, and was stiff and dense. Het chewed it and tried to warm herself, but her cloak was thin, and the the hearth barely touched the room with its heat. “Where is the waymaster?” asked Het. “Dead,” said the priest with the stained robes, and spat into the straw, “And you won’t get much out of anyone here about it. Not a soul in this town dares breathe a word, or lets their boots protrude an inch outside more than they have to. All industry and life in this town fled long ago. It’s as dead as the poor waymaster.”

“How so?” said Het.

“They are paralyzed with fear. There’s a demon about,” said the priest, through his mouthful of root. “It goes about pick-a-pack and kills what it pleases, be it man, woman, or child. So I hear it, at first it began taking a little - mutilating livestock and the like. Then before long it got a taste for man flesh. It hasn’t killed when the sun is high yet, so folks have figured that’s the only way to stay safe.” The priest picked at a scar on his nose and continued. “Trouble is, it seems lately it hasn’t been following the rules. It’s lifting latches and throwing catches and crawling in through the windows and spilling the guts of folks in their sleep. So they all figure the quieter they are, the less likely they are to lose their innards.”

“Makes for poor hospitality,” wheezed the beggar knight, and took a long drink from an iron flask at his hip. The golden-haired maiden simply looked on, her expression bitter. Het found the pale woman’s silence troubling. Her massive hands searched for the grip of her great stave, for she was familiar with demons, and had spent a great deal of her days on the road driving them out of the places she passed through. Here, near the edges of the world, they clustered on the hamlets spotted across the bleak landscape and fattened themselves like ticks. “Well, hasn’t anyone thought of killing it?” said Het.

“Didn’t you see the tree on the way in?” said the beggar knight. Het shook her head, as she had no idea what he was talking about. The three other travelers passed a look between them.

“Well come have a look,” said the priest. He heaved to his feet and spat his sweet root out, and grabbed his preaching rod and an old iron lantern, which he lit with a foul-smelling oil. Het followed him as he limped out the door. Strangely, he paused on the threshold, foot planted as though waiting for something. Het was about to ask why, but caught the sheen of sweat on the man’s ruddy neck, and the slight shake in his hand, and realized the priest was afraid. She held her tongue as the beggar knight, and then the golden-haired woman, gathered up their armament, then rose and followed them into the biting dusk. The light had almost wicked away to nothing. The streets they passed through were hollow, and even the dogs had disappeared. Their footsteps echoed off the walls of that barren place, and through the freezing air Het could sense the invisible and terrible grip of fear.

They arrived after a short while at a low hollow in the earth, what might have once been called a town square. In the middle, the broken and knotted form of an ancient tree jutted forth from the ground. In times of plenty, Het could have seen it bear a thick crown of leaves, or perhaps colorful blossoms. At a time it may have been majestic, a sentinel watching over the town. But Het realized now she had been lucky to avoid its sight when the light was better. For as she drew closer to the tree, and the quavering light of the priest’s lantern picked up the jagged tangle of its branches, she could see that they were smeared with a strange, crusted sap. Here and there, the sap had dripped to the ground in smears and blotches, creating a strange patchwork among the gnarled roots. And as the party drew right up to those roots, Het saw that there were tattered cloths hanging from the tree, like discarded laundry, hanging here and there as though carried in by a gale of some sort. Hundreds of them hung there, limp and lifeless in the frosty dusk.

But it was not sap. And they were not cloths.

They stood there a while. Het was not sure what to say. Her breathe had quickened and she thought she might swallow her tongue a moment. She waited until the beating of her heart had subsided, and let the cold fingers of fear retreat from under her skin. “Nobody dares take em’ down,” said the priest finally. The whites of his eyes were very bright, even in the dusk. “Some tried, and were added to the rest. Seems a few would-be-heroes came through town, and thought to go after the beast.” He raised the lantern higher, with slow and deliberate movements. “There’s many up there.”

“Ten,” said the beggar knight. He licked his lips, his bulging eyes flicking back and forth among the branches and their grisly banners. “I see em’ up there. It hung their cloaks and banners next to them.”

“Why does it flay them?” said Het.

“Who knows,” said the priest, “God didn’t give demons a reason for killing. They don’t even need to eat.”

“We shouldn’t be about, now,” said the beggar knight, his eyes wide and darting, his voice barely a croak. The tiny circle of lamplight surrounding them seemed to be dimming, and the hollow spaces between the buildings surrounding the square seemed to swell, filling with a thick and pregnant blackness. The silence was suddenly completely deafening. Het felt as though she herself was missing her skin, and all the eyes in the world were burrowing into her flesh, hard enough to draw blood.

But at last, a voice like a firebrand cut through the silence. “I’m not afraid of any demon,” said the golden haired woman. Her radiant white face seemed to rise up in the lamplight, and Het suddenly relaxed her painful grip on her stave, and her breath grew calm as the cold sweat on the back of her neck evaporated. Had she been that afraid? “I’ve been trying to convince these clods for hours,” sad the woman, motioning with her chin at the priest and the beggar knight. “We should go about when the sun is up and slay the beast in it’s lair.”

“You’re as afraid as we are,” protested the beggar knight, his thick beard bobbing as he spoke.

“Nay, friends,” said the woman, “I am never daunted. I will go after it myself if I must.” There was a ring of steel, and she drew a heavy, gleaming blade from her collection. “I had hoped to go while the light was about, but if I must, I’ll head it off now and we can get this whole business over with. If any man join me and cannot banish the measly scourge of fear from his heart, he is of no use to me.”

“Wait!” said Het, not wanting the woman to leave, for if she did, Het knew her fear would surely return. Looking about, she saw the same hunger in the faces of the beggar and the priest, and she knew instantly that same terror had them in its grip.

“Do you doubt me?” said the shining woman. “I’ve dueled with soldiers of the corpse-legion and won. I’ve killed giants with naught but a broken axe,” said the woman,” and I’ve hacked off the heads of fiends and crawling things from one end of this blasted world to the next.” Het saw that this was true, for the woman’s gleaming breastplate was flush with colorful emblems, and she had a great number of pale and puckered scars crowding her beautiful face. Het saw the confidence with which the woman held the handle of her blade, and the steadiness of her polished boot, and the beautiful line of her strong and confident brow, and knew then that there was not an ounce of fear inside the woman.

“Now join me or quake by the hearth some more,” growled the woman, and made to leave. But the priest put a hand on her shoulder, and in the other raised his lantern high. “I shall join you,” said the priest, “For God spake and said to cast out demons wherever they are found, and forbade us to feel fear while doing our holy work. I may be of some use to you.” But as he spoke, Het saw his quivering hand, and his shaky gait, and his white eyes that were constantly darting up to the tree and its grisly adornment.

“Nay” said the golden-haired warrior, who had seen it too. “Fear has his grip on you, and you’re of no use to me”

“I feel something like fear,” said the priest, “But I cannot be afraid, for God has taught us fear is naught but an illusion. I deny my fear, and in doing so, conquer it” He set his pale face, shiny with sweat, in a resolute expression, and from his habit produced his preaching rod, which he clutched in a strained grip. The golden-haired woman gave him a discerning look, but at last waved him forward. “Very well,” she said, “Stand by me here, and hold the lantern,” she said, and made to leave.

They had scarcely walked two paces when there was a cry. “Wait!” said the beggar knight, “I think I told you I was afraid, but I am sure now I wasn’t. My drink is clouding my mind.” From within his cloak he produced his flask and took a long swig as if to prove a point. Then he produced a stout wooden cudgel for beating away dogs, as was the custom.

“Is that so?” said the golden-haired woman. Her eyes were mistrustful. “I must plead for my food,” said the beggar. He tugged on his beard as he spoke, and Het saw he was shaking almost as badly as the priest. “From dawn to dusk I am looked down upon by even the lowliest of men who pass me. Some think I’m no better than an animal! If all of you think less of me because I am afraid, then I will endeavor not to be!” He puffed up his chest, and thumped his cudgel against the cobbles.

“Very well,” said the golden haired woman, finally. “You may stand behind the priest and steady his hand, for I’ll need consistent lamp-light if I’m to do my grisly work.” She hefted her heavy blade, and the three of them turned to leave, but then Het cried out, for she could feel fear returning as fast as the lamp-light faded. “Not you too, surely?” said the golden-haired woman. “Dare you tell me you are not afraid as well?”

Het looked around at the darkness, and turned her eyes away from the tree, for it was too terrible. She planted her stave, and leaned into it. It had served her well in defending the weak and poor. She had smashed the skulls of many terrible things with its thick end, and she had faced down death many times. Het knew that she was regarded as brave by many people. She was confident in the strength of her arm, and the skill of her swing, and the power of her watchman’s eye to catch out and destroy evil. But at all that time, even when swinging the mighty bulk of her stave into the jaws of death, she could never once say that she hadn’t been afraid. Fear had been her constant companion, as much as she would have liked to have banished it. She could not be like this shining and decorated warrior before her, golden-locked and striding into the darkness with confidence and poise.

“I am afraid,” said Het. “I’m very afraid. Even though I’ve spend the last odd year of my life hunting demons, there’s been a shiver in my grip the whole time.” She felt ashamed. But it was better to tell the truth and bear it on her back. It was what a good watchman was supposed to do, if Het had still been a watchman. In truth, Het was a better watchman then than she ever had been when she wielded a badge and uniform. In truth, Het had slain thrice as many demons as the golden-haired woman. Het was, in fact, a head and a half taller than any of the other three travelers. Her arms were like oak boughs, and none save her could have dreamed of lifting her heavy stave. But she knew none of this, and so she felt ashamed.

“Well then you’re of no use to me,” scowled the golden-haired woman, “But there’s no use either sending you back to the hall to cower. Stand a ways behind the beggar, and hold on to the tail of his cloak. Now let’s be off!” So the golden-haired woman gripped the rugged haft of her blade and set her jaw and stormed off into the night. And behind her, the priest raised his lantern, and behind him, the beggar followed with his cudgel. And at the very rear was Het, who clung on to the tail of the beggar’s cloak, and brought her stave close to her chest, and hung her head low. Her one reprieve was that the heavy and matted locks of her hair, which had grown long and dense during her time on the road, hung like a curtain and hid her shame from the others.

They made a strange party as they crept through those empty streets. First, the golden-haired woman came, with her profusion of weapons, and her steely gaze and confident stride. Each time she stepped, her boots slapped the cobbles with such a profound sound that Het almost jumped. Then came the priest, with his lantern held high. The tremble of his hand made the light waver and swing violently. Profuse shadows would grow and clutch from the hollows and recesses of the crooked buildings around them until the beggar reached out and steadied the lantern with his callused hand. There was no sound except for the slapping of the golden-haired warrior’s boots, and their breath, which by degrees became louder and louder to Het, until it was almost deafening.

It quickly grew so dark that to Het it seemed they stood in the void itself, and nothing else existed in either shape or sound beyond the swinging circle of lamp-light they carried with them. The cold dug under Het’s meager wrappings, and sent nails under her skin. Her knuckles cracked and bled, so tight was her grip upon her great stave and the ragged cloak of the beggar. An hour or more passed, and the truth of that place began to unfold itself in frozen vistas of emptiness. The world was black and total, a place that mocked light, sensation, and the meager heat inside them that they bled out into the uncaring night. Occasionally the golden haired woman would stop and stoop, and they would wait in silence while she examined the earth, or where a low wall of stones had been broken, or where a window shutter had been torn off its hinges. At these times, Het would lash down her breath and release it in a sudden burst when they moved again.

It wasn’t long before the priest’s lantern threw its light on a a terrible scene. The dwellings surrounding them were ransacked and empty, their windows hollow. Their doors were splintered or torn, the contents of their interior vomited into the street. Broken furniture and trash were piled almost wall to wall, so that as they proceeded, they picked their way over the mud spattered detritus of vacated lives. Finally, the golden-haired warrior raised a gauntleted hand and bade them stop. There was no sound at all as they came to a low and hunched building that stood aside from the others. The ground was torn and mangled here, and pressed into it like strange cobblestones were the strange and precious oddments of every day life- a tea set, a shoe, a child’s doll, a crumpled wrapping cloth, an antique plate. There was a single door in the building, and over the door frame, a ward against evil. It had burned up and curled into a black and barely recognizable mess.

Over the eaves of that building, hanging like dull banners, were dried and tattered skins. The door was swinging on its hinges.

“The beast dwells here,” said the golden-haired woman in low voice, and motioned to the building. And as the last of her exhalation left her lips, from the open doorway something terrible and massive poured, and unfolded all its awful limbs and hurtled towards them, screaming.

The golden-haired woman had no fear in her heart at all, and bellowed a mighty cry, and raised her gleaming blade to strike. But since she had no fear, her blow was rash and prideful and full of none of the self-preserving wisdom of longer-lived warriors. The beast was a twisted and hateful thing, and it took the blade upon its flesh and hacked up bloody spittle as the metal dug deep into its shoulder. But there the blade lodged, and as the golden-haired warrior struggled to pull a new weapon from her collection, the beast shrieked and lifted her into the air with unholy strength, and cracked her ribcage and sucked her guts out in a second, and that was that.

The priest gave out a cry, and swung his lantern at the demon, for dogma had taught him that such creatures hated light above all things. And indeed, dogma had taught well, for the beast spat a frothy spittle and recoiled from the lantern, and the priest struck out with his preaching rod, as he was taught. But while confidence guided the priest’s blow, it was an illusory confidence, driven by his refusal to accept fear. The shaking that he had so long ignored turned his blow, and it struck wide, and the sweat of his palms greased his grip and his weapon was struck from his hand. He tried to utter a prayer, but found to his surprise he could not speak a single word. He cried out as his head was split and devoured, and his lantern was knocked aside and snuffed, and that was that.

With the other two dead, and having little regard for Het, the beggar had absolutely no reason to continue to appear brave, and ran shrieking into the pitch black, where he was set upon and torn apart as he tried to scrabble over a low wall. And that was that, and only Het remained, quaking with terror, unable to see beyond her nose, and clutching a torn shred of the beggar’s cloak.

The demon ceased its screaming, and prowled in circles as it licked its gory chops, for Het was surely easy prey. Het could scarcely control the shaking of her limbs as she heard the click-clack of its nails, and felt the charnel heat of its breath staining the night. And finally, it tired of toying with its prey, and fell upon Het with its limbs splayed out, and its eyes all aflame, and its lips ripped open in an awful shriek.

But it what it could not know, and neither could Het, was Het had not denied fear a place in her heart of hearts. It was an uncomfortable guest, but one that she was familiar with. Unlike the golden-haired woman, it quickened Het’s step and pumped through her blood, refining her purpose. Unlike the priest, she knew the ways in which it tugged at her, and contorted her senses, and so she made extra effort to straighten her back and steady her hand. And unlike the beggar, Het cared little for the appearance of bravery, for she did not think herself brave. Lacking an audience to impress, her resolve had not wavered in the slightest, for Het was an aspirant to Royalty, and her mind was as a mighty Tower, with walls a hundred thousand paces high.

So it was that as the monster dove at Het, and reached out with all its hooks and nails and instruments of death, Het struck out with her eyes and limbs all filled with lightning. She swung with a purpose sharpened by fear into a perfect cutting edge, and smashed the demon’s brains out with a single fantastic blow. So powerful was the blow that the earth itself shook and the villagers who huddled inside their low and lonely dwellings thought the end of the world was upon them.

The demon was flung fifty paces, where it shrieked and died in spurts and spasms. And that was that.

After some pains, Het re-lit the priest’s lamp, and waited and shivered there until morning as the corpse of the beast cooled and froze, and the faint warmth of the sun bled over the horizon. Then she dragged it to the town square, and made to take down the skins hung on the great tree.

When at last the curious villagers emerged, they were exuberant, and lifted Het upon their shoulders, and spat upon the corpse of the great beast. A party was sent to find and bury the three other travelers, and the rest of the grisly display was taken down from the old tree. Het was fed thick gruel with honey, and the light and heat of the town grew in strength with the day, so that by noon, the fires in hearths were roaring, and the houses steamed in the cold, the dogs pranced in the streets, and children emerged to goggle at and pick at the monster’s corpse with sticks.

For her part, Het was happy to see a little life return, and relieved for the light of the day. She slept much of that afternoon, and through the night, and in the morning set again upon the road, glad to be rid of that place. But she took its memory with her, and kept her fear close and intimate. Later it would serve her well on the road.

But that is another story.