Curselock

Chapter 45: Whispers in the Dark

“Well?” Jude’s voice rang as soon as Leland’s consciousness fell back into his mortal body.

He didn’t answer right away and instead removed his grimoire and flipped to the newest contract page. Again the weight of the book surprised Leland, as did how it seemingly read his mind and switched gravity off for itself. He and Jude shared a look but there were more pressing issues to solve.

Cursed contract of the Lord of the Moonless:

Use: For the duration of the contract, all works of art shine with the light of the moon. Usable once per hour.

Return: When you come into contact with any Moonless Legacy that have been corrupted by the Sightless King, slay them.

Leland’s frown transferred to Jude as he read through the page. Being forced to kill someone to keep a contract from expiring seemed a little over the top, especially since Leland only intended to kill the woman in white. Though he did agree that the cultists had to die, having a contract over the deaths of individuals made him feel like an assassin.

Then there was the contract’s actual use. Leland sighed, pressing his palm into the page. A violet halo grew from subtle wisps of air, all rushing around his body in a whirlwind. They culminated above his head, rounding into a ring of misty power.

Blazing with power, Leland’s eyes abruptly shut tight. “Ugh, what kind of fool did that moon take me for?”

“Uhh what?” Jude tried.

Slowly Leland creaked his eyes open, allowing his sight to adjust to the glowing rectangle hanging on their room’s wall. The brilliant light radiated from a hung painting, one that he felt was incredibly tacky moments before. But now? Now that his eyes saw the poorly drawn bowl of fruit as something more, he reevaluated.

The sloppy curves and poor gradient were nothing more than an aspiring artist’s progress. It was beautiful in its own right, something Leland couldn’t say about any of his younger works. Finger painting or drawing in the mud with a stick was all he had done, nothing worthy of being hung in a cozy inn in a no named village.

It was inspirational. It was powerful. The painting was—

Harbinger Halo ended and Leland abruptly felt the painting was bad again. Although he did have some respect for the artist, he guessed.

“ You know, runes, glyphs, and sigils are often considered art… I think it will allow me to see sigils,” Leland said to Jude. “We’ll have to test it on some basic runes in an hour though.”

Jude’s eyes actually lit up. “That’s going to be very helpful.”

“Old Mooney seemed to want to kill his Legacies as much as we did. He was a bit pushy though.”

“Would you say he was waxing you around?”

“Huh?” Leland asked.

“’Waxing,’ like the phase of the moon… You know what? Never mind.”

Leland snorted, pulling a blanket over himself and soon he fell asleep. Jude did the same after muttering about ‘waning’ something or other.

Glenny watched the tree line through a small gap in his fingers. The white snow of the mountain reflected the bright light of the moon a little too much, blinding him despite being the dead of night. He had come to learn that the monsters in the area only came at night – which wouldn’t have been a problem since he was supposed to be allowed back into the cabin at night.

Apparently his progress adapting wasn’t good enough and after the second day on the mountain, he returned to a smoldering pile of ash and wood. At the time, Glenny yelled and thrashed about, even sitting down and stating very loudly that he ‘gave up.’ It wasn’t until he was surrounded by Magma Salamanders that he got the Huntress’ message.

There was no giving up, only survival, only the will to adapt.

He escaped the battle rather easily, simply turning invisible and running away… at least until an arrow landed before his feet, blocking his exit. Again, Glenny understood his tormenter’s message.

With a bubbling growl, he lunged into the fray, killing the entire pack of scorching hot monsters in a mere few minutes. But, as if the universe understood his triumph and wished only for anarchy, something far more monstrous appeared not long after.

It trembled the trees as it neared, knocking the fluffy snow loose from pine needles and forcing many mundane animals to flee. Glenny, meanwhile, was busy cutting out the hearts of the Magma Salamanders and couldn’t run. Not if he didn’t want to freeze the moment he stopped to rest for the night.

The monster in question broke the tree line not much later, its hulking leathery scales uprooting everything it walked through. Glenny recognized the creature right away, its spiked back and serrated maw too characteristic to miss. A basilisk, he knew, pulling his gaze back to his trophy.

With a final slice, Glenny stashed the heart in his makeshift bag and ran. He knew his limits and so did the Huntress, no arrows blocked his path.

He ran for hours, well out of the basilisk’s territory, and eventually found a tree to sleep in. Bundling himself up in his parasitic cloak and with the Magma Salamander heart held against his chest, he fell asleep. He woke the next morning to an uncomfortable heat, the heart doing its job and then some.

Glenny took the morning slowly, mainly continuing to test the limitations of his cloak. It was a strange item, one he couldn’t quite figure out. He felt powerful when he wore it, like he had infinite energy despite obviously not. The effects were more pronounced at night, he noted, something that confused him even more.

As the hours ticked by, Glenny found himself catching odd streaks of color in his periphery. Red mixed with blues and blacks, tricked his mind, along with muted whispering. He froze each time, his heart bursting with fear. Something was inside him, something he desperately wanted to ignore. But he couldn’t, not when he was out in the wilds for this.

Experimenting with the cloak was abruptly put on hold as the ground trembled again. Glenny didn’t wait, he simply ran. And ran. And ran. By the time night fell, he didn’t think he stopped his jog once out of necessity for rest. He stopped to eat some burnt meat and to gather his bearings, but never because he felt exhausted.

In fact, he wasn’t even tired.

Still, his mind needed rest despite his body not needing it. He sat there, alone in the snow and blinded by the moonlight, awake. He was in hell, he decided. A sleepless cold hell. A sleepless cold hell overseen by a sadistic kidnapper. A sleepless cold hell overseen by a sadistic kidnapper that was also devoid of his friends—

Glenny’s inner musing abruptly stopped, unlike the trees and ground. They trembled again, but this time an arrow blocked his path.

“Ah, I guess Isobel decided it was time for me to die,” Glenny laughed to himself, slowly sliding his daggers out of their hilts and turning invisible.

There was plenty of documentation available about basilisks, some of which Glenny had read. They were, after all, considered to be a major trophy for prominent solo combatants wishing to show a feat of strength – something his father had done as a young man only a few years older than his son was currently.

Glenny remembered the stories his mother told to embarrass his father. “He had to whittle it down for three weeks! He killed all of its food, starving the poor thing to death!” She would purposefully leave out the actual battle with the beast, the struggle it was to finally slay, because it would rile him up.

Glenny remembered teaming up with his mom and teasing his father, never letting him get a word in about the tale. But he also remembered asking his dad about the battle while they were fishing together alone.

“A basilisk’s weak point is along its belly. Hard part is getting to it, near impossible unless you have some way to flip it. See, you want to disable it somehow. All big beasts have a critical flaw, they are slow while we are not.”

Stepping forward, Glenny pounced.

The Huntress carefully watched Glenny stalk the basilisk, more specifically the light that dulled in his eyes. Frankly she wasn’t sure if her plan would work, getting a basilisk to move outside of its territory was a difficult job. So, she was going to get her time’s worth out of the situation even if no fruit grew.

Still, she had faith in the young one for some reason. She couldn’t quite put it into words but as she watched Glenny stab both daggers into the thick hide of the beast, she knew she was right. Like always. The attack did next to nothing in terms of damage but it was a starting place.

Most people Glenny’s age, at least the ones she had dealt with over her time as an Inquisitor, were cowards. The Huntress knew some like Glenny existed, although they were often dead not long after their Dream Ceremonies. It took a special type of crazy to face down a basilisk, especially one in the freezing wilderness of the northern mountains.

But that was what made Glenny special. A problem was given to him, and he was going to solve it. He probably figured he had a lifeline watching him from the trees, and while true, the Huntress was not going to intervene. He could do it, she had faith.

He would have to tap into what made the Legacy of the Chameleon special, however. He would have to abuse the power left over from the Sightless King.