Fable: The Return Chapter 24

The king is introduced to what life has become in the harsh forests of Witchwood.
==Chapter 24==
"Move it men!" The Executioner's gravely voice rings out within the echoes of the quiet bay. "We've got supplies to get on the ship and be quick about it! The king's got places to be and demons to kill! Move it you maggots!" Several tired-looking men are shuffled off of the ship, obviously slave workers that belong to Reaver. The king has never liked Reaver's labor or the way he manages it, but there is little he can do at this point. The men hustle off down the dirt roads and into the dark forests beyond, led by five pirates to guard them and keep them in line.
The king walks down the dock and gets to where the pirates are all meeting, in front of a large ornately-carved building. Candlelight burns from behind the windows, illuminating various carvings that cover even the inside of the building. The pirates all around him speak of fighting, the warriors of Knothole Glade, drinking, tattoos, and of an arena within the forest. The king begins to get intrigued by the conversations. "What's this about an arena in the woods?"
Some of the pirates look at him odd, finally one answers him with a stern but helpful tone. "Used to be it was an arena for Heroes way back when. Problem is there ain't much Heroes left to fight. Closed a couple hundred years back after the Guild got burnt. Ain't seen it meself but the word is that the villagers reopened the old arena some time ago. The boys are lookin' to see some fighting'."
"Is it near here?"
"Aye." The pirate turns away and goes back to his normal conversations. The king considers going to this arena when the others do, but how long are they even here? Reaver, accompanied by The Executioner, soon arrive to the gathering.
"Oh, good morning your majesty," Reaver announced joyously. "Acoomadating yourself with the common rabble are we?"
"The men talk of an arena in the woods."
"Ah yes, the Witchwood Arena. A fabled place of blood and glory and even more blood. It used to be that Heroes would go in and fight the dangers of the world. Then as it got more feral it turned into Heroes against Heroes. I think the latter was a fabulous idea, what with Jack of Blades gone and no need for Heroes, why not kill them off one by one for public enjoyment? Hm? Ah, but that's not for me to judge. Nowadays, the men of Knothole Glade fight each other. Sometimes to the death, sometimes to surrender or to rendering the competitor a vegetable. And on rare, boring cases, they team up to fight off whatever balverine clan has risen up in the forest food chain. On another note, follow us your majesty, we have business to attend to."
Reaver and The Executioner pass by him and he hesitantly follows, not knowing what this business may be. The proceed up the few stairs leading to the decorated door of the building before all of them. Reaver takes his cane and gingerly taps on the door several times, then eases back into his relaxed pose. The large wooden door creaks open and reveals a great man covered in green and black tattoos. The man wears a long pony tail of hair and a dark beard that is braided down to his naval. He is shirtless, wearing only a worn pair of trousers, along with no sign of footwear. Both of the large man's nipples are pierced with golden loops, his eyes full of grief and pain. He would be a fearsome sight, had a magnificent smile not been covering his face.
"Come here my boy!" The man bellows as he grabs The Executioner into a strong embrace. "And Reaver, always welcome here you are!" He taps a fist against Reaver's coat, Reaver proceeds to brush the spot with his hand.
"Yes, yes hello there Chieftain, may we come in?"
"Yes of course! Come on in then you sea dogs! Wait wait wait hold on hold on!! Who's this?" He references the king.
Reaver answers, "This, my dear Chieftain is the King of Albion. We're escorting him to the north where he will do all sorts of heroic deeds and such. He's a friend to you."
"Very well, if Reaver says you're friend, then you're welcome in my home. Come in damn you!" The three of them follow the Chieftain inside of his large home. They scuttle in to a dim lit back room and close the door. The sit down in wooden chairs placed around a circular table with a map of Witchwood on it. The map shows the location of the bay, Knothole Glade, the arena, and several locations of balverine clans spread throughout the forest. One candle is stamped in the middle of the table, it is a cluster of melted wax that has hardened over several years into one sculpture of a candle.
"Now, what have you come here for?" The Chieftain asks.
Reaver again responds, "Just for some supplies for our voyage through the Glacial Pass. Food, clothes, firewood, the normal things. And maybe some small pelts for the beds, I've heard it gets quite nippy in the north."
"Indeed it does, I'd never set foot off my island though, the world is no place for me. You'll get what you require, and I'll throw in the pelts also for your men. It's the least I can do for all you've done for Witchwood. Now tell me, what's the king of Albion have to do with all this?"
Now the king adds his voice, just as he did long ago in councils such as this, back when the seeds of rebellion were first planted. "I have business in The Northern Wastes. There is a wrong that I must right, for it is mine to right alone. I caused an evil to come into this world and I must do all I can to get rid of it for good."
"That's all well, King man. No need to get your royal triumphant voice into the conversation, we're all friends here."
"My apologies, I did not mean to-"
"No you didn't, but what's done is done and there's no need to worry about it. I just wanted to know your business is all."
Reaver speaks again, "What sort of payment should you require this time around old friend?"
"Oh, I suppose the usual."
"Very good." A broad smile appears on Reavers face, he tips his hat to The Executioner. Before the king can see what is happening, a large object strikes him on the back of the head. His face falls flat against the table and his vision is blurred.
"What are you doing?!" The king pleads.
"We're paying the Chieftain here for our supplies, that's all."
"What sort of payment is this?!"
"Nothing too complicated, just a simple token of blood payment."
The king begins to panic, blood payment?! What does that mean? Are they going to kill him? "You…you can't do this. I must get to the North, I must." The Executioner raises the log once more above the king's head. "You can't do this! I'm the King of Albion!!"
The Chieftain's face now matches the grim look of his eyes. His face now looks like it could cause a man to plead mercy just from how stern and fearsome it is. He looks the king straight in the eyes, "This is not Albion." The Executioner slams the log down onto the king's head and he drifts into slumber.
The king awakes to the roars of hundreds of people, all shouting and screaming bloody murder. His hands feel an all too familiar texture of sand. Is this Aurora? Is he back to where he unleashed the first darkness? No…no this sand is different. The roars of men and a few women rouse him from his sleep. He clenches his fists in the sand, this sand is colder than Aurora. Where is he? His eyes open, he sees the blurred visions of people sitting in a grand display of seats. He is in the middle of a giant circle full of sand. People are set up in stadium seating all around the circle, cheering and shouting and roaring. This must be the arena he was told about. Within the seats he spots, through winced eyes, the figures of Reaver and The Executioner.
Upon a platform that stretches out from the crowds, The Chieftain steps up to a large horn object and places his face against it. His voice comes echoing outward, "Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to my Arena!" The crowd roars once more. "Too long have we been without a good fight! A Hero has not set foot on this sand since before any of us were born!" At this, the king can feel Reaver's sarcastic smile grow. "But now, a Hero is in the Arena, and he shall shed blood! Blood for your entertainment!" The crowd cheers the loudest at this statement.
"Wait!!" The king shouts, the crowd silences. "Wait…please. I am the King of Albion!"
"Release the balverines!!"
"No!!" It is too late, long spikes lower into the ground from below one set of the arena's stands. Several deep howls erupt from within the bowels of the arena's undercroft as six balverines come thundering out from within. The king has no choice, he draws his sword and prepares himself.
The first balverine was the fastest, he came several seconds to the king before any of the others. He fell quickly to the king's blade as it went through its mouth and out of the back of its head. Two others came from both sides, sprinting on all fours right for the king's head. As they leapt in unison, the king ducked at the last second so the both of them struck heads above him. Dazed, the pair struggled to get to their feet, but all too late. The king sliced them both before they could fully regain their composure. Finally, the remaining three balverines circled him, standing on their hind legs. They flashed their claws and slowly walked forward, one's tongue flicked out of its mouth and dropped a torrent of drool. The crowd cheers as the balverines come closer. Immediately before they charge, the king sparks an idea in his head. Without second guessing, he runs his sword along his hand, his hand that is lit with flames. The balverines charge forward viciously, but are met with the king's fiery blade swinging into them.
"Very good, your kingliness!" The Chieftain shouts through the horn. "But can you survive round two?!"
More spikes fall to the ground and release twelve balverines, all flying out of the hole with great speed. This time, the fight was harder. With a burning sword in hand, he cut down the oncoming beasts as they sprinted into him. Some got lucky scrapes into his body, leaving minor lacerations on his left leg, his sword arm, and his back. The final balverine leapt high up into the air and prepared its long claws to strike. The king flung his blade into the air as the balverine came crashing down to the sands. The blade stuck into the beasts chest as it fell and pierced it when it landed.
"An impressive display, but can you make it through another round?!"
Te king collects his blade as even more spikes fall into the sands, this time the hole it reveals is larger. A towering White Balverine lumbers out of the hole and slowly walks towards the circle of bodies that belonged to its brethren. The flames slowly die from the blade as the king raises it up against the oncoming monster. The massive balverine approaches and readies its attack. Its claw raises to strike and the king prepares to deflect, already planning his counterattack. But, before the king can think, the balverine's expression changes. It starts to sniff into the air and then more towards the king's body. Its claws lower to its side as he leans in closer and sniffs. The king wonders what could be happening.
"Woltach?" He asks quietly. The balverine shakes its head and snarls, then it simply gets down onto all fours and sprints back underground. The crowd starts to scream and shout, wondering what just happened and why he isn't dead.
"Don'T worry my people! The king of the other land will die, and he will die now!" The crowd cheers and gets back onto the Chieftain's side. "Face your final opponent, Hero!"
"What is it now?!"
"A new kind of fight. Prepare yourself." The king readies his body and raises his blade, looking at the last set of spikes, waiting for them to fall. Suddenly, a giant blade crashes down upon his and splits it in two. It is a massive claymore, the king turns to see The Executioner staring him down.
"Why? Why are you doing this? I can pay any amount of gold…I must get to the north! Everyone's lives are at stake!"
The Executioner speaks, "Only your life is at stake."
"Why? Why must anyone die?"
"The price must be paid."
"I can pay in gold, I can pay for supplies easily! I am the King!"
"Not here…not to me."
"What is it you want?"
"I want your head."
"Why my head? All I asked was for passage to the North. Why must my head be taken for payment of supplies?!"
"Trust me, my liege. I have wanted your head for much longer than you think."
The Executioner raises his claymore out of the sand and readies it for its final attack. He reels it back and takes his swing, but the king was ready. The king uses his feet to kick up mounds of sand and he quickly burns the grains with fire, immediately turning them to hard glass. He ducks as the claymore breaks slowly through the wall of glass and nearly misses his head. Before The Executioner can regain his blade for another swing, the king wraps his arms around the thick steel and flings it to the ground. He raises his fists and flies in for a strike.
The Executioner blocks his fist and returns the favor with a fist of his own into the king's gut. They are now in a fierce battle of hand to hand combat, swinging at each other left and right. Both get good hits in on each other's faces and torsos. But finally, the king gets the upper hand. He catches one of The Executioner's fists and wraps it behind his back.
"It's time to find out who you are!"
"Don't!!" The Executioner pleads. Too late, the king grips his cowl and rips it off, revealing short, brown hair. The Executioner turns and shows the king his face, he cannot believe what he sees. "Hello there Father."