What had he done, what crime against the higher powers had he committed, that on this night the Grim Baron had come for him, to demand an answer? Until now only lesser monsters had prowled these halls—vampires, werewolves. But with them, always—or almost always—there had been some way to bargain.
The innkeeper reached the staircase leading up to the hatch in the ceiling. He banged his head against it, in his confusion mistaking it for another favorite of the night. Then, clutching frantically with his hands, he began to climb up.
Opening the hatch, he found himself in the old attic. The Grim Baron followed close behind, his eyes fixed on him, black darkness swirling within them. The innkeeper backed away among the bloodstained clothes and the guests' hats that cluttered the attic.
He climbed out through the side hatch onto the roof and swayed dangerously at the edge, his foot slipping, nearly sending him over. The ground was thirty feet below. The inkeeper backed away across the shingles, the Grim Baron closing in on him.
"We can deal..." the innkeeper blurted out, leaning on his one and only line. "The Cursed… he's the one you want. Not me. He's here, in the inn. Take him, not me."
"The Cursed?" the Baron hissed, halting. The name seemed to intrigue him. He pressed a long black nail to his thin lips, thoughtful. Yes—that was the pull that had drawn him here, to this inn he had always dismissed as dull and meaningless.
"That is… interesting."
His hand shot out, faster than the innkeeper could even grasp what was happening, and tore his head from his shoulders. He studied it a moment, then tossed it aside and turned back.
The Cursed slipped through rooms like a shadow. The tall figure in the tricorn strode the second-floor corridor, as if blind to him—or pretending to be.
The Cursed held his breath. The Baron stopped. Waited. Turned away. When he passed, the hooded man crept into the hall. But long claws caught him, flinging him across the corridor. He hit the floor hard, head snapping up—just as the Baron loomed over him.
The Baron's hands were shrouded in black smoke, forming long black blades from the swirling darkness. With them, he lunged at the Cursed. With wide swings, the black blades cut through the air.
The Cursed dodged several of them, then the medallion on his chest flared and a long sword appeared in his hands out of thin air. He swung it to parry the attacks of the dreadful creature.
A few more strikes, and his blade was caught in the trap of a coiled black sword. A second black sword rose high for the final blow.
Time froze. The corridor sank into ringing silence.
Something ancient had arrived—something far more dangerous than the dark figure in the coat and tricorne hat.
Two tall silhouettes stood in the shadows at a distance. Yet the distance meant nothing. In a heartbeat, they could close it and stand face-to-face with their prey.
One had long white hair, the other long black. Both carried ornate swords of ancient craft. Their faces were pale, severe, bloodless. Their clothes belonged to a forgotten age.
In an instant, the white-haired one appeared behind the Grim Baron. His body split at the waist. The top half, then the bottom, collapsed to the floor. No one had seen the strike.
Symbols flared across the Cursed's face.
The black-haired figure stood before him, grinning, baring long sharp teeth.
"Cursed! We've come for you!" he said, then laughed without joy.
Dark smoke wrapped around the white-haired warrior. A shadowy form seized him, slammed him through the wall, then dragged him on—smashing him through room after room. Bones shattered. His skull cracked. His body failed to heal fast enough, and the shadow tore him apart.
The black-haired one turned from the Cursed and faced the darkness head-on. The shadow seized his head, ready to rip it from his shoulders. Snarling, the black-haired warrior lashed out in a frenzy—his sword flashing, cutting through the smoke again and again. Cracks spread along his neck. His head half-detached from his body.
But with each blow, his blade thinned, melting in some unnatural way. At last, the black smoke dissolved and vanished for good. He staggered, choking, fighting to hold himself together.
Behind him, the Cursed appeared. His blade hovered at the torn neck.
"You forgot to say goodbye, vampire," the Cursed said—and cut off his head.
The body fell to the floor and did not rise again.
In the dim light before dawn, the Cursed left along the forest road. From the stable he freed two horses—mounting one, leading the other as a spare. Who could know what horror might give chase? A fresh horse might save his life.
He cast a final glance at the inn. The innkeeper was dead. The building itself might not last the night. It would either collapse or become a haunt for restless spirits, feeding on travelers' souls. Perhaps the innkeeper would return as one of them.
But that was no longer his concern.
A long road still lay ahead.
The Cursed rode on through the forest, toward new terrors in the Dark Kingdom.