Duncan was sick to death of this village. The food was terrible, the lodgings were uncomfortable, and the people pestered him relentlessly. They seemed incapable of solving their own problems, and half of them were thick as pig shit: droning on and on about imaginary monsters. Jobs out in the countryside were always a hassle for that very reason; it was like they were all suffering the same shared delusion, making out the hills were full of redcaps ready to wreak havoc or spectral beasts that preyed on travellers, as though they hadn’t all been pushed back to the Wilds who knows how long ago.

  He had been in this cesspit for days now, sent on a wild goose chase at the behest of the Order, based solely on the scribbles of some mad robe in the Elwood. A Hallowed Shrine that far east? What a load of bollocks, he’d thought, they never managed to reach that far out during the illumination. He’d thought it a fool’s errand, and he was no fool. He resented having been sent here. He’d pissed somebody off, somebody higher up - he was sure of it.

  What angered him even more was that the bastards had actually been right, in the end.

  The villagers, for the most part, had been of no help to him at all - it seemed that none of them knew of the Shrine’s existence, save one. A young waif, who was all too eager to share his knowledge of the place, asking only for a hot meal in return. It was a fair price, and sorely needed - the boy looked malnourished and dishevelled.

  The boy had delivered on his end of the bargain, once his belly was full, and he’d gleefully led Duncan out past the marbled church into a particularly dense area of a nearby forest. The Shrine was tucked away deep within, and there was no clear path to it.

  “See, I told you!” the young boy said proudly, pointing to a small structure just ahead. It was a ruinous thing, all collapsed stone and rotted wood - the echoes of its former beauty long since evanesced. The forest had made some attempt to claim it, but had not yet succeeded: tree roots pierced through cracks in the stonework, and moss capped its surfaces.

  “Indeed you did,” Duncan replied. There were obvious signs of interference in the area - debris moved to the sides, moss scraped away, a path cleared. By his estimations, this place was not often visited, but one could never be too sure. “Do you know of anyone else who comes here?”

  “No, all the other kids are boring. They’re too scared to come here!” The boy continued talking, rattling on about nothing relevant, and wandering around the area. Duncan paid him no mind - he’d heard all that he needed.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He knelt down to take a closer look at one part of the shrine in particular: one tablet among others that was still barely legible, unmistakably inscribed with Hallowed Words. The prayer wasn’t any that he was familiar with. He read the Words over and over, committing them to memory as quickly as he could, doing his best to drown out the boy’s rambling. Satisfied that he could reproduce them back at Halbury, he stood.

  “Mister Sir Duncan, look!” The boy pointed excitedly behind Duncan.

  Duncan turned warily, hand on the grip of his sword, but let himself relax when he saw what the boy had drawn attention to. There was a small, black bird perched atop a particularly large rock; a crow, or possibly a raven - Duncan never could tell the difference.

  There was an unnatural depth to the creature’s eyes. They bore no reflections, had no spark of life within them. No feeling. A perfect, inescapable abyss.

  Duncan felt fear as he gazed back at the bird - a deep, primal response had been triggered at the sight. His hands trembled. He had the distinct feeling that it was waiting; that it knew what was coming. It was uncanny. He shook his head in an effort to be rid of the feeling, trying to re-focus on the task at hand, and the feeling faded away.

  He drew his sword, and turned around. The boy gave him a confused look. The cleanup here would be easier than usual: they were already far from prying eyes, and he was certain that the boy was the only witness to the Shrine. Perhaps I could even get myself some coin from this, he thought - the people of the village would be all too willing to accept their imaginary monster as the culprit, and him as their saviour. He took no pleasure in this, but why waste a good opportunity? He took a step towards the boy.

  One quick slash, and the boy’s scream was cut short.

  Two staggered thuds, sound softened by the leaves.

  Three strikes to stone, obscuring ancient Words.

  Four calls from the bird, and then it took flight.

  Old Wealdham was cursed, a long time ago

  Caught word, he did, Sir Duncan the brave knight

  They plead on his arrival: desperate, vexed

  "Oh please, Sir Duncan - please help us, you must!"

  They were plagued by a monster, day and night

  It had grown bold, had taken a small child

  So he replied, “Fear not! I will slay it!”

  And set out in his search, without delay

  Through thunder, through rain; through day, and through night

  'Till he uncovered an old, shrouded grove

  An ancient place; 'twas refuge for the beast

  The monster stirred, and burst from its green depths

  Relentless, savage swipes that tore at stone

  It seemed he would lose, though hope was not lost

  He called for the Seraph, who gave their light

  The monster was purged in an instant - dead

  Reduced to dust, by a resplendent act

  The grove was empty, peaceful once again

  A body lay within; he was too late

  He buried them there, laying them to rest

  Grove to a grave, it was now hallowed ground

  With the curse lifted, he made his way back

  The hero of their town, forever more.

  - The Hero of Wealdham, by the bard John Hawkesbury.