The Village of Archen

The townsfolk murmured among themselves, and he would quickly recognize the wide-eyed gaze of fear. Mothers hid their children behind them, men clutched at their farming tools with white-knuckled grips, and even dogs seemed restless and on-edge. However, upon second glance, it would become obvious that it wasn't him they were worried about. Their gazes continued to flick up to the tree, lingering on its long, outstretched branch before tearing away and focusing back on him. Nobody seemed to want to look up at the tree for very long, but it was clear that something about it frightened them very much. After a long moment, an old man limped out from the crowd, bent almost double by age. He leaned heavily on his walking stick, knobbly hands shaking as he steadied himself and raised a squinting eye towards the newcomer.

"You'd best be stepping away from that tree, lad," he croaked. "That tree's no good. Ain't for lookin' at. Come away, sonny. I'm only telling you this for your own good."

The crowd nodded and muttered in agreement, parting to create a gap for Day to walk through. They continued to whisper to each other, casting surreptitious glances up at the tree before looking away as though afraid to be caught staring. A young child slipped free of his mother's grasp and began to toddle towards the base of the tree, but barely got three steps before the mother caught him, delivering a sharp smack to his bottom and scolding him in a stern whisper.

"You mustn't go near that tree," she hissed. "You mustn't!"

The villagers let out a collective gasp as he inched closer to the tree, backing up as though afraid that he might spontaneously combust. The old man's eyes widened in shock, and he shook his head hurriedly. However, not a soul made a move to stop him. They continued to sneak glances towards the tree, shuddering slightly as their eyes flitted across its gnarled branches.

"Would you not try to stop a man from jumping into a bonfire?" asked the old man. "It'll be your ruin if you touch that tree. Step away from it, lad. Step back and I'll tell you about it. That tree is no good, I say."

He sighed, then drew in a deep breath. The lines on his face seemed to deepen, as though the mere thought of the tree caused him to age even further. The murmuring of the other villagers ceased abruptly as they listened, waiting in silence to hang onto his every word.

"That's a bad tree," he said. "A Hangman's Oak, as I'm sure you know. Do you know anything about Hangman's Oaks, lad? They're grown over witch's graves. They say that it's not the hangman executing a criminal, but the tree. The tree has to like killing. If you ever try to tie a noose to the hanging limb and it breaks, you'll know that the tree has had enough."

He pointed up to the single outstretched limb, which stretched menacingly over Day's head. The limb was completely intact, aside from a slight divot that showed where the rope was usually tied.

"This tree still wants to kill. It thirsts for slaughter, and wants nothing more than to break every neck that dangles from that limb. However...two years ago we hung a druid. An awful man he was, mark my words. We had to slaughter our whole flock of goats because of what he'd done. The thing is...when we hung him, he refused a blindfold. He didn't look at the crowd, though. No, he stared right at the trunk of this tree. He cursed this tree with his dying breath, told it that it would never take another life. We didn't think much of the curse at the time, but it had power. He'd channeled his soul as it left his body, and left his mark on this tree."

Shuddering, he leaned heavily on his stick once more. A young man ran out from the crowd to come to his side, steadying the old man and giving him a shoulder to lean on.

"The next man we tried to hang," continued the old man, "was a murderer. Cut his poor wife to shreds with a butcher knife. My very own niece. Poor Talia, she never hurt a fly in her life...but we caught the bastard, dragged him out and strung him right up to the tree. The hangman kicked out the stool and the killer fell...but he didn't die. He just hung there, kicking and choking and turning purple as the rope dug into his neck. We let him hang from sunrise to sunset until we cut him down, but he just wouldn't die. The thing we brought down, though...it wasn't a man. It looked like one and talked like one, but it had changed. The tree couldn't kill, so it turned him into a monster. He's locked in the basement of the temple right now, still clawing at the walls and rattling his chain even though we haven't fed him in over a year."

The townsfolk nodded fearfully, hands clutched protectively around small children as they listened to the tale. It was clear from their lack of shock that they all knew this story well, but they still turned white with terror at the old man's recount.

"You'd think we'd learn our lesson, lad, but you'd be wrong. We thought it was a fluke, didn't believe what we were seeing. After the same thing happened to the next two, though...we stopped hanging people from that tree. It only stands because there's not a soul among us brave enough to cut it down. Who knows what would happen to us, to the town? We just try to avoid it as best we can and pray that one day one of our grandchildren will watch it fall over."

The old man gave a bitter chuckle at the mention of the lord, shaking his head once more. He turned, staring up at the castle that overlooked the village from atop the hill. From down in the village, the castle seemed to loom over them all and cast a watchful eye over the townsfolk.

"Duke Elkin?" he asked, voice seething with scorn. He spat on the ground, then turned back to address the newcomer.

"The man is as useless as a legless donkey, without any of the charm. He sits in his castle and ignores our letters about the cursed tree and the hanged men. We go up to the castle ourselves, but he refuses to even see us. I'm almost convinced that the only time he ever leaves those walls is to go into his hunting preserve and chase down deer and foxes. We're not allowed to so much as look at those animals even in the harshest of drought years, as he'd rather have us starve than let us take from his stock of game. I hope his horse trips and he breaks his neck chasing one of those foxes one of these days."

The crowd murmured their agreement, muttering a flurry of grievances against the duke ranging from the ugliness of his nose to the unfairness of his taxes. The man was not particularly popular among his subjects, it seemed. As Day made to leave, the old man raised a hand to stop him, waving towards a small inn.

"Please," he said. "Stay a while. It's getting rather dark, and we'd hate to put you out on the road at this time of day. Come, you'll have your large meal. It's the least we can do for making you listen to such sordid tales. Oh, and please forgive me for not introducing myself sooner. I'm Ort. What do you go by, stranger?"

The old man chuckled, waving off Day's arm and leading him down the path. The townsfolk let out a collective sigh of relief as he walked away from the tree, dispersing into the village to return to their work. The newcomer may have been exciting, but the turnips weren't going to dig themselves.

"Ort the wise?" repeated the old man. "Don't you go spouting nonsense, lad. If I really were that wise, it wouldn't have taken three hangings to realize that something was wrong about that tree. No, it's just Ort. Come along now, right this way. My daughter makes a delicious turnip stew."

He led Day into a small, rather dingy inn known as the Cracked Barrel. The interior wasn't exactly filthy, but didn't seem particularly clean either. The glasses lined up behind the bar were all smudged, and the floor clearly hadn't been swept in the past couple of weeks. Ort gestured for Day to take a seat at a table, which had a short leg and wobbled slightly at every touch.

"Please, sit and relax," he said. "Hopefully my useless son-in-law will pull his head out of his backside long enough to bring you some dinner. In the meantime, tell me about yourself, Brennan. Where do you hail from, and what brings you out to this miserable little village?"

Ort leaned across the table, his eyes wide with interest. In contrast to when he was talking about the morbid history of the tree, he seemed to glow with an almost childlike curiosity at what the newcomer had to say. As Day offered him the choice of what version of his story he would tell, Ort chuckled.

"If the truth is offered," he said, "it would take a very foolish man indeed to ask for anything less. If it doesn't cause you any discomfort, that's what I'd like. The truth, to the best of your knowledge. I assure you, I'll be happy with your tale no matter what it is. Living in this little village so long, I've come to learn the stories of everyone here. It really does get quite dreary at times, you know. There's seldom ever anyone with anything new to say."

A young man in an apron approached the table, his face patched with a sad, scraggly attempt at a beard. He glanced nervously at Ort as he placed two bowls of steaming stew in front of them, the wooden bowls rattling against the table from his shaking hands. Ort tsked, fixing him with a disapproving stare.

"Steady your hands, boy," he said. "You can't expect to inherit an inn with those shaky hands. How will you tend a bar, serve a patron, even write up a list of guests? Quit your trembling."

The young man nodded hurriedly and shuffled away, clutching his hands together in an effort to stop their shaking. Ort turned back to Day, sighing.

"I don't know what my daughter sees in that man," he said, "But he'll not run this inn as long as I draw breath. Not unless he learns to stop his hands from quivering like that all the time. But that's enough of that. I'll have your story, Brennan. And you ought to have some stew."

Upon tasting the stew, Day would find that the rumors of its deliciousness had been greatly exaggerated. It was a barely palatable slurry of overcooked turnips, lacking any sort of enticing flavor whatsoever. The few scraps of meat in the stew were suspiciously chewy, and it seemed to have been seasoned with exactly four grains of salt.

Ort listened intently, sipping at his stew. He was clearly unbothered by its near-inedibility, likely accustomed to a diet of such poor fare. As Day detailed the dreams of his youth, the old man nodded, scratching at his beard thoughtfully. He cast an appraising eye over the man, studying him closely before speaking.

"Who hasn't had such dreams as a child?" he asked. "It's a cold world that we live in, where such dreams must be crushed to accept the realities of life. Perhaps you might yet still be able to do some good, though. You mentioned that you wore the mantle of a knight a lifetime ago. You may have been a different person in mind, but the body remains. Perhaps you could save us, Brennan. The duke refuses to see us, but if you were to once more take up the guise of a knight...I'm sure he wouldn't refuse you. You may be our only chance to make ourselves heard with the duke. Make him see reason, get him to do something about the monsters. About the tree. His rule is a harsh one, and many among us grow dissatisfied. I fear that the mutterings of dissent may soon come to a boiling point, lad. Blood will be spilled upon this earth, both here in town and within the castle walls. Perhaps we'll win, or maybe we'll simply be crushed. No matter the outcome, the only winner will be that damned tree, laughing as it watches us kill each other."

He sighed, pushing away his half-eaten bowl of stew. The greyish slurry glistened in the lamplight, its surface congealing into a solid mass as it cooled. A scrawny, one-eyed tabby cat crossed the inn to hop up upon the table, sniffing at the stew before recoiling with a hiss and running away.

"Will you help us, Brennan?" asked Ort. "You're our only hope to prevent the bloodshed. If not, I fear that this region will forever have a brutal slaughter etched into its history. I can only hope that we will be the ones alive to recount it."

"Archen," said Ort simply. "The Village of Archen. Named for our first duke, although in a few years I doubt there'll be anyone left alive who remembers the origin of the name. And as for the tree...if there was something to be done about it, we would have done it years ago. I don't know of anyone in the whole region who knows the first thing about magic. Every year or so a traveling artificer or alchemist will visit the area, but they usually go straight up to the castle. They know we can't afford their wares."

He chuckled bitterly, the laugh quickly turning into a dry coughing fit. The hacking cough lasted for almost a minute before subsiding, the old man bent double in his seat as he slowly regained his breath. His son-in-law came running, face lined with concern, but Ort turned him away with a dismissive wave of the hand.

"It's funny that you should call it that," he continued, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Playing the role of a knight. We might have something for you that could help. You see, a couple of years ago a traveling theater troupe came to the village to put on a play. Quite a bit of excitement, I don't think I've ever seen so many smiling faces in all my years in this town. Anyways, as they were about to leave, one of their horses broke a leg and couldn't pull a cart. They were forced to abandon an entire cart's worth of costumes and supplies here, and we promised them that we'd keep them stored safely until they returned."

His eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment, reminiscing about pleasant times long past. Even in the happy memory, there was a note of sadness in his gaze, as though he knew that he wouldn't live to see them return.

"In any case," he said, snapping out of his reverie, "there's a suit of armor that you can use. It's stage armor, mind you. Made mostly of polished tin, wouldn't stop so much as a kitchen knife...but it looks the part. I don't think our blacksmith would be able to make you anything better, I'm afraid. We're a peaceful village, for the most part. He crafts horseshoes and axe heads, not helmets and swords."

There was another pause as he considered Day's suggestion about arming the villagers, and he chewed on his dry lip for a moment before speaking.

"I suppose he could make spearheads easily enough, though."

Ort nodded quickly as Day's head started to droop, clicking his tongue impatiently until his son-in-law came running. He jerked his head towards Day, snapping at the nervous young man when he hesitated.

"Can't you see he's tired? Show the man to his room. The good one, you hear? He could very well be our savior. That room had better be clean, boy. Fit for a knight, you understand? A knight! You'd best rest well, Brennan. Tomorrow will be a long day, I'm sure."

The shaking son-in-law led Day up to the inn's "finest room," a comparison that boded very poorly for the other available rooms. It was drafty and dusty and smelled a bit of old straw, and the quilt on the bed was only marginally less ragged than the one in the last prison cell Day had found himself in. Clearly, it had been a long time indeed since this room had last seen a guest. Still, it was at least somewhat better than sleeping outdoors.

"I-if there's anything else you require, please let me know," said the young man, glancing hurriedly over his shoulder. "And if possible, please ask me directly. If my father-in-law finds out that there was anything at all unsatisfactory about the room, I'll never hear the end of it."

He left quickly, leaving Day alone in the room. The would-be "knight" would find the bed to be rather lumpy but otherwise serviceable, the straw mattress only slightly moldy. If he looked out the window, he'd see the cat from before staring at him, but it would run away as soon as he glanced up.

Waking up from such a long slumber would likely be disorienting at first, with the sun in almost the same position in the sky as when he'd fallen asleep. Day would awake to the sound of crashing and shattering dishes downstairs, followed by a string of obscenities from a voice that could only belong to Ort. Upon heading downstairs, he would find Ort standing behind the bar, watching at his son-in-law as the nervous young man cleaned up broken plates from the ground.

"This is your fault," grumbled Ort. "If you didn't feed it it wouldn't come around here all the time, you know. I keep telling you, cats are nothing but trouble."

"I don't feed it," protested the son-in-law, sweeping up the remains of the plates hurriedly. "I've never fed it, I keep telling you!"

"Someone's feeding it," said Ort, giving a dismissive wave. "Cats don't just stick around if they're not fed. Maybe you're just not cleaning up properly and it's attracting mice."

Noticing Day, Ort turned, waving towards an empty seat at the bar. An old trunk had been pulled up beside the seat, its bright red-and-yellow painted peeling and faded with age.

"Ah," he said, "Our hero! Welcome, Brennan. We were afraid you'd died. Come come, try on your armor. It should all be in there, and you're about the right size. It's been quite a struggle keeping the children away from it for all this time, but we've managed somehow. Like I said, tin stage armor, but it'll look the part until people start looking closely. Not too many knights in this region anyways, so it's not like anyone's seen a proper suit of armor in a while."

Opening the chest, Day would find a set of tarnished but otherwise well-kept stage armor. It certainly looked real enough at a glance, but picking it up would immediately reveal that it was little more than a costume. The tin was incredibly light and could be bent easily by hand, and the careless application of the rivets would have been laughed at by any competent armorsmith. It was clear that this armor wouldn't protect him from an angry goose, much less a sword or a spear. Still, it was sized to fit someone of his stature and was a bit more understated than most stage armor. Not overly ornate, a little bit more realistic.

"I wish we could offer something better," said Ort. "Will it work, Brennan? Will you wear the armor and gain an audience with our lord? He'll hear you out, at least...probably. Who knows, with that man."