The Legend of Hildebrand

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Hildebrand and the Bridge of Fire

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It was a storming night when Hildebrand came upon the bridge. Rain had long since drenched both his plate armor and the cotton padding underneath. Soon he would have to find a place to dwell for the night. He could already feel the long, sleepless hours that lay ahead, polishing and drying his armor, shivering by a fire whilst his clothes lay on a makeshift spit.

He should have already found a hole to crawl into. Find an inn, or even a small cavern would have sufficed. Walking through the western edge of the kingdom was hard enough without stumbling around in the rain and the dark.

Still, on Hildebrand marched. For there was someone he was hoping to meet.

The kingdom of Dannisfire in those days considered itself a discovered land. Within the boundaries, whether it was the Ardenne forest or the Jiraihc desert, the Baerun Ocean, the Sanctaidd Mountains or the Inward Sea, once you stood in Dannisfire proper, there was civilization.

This, of course, was a lie. Hildebrand had often witnessed the mysteries and horrors within the country. A land was not conquered simply because kings and queens agreed to lines on a map. They dwelt in castles, safe and secure behind stone walls and iron swords, confident in the fair lie of civility.

Even here, in the foothills north of the Sanctaidds, there was wilderness. There had been armies, clashing and tearing apart the hills. Farmers that had long ago tilled the soil, found it barren, and left for greener pastures. And still, hidden in small holes, in the dark parts of life, there was the wild magic, just waiting to be free.

Hildebrand knew it was a lie. And tonight he’d fight against it.

He fought his way through the rain and mud, following the road. Though the moon was covered by the storm clouds, Hildebrand was able to find his way to Arstomn Bridge.

It was a curious structure. Stretching over two small hills, it was a conglomeration of stone, iron, and colored glass. Little more than fifty meters to cross, Arstomn Bridge was an anomaly because it was unnecessary. A bridge over grass and hills, never rising more than twenty feet above the ground.

Hildebrand walked towards the bridge, and then heard a sound. Armored boots, clacking against the stones. Looking up, he saw another knight walking across, carrying a lantern in one hand. Garbed in a shining silver chestplate, with leather leggings and bracers stained red, he had a warm face.

“Welcome,” he said. “This is Arstomn Bridge. How are you intending to pay?”

Hildebrand scoffed. Pay? Pay to cross a pretty bridge. Maybe during the day. Perhaps the bridge held a wondrous view of the surrounding hillside. And the way that the light would play in the colored glass must have been truly stunning. But it was a hillside, no bridge required.

Hildebrand turned, and started to make his way down the hill. The path was an extra twenty minutes, but it was free.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Hildebrand heard a small crunch, and then the tinkling of falling glass. Instinct pushed his legs back up the hill, rushing back to the path. Grass crackled, and burst into flame. Hildebrand watched on, struck with fear as the hillside was bathed in a river of fire. Running through the crevasse between the two hills, straight under Arstomn Bridge and down into the valley below.

Hildebrand stared down, uncomprehending. It was a river of fire. It did not move like fire did, slow and spreading like a growing fungus. Instead, he watched as tongues of fire floated down the hillside, lapping against a bank that he could not truly comprehend. The fires swirled and eddied, caught in small whirlpools until bursting up into a gout of heat and light.

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

Hildebrand looked back up. The knight had blown out the lantern, and left it along the edge. He leaned against the railing, and stared down into the fiery currents. “Long ago, it’s rumored there was a great tower of fire here. Fiery elementals and creatures of magma and living flame congregated in these lands, hoping to find some measure of solace in a world of earth, wind, and water. Eventually the Conflagration Congregation was dispersed to the winds, but their spirits remained in these hills. Fires would rise up at any instance, especially in times of conflict and great joy.”

The knight tapped the bridge. “Until some great artifice was constructed, and the spirits given purpose. A way to flow through the nights into true peace and tranquility. And thus, the river of fire is born.”

Hildebrand stood at the foot of the bridge. He stared up at the knight, curious, expectant.

The knight sighed. “Look, Arstomn Bridge is needed. The focus holds back the devastation of the fires for the entire region. Your contribution ensures that the Bridge is maintained, and the world is protected.”

Hildebrand stood, stoic. For the other knight, it was difficult to read the armored figure. Clad in an ancient suit of black iron armor, with only a simple short sword at his side and a pack that had seen better days. The visor was down, completely obscuring any features, even as the fires below cast yellow and orange glows upon his face.

The bridge knight smiled. “I’m sure there is some measure of coin that could be parted with to help the land. Be a good chap, and open up that pack of yours.”

Hildebrand ignored him, and started up the bridge. He was usually suspicious of other knights, and tonight was no exception. He had heard a distinct movement before the river began to flow. Was that proof that the knight had caused it? Perhaps not. But what little coin he had was needed for the days ahead. But Hildebrand would not be paying the man for the honor of walking across a bridge. Payment he suspected would go in the knight’s coffers rather than into bridge repair.

The bridge knight took two steps, blocking Hildebrand’s path. “Perhaps I was too kind. When I said contribution, it may have made it sound voluntary. Give us a coin, lad.”

The knight’s eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps I’ll take the sword as payment.”

The blow that Hildebrand made was only partially expected. Still, the bridge knight was thrown back by the power. He drew his own blade, made of a deep maroon glass and etched in strange runes that danced in the firelight. Hildebrand drew his own sword, and the knight could only smile at the dull, simple thing. Notched and worn down, it looked wan, shrinking against the might of Arstomn Bridge.

But Hildebrand was not one to back down from a fight. He charged forward, slamming his shoulder into the knight’s chest, driving the pale one back. Anger burned in Hildebrand’s heart, and ran through his arms to the tip of his blade. It flowed through every strike, driving the knight back with every swing.

The bridge knight did his best to defend himself. He tried to break Hildebrand’s sword against the might of his own, but to no avail. For the black-clad knight knew what his sword could withstand, and turned at every hard blow. He tried to outmuscle the smaller knight, but again, Hildebrand danced away. In frustration the bridge knight turned, and swept his sword out over the bridge.

“I am trying to prevent all of this from spreading!” He screamed. “All of this, everything is consumed if I don’t do this work! You are making everything worse, just give me a damned coin!”

Hildebrand ducked under a wide swing, and slammed his hilt into the man’s unprotected gut. The bridge guard wheezed, and collapsed, coughing. Hildebrand sheathed his sword, and turned, walking away.

“You are scum, scum!” The knight called after him. “If more people acted like you, the world would be a darker…oh, gods, what did you…oooh.”

Hildebrand came upon the knight’s cottage half a mile up the road, past another hill. He found the door unlocked, and upon entering, a splendid affair. Tapestries hung upon every wall. The larder was fully stocked with cured hams, dried fruits, an icebox that magically preserved every delicacy imaginable. Underneath the knight’s downy bed Hildebrand found chest upon chest of coins, left to gather dust.

Hildebrand selected the smallest chest, took it as payment, and made his way. Wondering if he could find a locksmith in the next town.

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The Knight, the Ghost, and the Tree

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As a rule, Hildebrand did not normally respond to quests.

Those who gave quests were not to be trusted. They often were too poor to be able to pay, or too rich to want to. Quests were jobs that paid in renown, a currency taverns and inns unfortunately could not redeem. The very concept of a quest turned Hildebrand’s stomach.

But the duchy of Nuethime had a problem. A ghost had long plagued the duke’s lands. A nuisance, and one that was not believed by many outside of the small town of Carnmouth. But it still had been able to slaughter livestock at a whim, and the last six months had seen dozens of subjects. And so the duke had put out the call, asking for heroes and warriors true to rout the monster and save his subjects.

A fool’s errand. But one that carried an intriguing reward. Beyond all that had been promised - a small fortune, lands to call one’s own, a title and the path to one’s own nobility that would almost certainly be reneged upon - the duke had promised that the ghost’s hoard was fair game to any who ended the nightmare. The beast may have awoken recently, but it had been rumored that this ghost had been around since the Fiorae. Centuries of wealth, be it in coin, jewels, and other precious items were to be found.

Were they rumors? Of course, but Hildebrand had always found rumored wealth far more reliable than the promises of a nobleman. And, second, it was for a good cause. People were being slaughtered.

However, there was a caveat, one that Hildebrand surely hated. For the ghost resided not outside Carnmouth, but in a haunted house in the center of town. So, for the sake of the land, a rich reward, and the qualities of goodness, Hildebrand was forced to interact with people.

He sat in the town hall, staring at a bookcase. Hildebrand had arrived just before noon, and had spent the day alone as best he could. The mayor had promised warnings and information to all questers an hour before dusk to help them prepare, which had left the knight with far too much time. He ate alone on the outskirts of town, after caring for his armor and restocking his provisions, was left with little to do.

The local watering hole held little interest to the knight, and exercise after a time became more exhausting than restorative. But the books here in the town hall were interesting. Hildebrand selected a collection of stories, reclined in a loveseat, and began to read. It was difficult through the visor, but Hildebrand still managed to get the gist of the prose.

He cut an odd figure for the next quest goer when she appeared. A young woman, dressed in a short blue cloak and carrying a single wand. She stared at a knight in black, weathered armor, laying down on a couch and reading kid’s stories through his helmet. She sniffed, and settled down in a chair, taking up her own tome and making notes of future spells.

A third figure arrived. A peasant, from the look of his garb. Dressed in a threadbare set of clothes, carrying his entire wealth in a well-worn pack. The only item of value was the set of daggers belted to his side, gleaming in the candlelight with an ivory glow.

He looked from one challenger to the next. The witch pointedly ignored the newcomer, while Hildebrand was lost in his book. The dagger wielder sat down in an empty chair, and waited. Quiet, his face pointed towards the door, polishing one dagger, and then the other.

It was an hour before the duke deigned to arrive. Duke Carnmouth was a rather grandiose human, perhaps more self-assured than his abilities would merit, as Hildebrand had often found in minor nobility. Wearing a yellow doublet, he smiled to the three figures, and then did a quick count. He tried to hide the concern from his face. Three, only three adventurers.

“I do not suppose you all came together?” he asked.

The witch snorted. “Hardly. It was a coincidence.”

Carnmouth nodded. “A coincidence, then. Well, I don’t exactly have enough…you know what, it doesn’t matter. You’ll all figure it out.”

He marched past the three adventurers, and bade them follow. Leading into a well-lit study, Carnmouth settled down behind a simple desk. He pulled out a sheaf of paper, and dipped a quill into an inkwell. “Names?”

“Why?” The man asked. He had finally sheathed the daggers, but his hands did not stray too far from their hilts.

“Records,” Carnmouth said. “If you happen to die, I’d like to know your name, and if possible some kinfolk to notify. And should you happen to succeed, I’m sure the rest of the duchy would like a plaque or even a statue in your honor, and it is always so humiliating if we cannot get your names spelled right for all eternity.

“And if you’re unwilling to give something as simple as a name, I have to question whether I’m to entrust the safety of my hometown to you.” Carnmouth stared at the dagger wielder until the man looked away. “You go first.”

“Fynn,” the man said. “I’m from around Leighman.”

“Fynn from Leighman,” said Carnmouth. “How did you hear about our plights?”

“Been traveling, trying to scrape together some coin,” Fynn said, reddening. “Saw your notice, thought I’d be able to help.”

Carnmouth arched an eyebrow, and looked down at the daggers. “Do you know how to use those?”

Fynn reached for the daggers. He spun them once, twice, and then sent one straight through the duke’s table. It sheared through the wood as if it were a simple piece of paper, and stuck into the marble floor beneath, quivering.

Carnmouth nodded. “Excellent. Thank you, Fynn. If you survive, I’ll send a bill for the desk and tile.” He looked up, and nodded to the witch. “And you, miss?”

“Neftalia,” the witch said. “Mistress of the mystic arts.”

Carnmouth pursed his lips. “For how long?”

The witch paused, and then mumbled.

“Was that twelve years, or twelve months?” when Neftalia didn’t answer, Carnmouth started to cross her name off the list.

“...months,” Neftalia said. “Twelve months. But I’m gifted.”

“I’m sure you are,” Carnmouth said. “And I’m not spoilt for choice to worry about you throwing your life away. Is there a Conclave that I can send word of your success or demise?”

“The Emerald Conclave,” Neftalia said. “Master Yorn is in charge there. She’ll vouch for me.”

Carnmouth nodded. “I’m sure she is completely supportive of your decisions.” He turned to the knight, and frowned. “And you are?”

“Hildebrand.”

Carnmouth nodded. A knight, then. Most knights were off to the north, but this one would still do. “Hildebrand. Where do you hail from?”

Hildebrand remained silent.

“Any kinfolk to speak of? Someone I can notify? Or let us know if we spelled your name wrong? Perhaps even to tell us if you’re wearing stolen armor?”

The knight started to reach for his sword, and then paused.

“I need to see your face, knight. Take off the helmet.”

Hildebrand shook his head.

Carnmouth sighed. “I won’t pay if I don’t know who I’m paying to.”

Hildebrand shrugged. He wasn’t expecting the duke to pay him, so that was a moot point.

Carnmouth considered, struggling with the stubborn knight. He couldn’t let the insult stand, after he’d demanded a name and identity from the others. He’d look weak in front of the others, and a hypocrite. But Hildebrand also looked to be what the duke needed. A real warrior, one that could actually help dispel the ghost.

He looked to the mage and peasant. “I refuse to pay someone who will not take off his helm, but he is here. Would you be willing to have the knight accompany you? If you are victorious, you both will split his share.”

Neftalia and Fynn could do the math. Half of a reward was far greater than a third. And if this was a truly dangerous mission, the knight would make an excellent shield against a ghost. They quickly agreed.

“Excellent. Then let us talk about the house on Hawthorn Street…”

* * *

The haunted house was not out of the ordinary. A simple one-story affair, made of timber and stone, it had lasted through the centuries. The paint had long since peeled away, leaving the wood to rot and the stone to fall into disrepair.

It stood at the bottom of a small hill, surrounded by a range of hovels and homes. Three hawthorn trees, from which the street got it name, still curled around each other in the center of the road, providing shade to the entire neighborhood. The surrounding area had become abandoned, but the townsfolk still traveled past the neighborhood in the center of town.

Carnmouth had often considered tearing down the entire neighborhood. The land was in a central location, and no one seemed like they would object. The duke even now could easily imagine a few townhouses for fellow nobles to visit, alongside one of the best studios for artists in the kingdom, and perhaps even a row of apartments for the up-and-coming of the common class.

However, the noble family had always paused in its plans. Something had always seemed more important, whether it was a war, a natural disaster for the duchy, or in the case of seventy years ago, a minor civil war for the family. And now with the reawakening of the spirit, Carnmouth had feared incurring its wrath on his townfolk. Much safer to sacrifice any fool adventurer who came along.

The fool adventurers sat in the haunted house, eating dinner. Fynn had managed to make it to the tavern and back, and had returned with a roast ham and potatoes. Neftalia thought the meal crude, but when Fynn had reminded her of the price, she decided that it was actually rather sumptuous.

The mage and dagger wielders ate their meals in silence. They watched their comrade as he made his way through the house, examining everything. Armed with a lamp and candles, the knight was methodical, taking note of every corner and ruined floorboard. Fynn thought he was being too much of a busybody, when he could have been eating. Neftalia thought it was an effort in futility. The knight could not possibly know what was important, and what was mere detritus.

The knight made his way through the rooms downstairs, and after a quick test, decided against making his way up the stairs. Several had already rotted through, and if he were to try to ascend in full armor, Hildebrand was sure to make a rather embarrassing fall back to the ground floor. He hoped the answer to why the ghost was here was not upstairs.

Still, the ghost’s appearance seemed curious. He hadn’t had the chance to examine the neighborhood, but this house looked like any other. Older, more akin to a hovel in the deep forests rather than a townhouse, but that could have been a simple aesthetic choice. No bloody prints, no history of violence. Was it possible that this was a hoax?

“Are you eating?”

Hildebrand paused. Fynn poked at the roast ham, frowning. “If you’re not hungry, I could get rid of this.”

Hildebrand snatched the rest of the roast. He took it away, eating in darkness. Neftalia tried to sneak a peek at what was so unusual about the knight. But while the sounds of crunching and contentment could be heard in the other room, neither her nor Fynn could catch a glimpse at the knight.

“So what’s up with the armor?”

Hildebrand finished his meal, closed his visor, and returned to watching the house. Fynn grimaced. If the knight was going to be this belligerently silent, it would be a long night.

Neftalia ignored them both, and returned to the notes. Carnmouth had given as much information as he had, as well as the parameters. The ghost would most likely appear this evening, and their job was to either contain it, disperse it, or send it packing. There would be no reward for simply living through the night, beyond the obvious.

This was an asinine, and maddeningly obtuse mission. If Neftalia had even a slightly more complete understanding of the history of the house, she’d have been able to bring a full accounting, perhaps even an identification of the spirit at hand. But even with a genealogy going back centuries, she found nothing. All inhabitants of the house died in their sleep or moved away for better prospects. There was no pain in the house, no misery. There was nothing here.

“Come on, let’s take a peek. No one is going to say anything.”

Neftalia woke from her academic reverie by the sound of scraping iron. Hildebrand had loosened the sword from its scabbard. His visor pointed directly at the other man, gauntlet resting on the pommel.

Fynn glared at him. “Hey! I’m just trying to make small talk.”

“You’re trying to pass the time,” Neftalia said. She returned to her book. “He’s a mystery, but one you think you can crack, unlike this house.”

Fynn snorted. He sat back down, and glared at Hildebrand. “What mystery? It’s another snooty noble. Probably has an ugly face, and doesn’t want anyone to see it. He doesn’t speak because he thinks he’s better than all of us.”

“That’s your guess?”

Hildebrand looked at the magic-user. She closed the book, sighing. “Please, do pay attention to the clues. Because one of the few things I know is that this man isn’t a noble.”

“What?”

Neftalia looked at the armored figure. “Think. When we came in, he was reading classic local legends and children’s tales. Relaxing in a chair he had no business in. He didn’t lord it over the two of us when we entered, or try to take over the room. And when the duke arrived, he didn’t muscle his way to the front, or dominate. He tried, rather unsuccessfully, to make himself unknown.”

Neftalia stared into the visor. “You’re someone who doesn’t want to be known. Maybe you’re on the run, maybe you are someone who is too easily recognized. You only risked speaking your name, which means you can speak, but don’t want to do any more. Because either your accent or distinct voice will give you away.”

There was more that she could reveal. How an unknown figure trying to hide themself had still come to the aid of a town he had no connection to. Even when threatened with forfeiture of all reward, he still came. So he either had a moral code, or a strange conviction to rid the land of this spirit.

What Neftalia would never reveal is the gaze that she could feel back. For Hildebrand stared back. Though the visor remained as black as pitch, the knight’s furious vision came towards her in a pummeling wave. A wave filled with suspicion, fear, and an unending amount of hatred. She could not understand how, or why, but if she gave even the slightest hint of a reason, the knight would gladly have run her through on the spot.

“He’s a mystery,” she said, trying to fight the shake in her voice. “Perhaps we should leave it that way.”

Hildebrand grunted. He slid the hilt back into his scabbard, settled into a corner of the room, and promptly fell asleep.

Fynn scoffed. “I don’t trust him.”

“He can hear you.”

“I don’t trust you!” Fynn shouted. Hildebrand waved, and began to snore.

The peasant turned from the knight, scowling. “I tell you, it’s a bad omen. This knight, on this night. Adding mystery to the shadows only deepens the bloodletting.”

Neftalia shook her head. “Very well. I’ll take first watch, and wake you around midnight. You will be the one to wake the knight. He’ll never have a chance to sneak up on you.”

Fynn started to protest, and then realized that he was wasting valuable sleeping time. He considered arguing one last time, and then settled for mouthing bad words at Hildebrand as he drifted off to sleep.

“Men,” Neftalia muttered, before returning to her book.

* * *

The ghost did not come at midnight. She waited until Hildebrand had awoken, and had let the fire go out before revealing herself.

Hildebrand, for his part, had recognized that something was there before he had fallen asleep. There had been an itch on the edge of his periphery, a presence waiting. Investigating, just like he had been. Whether it was stalking prey, or hoping to find a new truth, had yet to be revealed.

In truth, the ghost had considered striking at the peasant. His blades were baleful, and well-used. Far better than anyone else knew. But she could smell the blood, the kills upon them. Killing him or the magic-user were well and good. Magic-users had helped kill her, and all of her kin. Even if she seemed harmless, the ghost had considered slaughtering the two of them at midnight.

But the knight had given her pause. She could not understand Hildebrand’s aura. And as the knight had awoken, he found the ghost standing over him, curious.

Hildebrand had to resist the urge to draw his sword. For the ghost was a creature that he had not expected. A bipedal wolf with a single crystalline horn, she stared at the knight with pale yellow eyes.

Hildebrand paused, and then sat up, keeping his hand away from his sword. This was not what he had imagined. It was not what anyone had imagined. What was this creature? It was sentient, of course. Hildebra had never heard of a spirit that could not think. But a horned wolf was not something that he could truly comprehend.

The ghost nuzzled the knight. She found the creature comforting. There was rage, an all-consuming warmth that, since it was not directed at her, was something that she could bask in. She held rage in her heart, and now, to be around someone who understood, she could finally realize it fully.

The ghost turned on the slumbering companions, ready to strike. Ready to rid the world of another two wretched humans. But before she could howl a death song, Hildebrand grasped the ghost by the paw. The ghost turned in surprise. None had ever been able to touch her, much less impede her rage.

The iron gauntlet sparkled, a silvery sheen revealing an unexpected defense. The ghostwolf paused, and then touched the armor. A flash of cold, and she shied away, defensive. Hildebrand was protected, far more than she could hope to overcome. And noticing the sword, the ghost could hazard a guess as to what that was made of. For the first time in centuries, the ghost could see its own demise.

But Hildebrand did not strike. He stood up, and regarded the ghost. The knight had also expected to fight a human, though a dead one. No, he had even hoped the ghost was human. Not something like this, looking like a pet that had grown into a true master of the forest. Hildebrand thought her a spirit, a queen of the land. And he was supposed to run it through? Nay, never.

The two walked out of the house. Away from the humans, away from the noise and blood that had been shed. It was the dead of night. Past midnight, long after anyone of any sort of decency would consider rousing. The ghostwolf led Hildebrand just a short way, to the hawthorn trees. She curled up in the roots, and thought about her death.

These trees were not hers. They were the grandchildren of the trees that she had run underneath. Though the ghost had not left that house in many an age, she still could remember the bittersweet smell of the boughs as she raced to and fro through the forest. A wild abandonment that had heralded a glorious age. One of chaos, and companions, and kin.

Until the humans came. In the age of the Fiorae, civilizing the eastern lands. Unable to tame or understand these creatures, the humans instead conquered through fire and iron. The ghost had watched her mate butchered, her children put to the torch. She was then forced to feel the fires herself as her world went up in flames. Until all that was left was rage, and her resting place.

For centuries she had rested there. Content in her solitude. But the humans walked upon her bones, and the ashes of her children. She killed those, and then rested. Still more came, and more she killed. But as a ghost, she lost track of time, and every time she slept she dreamed of a wall of crystal. Peering through it, she thought she saw her family, prancing through a field, chasing after a glorious prey. And then she awoke, and walls had closed in. Walls made with human hands, where humans bled. And the rage would come again.

So long she had raged. Rightly, and with purpose. Rage itself was not wrong, for it led to justice, and drove purpose towards victory. But in the face of another, under the boughs of the hawthorn, all she could feel was regret. Regret that this had gone on so long. Wondering just how much blood had been spilt to feed that fire within her breast. And if it could ever truly be quenched.

She looked at the knight, sorrowful. He did not understand. The rage he felt was still fresh, unyielding. There was a wound in his heart, and from it sprang forth fire. It would be many years before he could quench that inferno, and only with the help of another. Another that would not be her.

For the wall called again. And this time she answered. Wandering windward into the skies and beyond. Leaving Hildebrand alone. Wondering what had just transpired.

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