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His king has commanded a quest. See the beauties, horrors, and wonders of the land. Camriddeon will travel far in the name of peace, and in the name of progress.

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The Hard Promise

It was a cold day when Harsk came to Fresh Harbor.

Gene looked up from his shop counter, and saw the old gristle of a man walk down the snowy dirt road. That was when he knew something was wrong.

“Paula!” Gene stood up, alarmed. “Get the sheriff, and maybe the doctor.”

“I’m doing inventory…”

“Now!” Gene ran out the door. Gene was fifty-six years old, and a few easy decades behind the counter had helped build a healthy paunch. He didn’t run for anything. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually sprinted for anything.

As such, he was winded just running out of the small store, down the street, and in front of Harsk.

“Harsk! You’re here! Without a horse, without a…” Gene panted, holding his side. Oh, that hurt. Find a chair right next to the bank on the porch siding, there you go. Right underneath the roof, find the cushioned chair. Sit down. Gene sighed, and looked up, bleary-eyed.

“You’re here.”

Harsk stopped. His riding boots were ruined after a solid two weeks of trudging through the snow. Warmed by his thick coat and clothes. Covered in sweat from carrying his saddle and the rest of his life on his shoulder. His sword was in need of maintenance, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had had a home-cooked meal.

But seeing Gene D’rae huffing for air by the bank made him drop the saddle on the porch, and take a long laugh. Loud, raspy, clearing his throat in the chill of the air.

“Gene D’rae, how are you this fine morning?”

Gene sighed, and tried to catch his breath. “Harsk…where’s your horse?”

The Rider looked downcast at the mention of the horse. This one had been with him a long three years. Always temperamental to anyone else, and obeyed commands without complaint.

Harsk had had to put him down. After what they had put him through, the horse had had enough with life. Harsk had made it quick. It was the least he could do, and he hated that it was all he could do.

Harsk. The legendary Rider, the leader of the Ride. Demon hunter, he was a savior to the downtrodden, and friend to all those who could not find another. How human he looked, not astride a horse. He looked anywhere between fifty and eighty, the lines on his face a combination of age and hard living. His clothes were well-worn, dirty, but in pristine condition. And those eyes, those hard eyes missed nothing.

He was still a legend. But without the horse, without the sight of him in command, the humanity seeped through. The slight bend in his back. The legs that were starting to become brittle. Harsk looked like he needed a long sleep.

“Harsk?”

Harsk looked up, and sighed.

“Gene. I think I might need a good meal. Does Zaqworth still own the saloon?”

“For the last twenty years, and probably another hundred more,” Gene said.

“Then I’ll probably be able to make it through one more meal.” Harsk looked down at the saddle, and grimaced. “Gene, I don’t mean to impose…”

“Your effects will all be taken care of. And you can find them at the shop.”

Harsk nodded. The thought of carrying that saddle one more step already threatened to send him to bed. Without a chance to talk to Zaqworth, well…that wasn’t going to happen.

He shivered, rubbed his arms for warmth, grabbed his sword, and trudged on down the street.

“How long will you be staying, Harsk?” Gene called out.

“Long enough for you and Martha to be sick of having me over for dinner, I suppose,” Harsk shouted back. He smiled. He could almost feel Gene try to jump for joy.

Down the road, past the bank, and the Gene-ral store (because how could he resist the pun?), to where the road ended. Just on the bank of the Big Muddy, there was the dock that served as the major commerce for the town. And just before it, overlooking the great, churning expanse of mud and river water, there sat That Dam Beaver. A sprawling two-story wooden complex that served as saloon, eatery, inn, and meetinghouse for Fresh Harbor.

Harsk walked in the land entrance, and gave a contented sigh. Zaqworth had lit the two fires, and had even placed a kettle of cider next to the coffee. The two smells clashed against each other, even as they made his mouth water.

“Harsk,” Zaqworth muttered. “Coming in my bar, and in that state,” the half-elf looked up from his cleaning behind the bar. “I ought to throw you in the Muddy, try and get rid of some of that dirt.”

Harsk snorted. “And I’ll come out with three more tons of the stuff holding me down, no thanks.”

Zaqworth smirked. “Then get up to your room. I’ll have Saffia draw you a bath.”

Harsk groaned his way to the counter. “Not yet, Zaq. I’m just about ready to collapse, and if I don’t get some food in me I’m fit to keel over and sleep for a year.”

“And there isn’t anything ready.” Zaq took a long sniff, and gagged. “And I don’t want you stinking up the place.”

“But…”

“Upstairs!” Zaq pointed to the staircase. “Third room on the right is open. Saffia will have your bath in a minute.”

Harsk grumbled his way up the stairs. He wanted bacon, and grits, and enough salt to fill saddlebag. All washed down with several gallons of coffee.

But there was no arguing with Zaqworth. That Dam Beaver was his abode, and the dining area was sacrosanct. The half-elf didn’t care if someone rolled in from a storm, or was plopped sopping wet on his porch. The tables and chairs were not to be dirtied, ever.

Harsk walked into his room, sat on the chair, and waited. Sure enough, the little wisp of an elf that was Zaq’s employed maid whisked in. she brushed past him with barely a hello, past the bed to the washroom. In seconds and a few spells, the bath was filled and turned up to a good steam.

Saffia bowed to Harsk once, and then ran back out the door. Harsk frowned, and sighed. Ten years, and still not a word. That was a disappointment.

He discarded his clothes, set the sword on the side table, and sank into the bathwater. Harsk noticed how quickly the water turned from transparent to a nice sepia tone, and realized he might need this, and tried to relax.

He did not dream. Harsk had trained himself for many years to avoid dreaming. Dreams would lead to his failures, and those he had lost along the way. Harsk had long ago decided that dreams were for those who cared about hope, who cared about seeing the better world. He would rather do what was necessary to achieve it. And so after many years, and one witch doctor, he was able to disappear into a cold awareness, where there was only an over-abiding sense of the world at large, while he recuperated. He disappeared into himself, withdrawing into the void until he seemed dead to the world. Harsk could feel everything, but he did not need to.

Thus, when Zaqworth dared enter the room with breakfast, Harsk already felt well-rested, and ready to strike the room’s intruder. He looked up, his hand a few inches away from the sword.

“Relax, fearless hero,” the man said. “Nothing I haven’t seen a few hundred times before.”

He smirked. “Though you are a lot…cleaner than I expected.”

Harsk grabbed his hat, and held it strategically over his torso.

“Funny.” Zaqworth set Harsk’s breakfast down, shoving the sword to the side. Harsk glared at him, but would not give the half-elf the satisfaction of making a sword pun.

“After all these years, you still feel the need to treat me like a child,” Harsk said.

“You are a child, Harsk,” Zaq said. “Do you think a few decades is going to change that to someone who’s lived centuries?”

Harsk sighed, held his hat close to his waist, and stood up. “New clothes?”

“They’re on the bed.” Zaqworth said. “Be a dear and unfold the extra chair. I’ll bring out breakfast.”

Harsk got dressed, thankfully in peace. Zaqworth took the time to wash his face, check his makeup, and rearrange the garnish on breakfast. The half-elf worked quickly. By the time Harsk had the chair set up, Zaq had swooped in, set the table down, and even had some candlelight ready.

Harsk nodded to Zaq, sat down to eat, and stared. “There’s my sausage, grits…what is that?”

“That would be a breakfast bowl,” Zaqworth’s eyes lit up. “There’s black beans, avocado, coconut milk, quinoa, and just to be a bit naughty, there’s maple syrup, cinnamon and vanilla extract. This is vegan, gluten free, and to die for!”

Harsk reached across the table, and speared some of the green alien vegetable on his fork. He took a bite, chewed, and stuck it in the grits before taking another bite.

“Philistine.”

They ate breakfast in peace for a while.

“Saffia looks good.”

“She’s doing better,” Zaq said. “A little more time, maybe another decade or two, and she might be ready to talk.”

Harsk nodded, and chewed.

“She should not have commented about that witch’s hair.”

“That’s just what I was thinking.”

“I thought you were going to kill her?’

“Saffia?!?”

“No, the witch.”

“Your niece was the one dumb enough to try and mock a witch’s hair,” Harsk said. “A few years of silence seems to be doing her good.”

“Wonders. Absolute wonders. Her friends all left her, and her parents leave nice little curses for me to open, but that’s life.”

They kept eating.

“So, are you just going to keep me in suspense?” Zaq asked.

“What are you talking about?”

Zaq took his last bite, and set down his utensils. “I mean our annual get-together was…six months ago? And we’ve been getting word of the Ride being dismantled, brought down by some Demon Lord. All I can do is think about how that stupid kid Harsk finally came up against something he couldn’t force his way out of.”

“It was…complicated.”

Zaqworth darkened, and snapped his fingers. The candles winked out, the dishes disappeared, and the bathwater emptied out into the Muddy.

“Harsk, what happened?”

Harsk held his head.

“We were ambushed.”

“You don’t get ambushed. You never get ambushed.”

“I was outmaneuvered. By a Demon Lord.”

Zaq stared, stunned. “A Demon Lord? But they…”

“Usually reside in the Pit.” Harsk shivered. “But when you have been holding onto his daughter for well over a decade, he may take it personally.”

Zaq spluttered. “Kait’s father is a…gods above. Apollo, Diana, saints and stars.”

“Didn’t know you were religious.”

“When you dance with someone who spits at the devil, you learn fast.” Zaq held Harsk’s hand, squeezing it. “The Ride? Are they okay?”

“…I don’t know.”

Harsk stood up, and walked downstairs. Zaq followed him, trying to process everything.

“What needs doing?” Harsk asked.

“Um, there’s a bit of a leak in the pantry at Mrs. Chinnery’s,” Zaq said, trying to think. “She also has a break in the fence. One of the horses got a bit wild.”

Harsk nodded, and walked outside. “Have I got a horse?”

Zaq whistled, and a green mare seemed to appear. Already saddled with Harsk’s gear, readjusted for the new mount.

Harsk looked at Zaq, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, come on. Like I don’t know you.”

Zaq smiled, and shivered. “A bit cold for someone your age to be out working.”

Harsk swung up onto the horse. “I’m still a kid. Or so you keep telling me.”

“I also tell you to take it easy!” Zaqworth shouted after the galloping Rider.

Harsk snorted. Like he’d ever listen.

There was never a clear path to Mrs. Chinnery’s mill and river farm. The annual flooding of the river always chewed up what ground had been beaten down into a road before. Instead, the old terror relied on flattop boats floating down her way, and those fools who had been along often enough to remember the way.

That said, she did not actually want for company. She was just a few miles north of Fresh Harbor, so any river traffic had to find its way past her complex. Folks would drop by to try her coffees, buy a few jugs, and stare at the horses. Oh, and of course, she had the horses.

Harsk came around just after lunchtime. He and the horse both urged themselves towards the comfort of shelter. The heat that the morning had promised just did not materialize. Instead, Harsk’s hands threatened to match the coloring of the bright blue skies above him.

He blew on his hands a few times, and dismounted. He nodded to the green horse.

“Taking a stab here, just in case you are one of Zaq’s intelligent horses. If you are, and haven’t been up to Chinnery’s…just don’t go play with the horses. Trust me, those brutes don’t know how to play well with others.”

“Sounds like someone I used to know,” Mrs. Chinnery said, laughing.

Harsk took off his hat, and bowed low. “Mrs. Chinnery. You look as lovely as ever.”

Mrs. Wilma Chinnery snorted. That was a damned lie. She was a skinny old bat, and proud of it. Life had bent her to the perfect shape of a rocking chair, which she now sat in, polishing a crossbow bolt.

“I’m old, and I’ve got a sore, and the horses are getting ready for a mating season. You here about the leak and the break in the fence?”

“Did Zaq already tell you?”

“Zaqworth sent me one of those fancy little spells he’s so fond of.” Mrs. Chinnery waved her hands in a pseudo-mystical manner. “Magic. Always trying to go where it don’t belong.”

Harsk raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Anyways, I bought some wood down at the store, and all of Wilbur’s tools are still here. And before you say anything, what are we going to do about payment?”

Harsk wanted to protest, but the look from the old woman made him rethink it. “How about a nice large cup of coffee? Zaq fed me breakfast, and may have forgot the good stuff.”

“Honestly, that boy would forget his pretty little head if he didn’t find it in a mirror every damn minute.” Mrs. Chinnery nodded to Harsk. “Get to it, and I’ll make sure the kettle’s all set up.”

Harsk did bring the wood in. He found the pantry right where it had been the last few decades, ever since Wilbur first declared it a pantry. There was a leak, a tiny one right in the corner of the room.

Harsk grabbed a step stool, and got to work. Even though he had had a large breakfast with Zaqworth, the thought of Mrs. Chinnery’s coffee made his stomach rumble again. She was the only person he allowed to spice his coffee. There was something about her herbs and spices that she ground up in the mill with the coffee beans that gave it the extra kick that he needed. A cup of coffee was far more than he needed to patch a leak, especially this size.

He actually was able to patch up the hole in the pantry, put up some tar to seal it, and was about to lay down some tile before he noticed that Mrs. Chinnery still hadn’t come back from coffee. He walked into the kitchen. There was his coffee, but no Mrs. Chinnery. Just a screen door banging open on the stairs down into the river.

Harsk took his cup of coffee, and walked on down to the riverside. The stone steps wound away from the water wheel that powered her mill. They were carved into the hill that Chinnery’s whole operation stood on. Inconvenient, and slippery in foul weather, but quicker than walking twenty yards to the left and the beachhead. Safer, sometimes. The river horses sometimes got ornery.

Like right now. They had spotted Harsk’s replacement mount.

Eight horses, tearing through the eddies. They screamed, and threw up a long wave at the intruding horse. And the river responded with a great swell, chasing the green horse as she raced back away from the rising tide.

Chinnery’s river horses. They looked like they were made of foam and a mudslide. Thirty years ago, a small herd had spilled out of what had been the Ohio river, and the York Waste. They raced each other over the water, never stopping for ice and whitewater.

Harsk remembered when the herd had come to Fresh Harbor. Wilbur had managed to wrangle a couple when they tried to play with his wheel. They took a liking to the Chinnerys, and decided to stay. And were a terror to everyone else.

Harsk walked up to the dock. Mrs. Chinnery sat in her second rocking chair, a second cup of coffee in her own hands. She took a sip, and watched her horses race around each other. They whinnied, triumphant in scaring away an intruder.

The Rider stood on the dock, watching the horses with the old woman.

“Wouldn’t do that,” Mrs. Chinnery said. “They’re a bit…”

A horse turned and screamed. The color of clay-mud, a ruddy brown that was almost red, raced towards Harsk. The water horse barreled towards the man, raising the river level with him.

Harsk stood on the dock, and glared up at the horse.

“Tar’s not going to back down,” Mrs. Chinnery warned.

Harsk said nothing, and looked up at the horse. The stallion kept charging, intent on his enemy. He could smell the other horse on Harsk now. This was the intruder, and needed to be stopped.

Harsk kept his stance. And when the horse reared up to strike, Harsk dove forward. His arm clamped around the neck, and he hurled himself up on to the back of the water stallion. His pants were soaked through, but the creature felt firm, solid. He grasped onto the mane, and his hand slipped. That was water.

The stallion bucked. Harsk’s legs tightened around the torso, clamping down. The horse screamed, defiant. But the Rider had tamed many horses, knew exactly where to hold, and where to pull.

His free hand reached up and twisted on the horse’s ear. The horse’s knees buckled, the new pressure sending him crashing into the river. He tripped over the waves, and sprawled. The horse rolled on his back, smothering Harsk beneath him.

“Now you stop that!” Mrs. Chinnery called out. “Let him up this instant!”

There was a snort, but the horse did as he was told. Harsk rose up with him, spluttering and waterlogged. And then he twisted the ear again.

The horse screamed, and threatened to repeat the process. But the look on Mrs. Chinnery’s face made him pause. And that was long enough for Harsk to grab the other ear, and give them both a good long tug.

That did it. The horse reared, bucked. He tore through the river, up and down. Still the defiant Harsk held onto the ears.

After what seemed an age, the horse slowed, and eventually stopped. Harsk released the horse, and led him back to the dock. Mrs. Chinnery looked at the two of them with flinty eyes.

“That’s what you get for being such a stubborn jackass,” she muttered.

Harsk looked down at the horse. The two didn’t know exactly who she was talking about.

“Get down off of Secretariat and let him get a chance to relax. You ingrate.”

Harsk complied, and walked past her back to the solid, comfortable ground of the beach.

“Leak was fixed,” Harsk said.

“And you’ll go ahead and catch your death of cold anyways.” Mrs. Chinnery stood up and started shoving him up the beach towards the house. “Going to leak on my good floors, and maybe even die. Not on my watch! I’m not having the death of the legendary Rider happen because he decided he was going to be boss to a herd of sea horses!”

Harsk let himself be led inside. And had a second cup of coffee by the fire that Mrs. Chinnery lit with a small spell. He didn’t mention that it seemed okay to use magic and complain about it at the same time.

“And there you go,” Mrs. Chinnery walked up to Harsk, and handed him a scratchy, woolen blanket. “That is suited to be ruined, so let’s warm you up.”

“Mrs. Chinnery, I couldn’t…”

The old woman waved him off. “It was one of Walter’s terrible birthday gift ideas.”

Harsk shivered, and took another long sip of coffee. Let the warm liquid in.

Mrs. Chinnery sat in front of him, staring.

“So what do you need?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re here in the middle of winter, you pick fights with my horses, and you haven’t once asked about if he’s written, which means you’re on your way up to see him. What do you need to prepare?”

Mrs. Chinnery held up a hand as Harsk started to protest. “Don’t think about lying to me. And don’t bother with explaining, I don’t need to know. I just need to make sure the boy I remember walks out of this house better than he walked in.”

Harsk looked out into the fire. Then peered int the rapidly receding depths of the coffee mug. Tried to disappear for a while, and just be.

“I’m getting tired, Wilma.” Harsk sighed. “It’s getting harder.”

“You never thought your life would be easy.”

“They’re coming after my boys now. And there’s something else. Something going on that I can’t see, but know is there. No one else seems to even want to try and figure out what is wrong with the world, no one else wants to save it.”

“Course not.” Mrs. Chinnery said. “Saving someone else means you ain’t saving yourself first.”

“And I’ve always known people were going to go that way. I’ve seen the depths, Mrs. Chinnery. I’ve seen the worst in humanity. It isn’t that I’ve seen a new low. It’s that the world has shown that it just doesn’t care.”

Mrs. Chinnery nodded. There was truth in his words. And looking at Harsk…he had aged so much the last few years. He was looking like a mortal for the first time in a long while.

“What are you going to do about it, then?”

Harsk stood up, and drained the coffee.

“I’m going to go fix a fence. And then I’m going to find a bed.”

Harsk did find the bed. Rolled back into town, and That Damn Beaver right as the sun was setting. After a long meal with Zaqworth, he told a few stories to the old-timers looking for an escape at the bar. When Gene walked through the door, Harsk got a sure promise of dinner with the family for the next evening. And when he finally found a moment, Zaq sent the old legend up to bed, ignoring all the protests that anyone else could muster.

“Even legends need their beauty sleep, gents!” He shouted, right in Harsk’s ear. The old man grunted, shoved Zaq away, and walked up the stairs.

“All right, out you go! Out!” Zaq said. “I’m going to need some peace and quiet for fearless leader up there. No, out!”

The bargoers protested, and swore vengeance, and some even ventured paying their tabs if they got to stay. The half-elf proprietor would not be moved, and soon it was just him and his niece cleaning up.

Zaq winked to Saffia. “Drink, milady?”

Saffia smiled, weak. “That would be nice,” she said breathily.

Zaqworth pulled a bottle of elderflower wine out from behind the counter. Saffia set the glasses down, and took a long sip with her uncle.

Zaq sighed contentedly. “This, was sold well below market value, by some crotchedy old Texan. Didn’t know the worth of such a bottle to an elf, and the first bottle he cracked open tasted ‘too fruity,’ to his refined palette.”

“Our gain,” Saffia said.

Zaq nodded. Saffia didn’t speak to anyone. When she had left the family, she was a…prissy little princess. Entitled, deserving, and her nose stuck so far up in the air he was surprised she didn’t tumble over backwards.

It was that arrogance that had made her strike out at that witch one evening. Comments about her hair…that was the least offensive thing she had done. She had deserved the cursing.

But now she was shell-shocked, even with the magic wearing off. She had barely left That Damn Beaver in the last four years. And now, finally, she was starting to learn that maybe it was her fault. At least, that’s what she told him.

“Why does Harsk keep coming here?”

Zaq took a long drink from the glass, and smiled. “Because we’ve got the best service up and down the damn Muddy.”

Saffia sighed. “Why here? We don’t pay him. We never have demons here. We aren’t even that poor, especially compared to everyone else.”

Zaq set down the glass. “And why do you think that is?”

Saffia frowned. “Harsk?”

“Harsk has returned to this town every year or so, without fail, for forty-two years. By himself, no Ride. He settles down for a week or two, doing all the menial jobs that have fallen by the wayside, talking to folks, and then leaving when he no longer feels like he is that needed.”

“But why?”

Zaq frowned, and considered. “I can’t say. I know, but I won’t. it’s not for a friend to tell another guy’s story. I would hazard a guess, that we are very much like his Ride.”

Saffia giggled.

“No, we’re not badass demon killers. But Harsk looks at us and sees a chance to do good. His Ride goes from town to town, removing problems. Stopping terrors, evading natural disasters. Killing what needs killing. Always subtracting the bad.

“But here, here he is building something. Here he is not concerned with stopping evil, but helping good flourish. Trying to see if he can actually do something that lasts, not just be a glorified exterminator.”

Zaqworth nodded up the stairs. “And we’re thankful, Harsk. I hope you know that.”

Harsk snored.

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Thank you for reading. I hope that this sparked a piece of magic for you this week.

Until next time.

Blessings,

Jack Holder

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