Cardinal Directions of the Obsidian Compass

                Playfully floppy blonde hair bounced in the sunlight as feet below it marched along the path scarcely travelled. Bright blue, happy eyes took in everything about the landscape, from the rustling green grass to the shimmering lake in the distance to the beautiful mountain slopes ahead, and appreciated the wonder of the wide, untamed world.
                “This is simply beautiful. What a place for a trek.” Beamed the young Baron Abhor Drakkis. With one hand gripped onto each of the straps of his leather pack, he swayed slightly from side to side with the raw joviality of his stride. Flowers of violet, blue, yellow, crimson and a whole decorator’s colour chart besides faced him with broad, open petals or delicately fluted bells. It was a spectrum of rich colours, a chromatic wonderland, where everything was different but nothing looked out of place. Except, of course, for the deep, dark obsidian compass that hung on a silver chain around Baron Drakkis’ neck.
                Although the compass itself was reasonably light, the weight of the responsibility it carried was disproportionately heavy. Not enough to dampen the young Baron’s spirits or optimism about the adventure ahead, but sufficient to make himself resolve to see his duty through. That wasn’t a hardship for Abhor though. Even as a child he’d recognised the importance of fulfilling duties, the value of honouring promises, and the benefits of respecting the greater good. At least this important duty, for which had been groomed throughout his life, involved a pleasant hike through the picturesque landscape of the Drakkis barony.
 
                “Today is the day, my child.” His mother, The Lady Insipidia Drakkis, had told him that morning.
                “I know, mother. We’ve been working towards this my whole life. It’d be peculiar for you to have to remind me of it now.” He’d replied. They’d both laughed, but his mother had seemed worried despite her outward happiness. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine! I’ve only got to follow the directions of the compass and set it on an altar wherever it leads me, like you’ve been teaching me for years. I’ll show you my following and putting skills again if you think I’ll struggle.”
                “Very good, Abhor. There’s no need to mock a woman for having concerns over her son’s safety.” She’d replied with good natured humour. “Especially when she’s trying unsuccessfully to hide it.”
                “I’ll be back by morning.” He’d promised, placing one hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be weird to come home after this duty is fulfilled you know. Following-practice and putting-training has occupied so much of my life that I’m struggling to think of how I’ll fill my days.”
                “You’ll find some way of getting into trouble I’m sure.” Insipidia predicted, poking her tongue out at him. “Now go on. This might well be the most important thing you do in your life.”
                “Yes, mother. But I hope that I can find something more exciting to have importance in the future. A legacy of leaving navigational equipment on stone tables doesn’t have a lot of flair does it?”
                He’d left the grounds of the castle to the sound of his mother’s laughter and salutes from the household guard. It all felt a bit overwrought for what would amount to an enjoyable walk in the sunshine, but Abhor knew that it was the done thing. Traditions were strange, especially in the Drakkis family, and he’d learned to accept it.
 
                Abhor reached the shade of a small copse of trees and paused for a drink from his water-skin. Under his fingers he could feel the contours of the embossed silver symbol of the Drakkis family; a single viper’s tooth, dripping with venom, and surrounded by a cloud of smoke. It had never seemed the jolliest way to celebrate a family’s lineage, but heritage carried value and he didn’t wish to decry what his ancestors had chosen to represent themselves. Not every house could have a prancing deer or smiling rabbit as their standard, and it certainly made the family stand out at the great gatherings of nobles.
                After wiping away the small damp patch around his mouth, Abhor lifted the obsidian compass and peered into its glass window. Inside, the needle which had been static for all of his childhood had started to move around with him. Its activation had proven that he’d set off on the right day, which was something of a relief, and he’d followed the pointy end of its impossibly black arrow since leaving the castle.
                From his knowledge of normal compasses, he thought that the needle was supposed to always point North. It was a directional reference to aid navigation, but didn’t really replace a map. Whoever had made the obsidian compass had clearly not been given that information, and instead had run with an entirely different idea that compasses were complete solutions to navigational problems. The arrow morphed and twisted like a combination of smoke and mercury as Abhor had progressed, directing him with minutely detailed directional instructions along the path, turning as the track did, and even guiding him around trip hazards such as roots and rocks. It was a peculiar curiosity how the needle didn’t seem to be floating in water like those in a normal compass. A tremendous piece of tinkering, he decided.
                Despite its unknowable nature, the compass was clearly happy with the path that the young Baron was following, and so he stashed away his water-skin to set off once more.
                At the other end of the shaded grove of trees Abhor saw, sitting on a rock in the shade of an elm, another traveller. Dressed in simple woollen clothing with a small pouch of their own, they looked like an amiable sort to Abhor.
                “Greetings, traveller!” He called out, breaking into a broad, welcoming grin.
                The other traveller snapped their head upwards, startled by the sudden sound of another human voice, and then regarded Abhor with an appraising look.
                “Hello.” She said suspiciously. From her seated position she pushed up to her feet, ready to flee if the approaching stranger seemed like they were going to try anything funny. There was no visible weapon, which was a good start, but that didn’t necessarily mean that there was no blade stashed out of sight. Disarmingly bouncy gaits and blonde hair weren’t always to be trusted.
                “A beautiful day to be among nature, don’t you think?” Abhor said warmly. “Such colour and open space seems more wonderful when it raises itself, rather than coming by the machinations of the gardener.”
                “It’s a nice place, yes. I can’t claim to have the experience of tended gardens that you do though.” The traveller replied. Abhor got the impression that she wasn’t diving into this interaction as easily as he was. ‘Perhaps she’s had a hard day’ he thought.
                “My name is Abhor.” he said, still growing closer. He held out an empty hand ready to be shaken, in an effort to help build her half of the bridge. His was always ready to span any gap. “I’m going on a short adventure of sorts.”
                Eyes that were still narrowed with suspicion eyed Abhor up and down. The boyish face showed no sign of duplicity or ill-intent, but it was certainly out-of-keeping with the jet black travelling clothes that covered his body. A well-tailored black jerkin, edged with a thin line of dense black fur, clung to the shape of his torso. His trousers were black leather and disappeared into tall black walking boots. Tight silver bangles held the sleeves of his shirt close to his arms, and there was something swinging from a chain on his neck. She couldn’t quite manage to focus on it.
                “I’m Malia.” She said, slowly extending her own hand to take his. The other was resting on the short skinning knife that she kept in her belt.
                “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Malia.” Ahbor said, shaking her hand firmly and releasing it without any sudden betrayals or hidden blades spoiling the moment. Malia’s hand relaxed away from her knife slightly. Only slightly. “And what brings you out here?”
                “I… I had a job to do but it didn’t work out. So now I’m sitting here and thinking about where to go next.” She said, trying not to offer too much or to appear that she was holding secrets. A silver brooch on Abhor’s lapel caught her attention and her abdomen stiffened. It was the unmistakable Drakkis crest.
                “You’re Abhor Drakkis?” she asked with a quiver of her voice. “Do you have guards with you somewhere?”
                Abhor chuckled softly as her eyes scanned the trees around them.
                “Of course not. I’m on an adventure of my very own.” He said. There was something unaccountably disarming about his manner that Malia couldn’t bring herself to fight against. She just believed his stupid, naïve face.
                “An adventure, my Lord. What is the goal, if I may ask?” she replied, feeling like a fool for fearing him to be a bandit and hoping that the change in her tone wouldn’t seem too stark.
                “Of course you may. And call me Abhor, please.” The baron replied, very much noticing the stark change in her tone. That tended to happen when people found out a little too late that they were addressing their baron. “My goal is to follow the directions of this obsidian compass and leave it on the altar that awaits me.”
                Malia watched as Abhor lifted the dark mass on the end of his necklace to show her. She would never have guessed that it was a compass; where normal compasses were perfectly circular and set in brass or steel, this one comprised a series of harsh angles formed of glassy fracture planes. It looked as if had been crudely sculpted from a larger solid piece, with scalloped chips all over its exterior. It was unsettling in a way she couldn’t articulate to herself, but there was something worse.
                Sitting in Abhor’s palm, the compass seemed to cast a shadow at every angle despite already being in the shade. A deep, dark parody of the compass’ basic outline had been thrown over Abhor’s whole hand, one that transcended mere shadow and approached starless twilight. If she looked hard enough, Malia could convince herself that within that darkness there were even blacker tendrils writhing around for anything to grasp. Rapidly she chose not to look very hard any longer.
                “That compass… seems to be an artefact of great power.” She said, fear edging her voice.
                “It’s an heirloom passed down through the Drakkis family for a number of generations. Rather in keeping with the house colours and style, don’t you think?” Abhor told her proudly. “Whichever artisan they hired to craft it was definitely worth the coin for their unique style alone.”
                “Undoubtedly.” Malia replied, staring around the compass with fascination but unable to muster the will to focus on it directly again. “It seems at odds with the reputation of your barony.”
                “How so?”
                “Well… your family has been renowned for kindness and gentleness in its rule of the serfs. The charity you provide and the liberties you give those who live within your barony. It doesn’t fit with black leathers, crow feathers and sharp obsidian.” Malia explained. The young baron’s face made her more open than she wanted to be, but thankfully she was able to stop her mouth before speaking further. The stories of how the Drakkis family had forged their barony in generations past were not recounted with such grateful reverence.
                “Please, you flatter my family. Thank you for your sweet words but we are simply doing our best by those in our care. Besides, being nice to everyone is another part of my duty.” Abhor replied. If Malia hadn’t convinced herself it was a trick of the compasses light-denial powers, she would have thought that the baron was blushing. He allowed the necklace to rest against his torso once again and carry the vile shadows down with it. “Anyway, I must continue on my adventure. Duty calls. If you’re at a loose end then you’re more than welcome to accompany me.” He offered.
                Malia looked at the compass for a few moments, or at least the lightless cavity where it should have been against Abhor’s sternum, and then up to his face. There was no expectation or manipulation there. It was just an honest offer from an honest baron. Normally she would never have trusted honesty from anyone with more coin than her, but despite the unique Drakkis dress sense he seemed totally trustworthy. And maybe she could find work more easily if she travelled with the baron.
                “I think I would find that to be an interesting diversion.” She accepted, taking care not to sound over-familiar.
                “Brilliant! Then onwards along the path we shall go.” Abhor said merrily, grasping his pack’s straps with both hands again and striding into the sunlight beyond the grove.
 
                Abhor and Malia walked together across the meadowland that stretched away from the Harrowed Mountains, with Abhor talking at length about his life in the castle. Malia found that he was all too willing to share details of his education, his upbringing and his opinions on the hierarchy of the apple-types available to him at lunch. What surprised her, aside from the sheer volume of opinions he’d managed to form on apples, was that he didn’t sound like had been groomed or prepared for leadership like other rulers. Everything she knew about the noble families was that the first-born child’s sole purpose in life was to learn how to keep ruling like their ancestors did, but Abhor’s education sounded far more general. There was, however, a strange focus on following directions and placing objects onto flat surfaces.
                “I like to think that I would be able to hold my own against any other who sought to place an artefact on a slab these days.” Abhor said. It didn’t sound like a boast to Malia, because who would ever think to boast about something like that?
                "I should imagine so with all that practice. No-one else really gets schooled in those sorts of things."
                "Presumably it's not an important part of their destiny or duty." Abhor surmised.
                "More that they just don't need to be taught how to put things down after the age of 3."
                "So I thought, too!" Abhor said with a laugh. "But my tutors had other opinions on the matter. Angle control, yaw selection, pitch accuracy, rate of descent... the list goes on."
                "Wow. What on earth is this duty of yours that everyone has overcomplicated so much?"
                "It's pretty much as I explained. I need to follow the directions of my obsidian compass wherever they may lead me, and then place it onto the altar I find at the end of the journey." Abhor told her. "And try to be nice to everyone. But that doesn't feel difficult, because it's nice to be nice."
                "And then what happens with the compass?"
                "How do you mean?" Abhor asked.
                "I mean what happens next? So far you've just carried something old and expensive a long way to put it down somewhere and presumably leave it there. Duty doesn't tend to result in a net loss of precious objects and nothing to show for it." Clarified Malia. She was about to feel surprised that he hadn't ever questioned this himself, but then remembered that there had been years of tutoring on how to put something down. Critical thinking probably hadn't been on his curriculum.
                "I keep following directions." Abhor answered. "If there’s another part of the duty then that’ll be it, as far as I can tell. I've always been a little foggy on what following directions from a compass that’s lying still on an altar entails though. Its directions are only going to be to stay still because it’ll already be at the destination, and I can't do that for very long because I'd get hungry. We’ll work it out though."
                Malia nodded slowly. He would indeed get hungry. She couldn't help worrying about quite how much a normal education had been omitted to make room for all that following and putting.
                "Did you never ask what the extra directions would be?" Malia chanced, hoping that he wouldn't take her as patronising.
                "A few times, yes. But mother said that she'd asked the same thing when she was a girl and no-one knew what to tell her either. I'm not convinced that any of my ancestors have had a clue, so they just passed on what information they had really."
                "So no-one ever wrote it down? They just passed it by word of mouth to one another through the generations that your duty would be to carry what is clearly a cursed compass towards some kind of unknown altar and await instructions?"
                "I don't know about cursed." Abhor chuckled. "It's definitely a bit on the frisky side, what with the way it catches the light and doesn't let it go again, but cursed would imply that something bad would happen to me. I've been fine thus far!"
                "Aside from having to spend years learning basic motor skills?" Malia probed sceptically.
                "If that's the only curse I suffer in my time then I shall think myself lucky." Abhor smiled. Malia believed him, against every instinct she otherwise had about ruthless positivity; duty-bound or otherwise.
 
                Abhor's mother, Insipidia, had endured far less strenuous tuition in the arts of direction obeisance and object re-situation.  Her own education had been focused around remembering the details of the heir's duty, and so she was quizzed daily on remembering the three major aspects: following the directions, putting the compass down, and trying his best to be nice to everyone. Being repeatedly quizzed on a quantity of information that could be written on a fingernail carried its share of frustration for The Lady Drakkis, but her own parents assured her that it was the way things had been for her father, and his father before him when they were given their education. Getting frustrated about it had never helped.
                What The Lady Drakkis' grandfather, Venge, had neglected to mention, of course, was that the third important duty, being nice to everyone, had been an addition from his own mother, Spitetricia.
                "It's all well and good doing duty blindly, but it's not a good reason to be mean to anyone or inconvenience them. It costs nothing to be kind whilst delivering a compass."
                Venge’s father, Magnanion, had spent years of his marriage to Spitericia and his fatherhood to Venge reiterating the message to both of them as a kind of family mantra, and Spitetricia herself had said it countless times during the lessons. The words had sunk in. When it came to passing on the lessons to his own son, kindness had been an obvious inclusion that warranted no argument.
 
                The meadowland eventually led Abhor and Malia alongside a stretch of farmland, on which tall stalks of wheat stretched upwards against one another. Each of them vied to be the tallest and get the most light. Separated from the road by a drystone wall, the fields shimmered like golden water in the gentle breeze.
                "And who's this? Another jolly soul enjoying the beauty of the crops." Abhor nudged Malia, pointing towards a figure leaning forwards over the wall. From the soil stains and seed husks across his clothing, they could tell immediately that he was a member of the agricultural community.
                "Might be his field." Malia suggested. "And he might not be immediately enamoured with us this close by to his crops."
                "Nonsense. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to see a pair of travellers along his pathway."
                The farmer turned at the sound of their voices, snapping up straight when he saw Abhor's noble attire. There was nowhere to run or hide. He trembled as he thought about the sacks of grain that he'd hidden from the Baron's tax collectors when they'd come for their dues.
                "Good tidings!" Abhor boomed with a toothy grin.
                "Ugh." The farmer squealed, pressing himself against the wall.
                "What's the matter?" Abhor asked urgently, his manner changing from jovial to concerned in an instant. "You look as though you've seen terror itself bearing down upon you."
                The farmer's eyes remained locked on Abhor and wide with fear. The Drakkis’ had always been good to their serfs, asking for comparatively tiny taxes and tithes, and never taking more grain from the farmers than they could reasonably spare. But still he had withheld some from them. For what? Greed? Defiance? They already had enough to feed themselves, and there was so little to defy about the Drakkis family. As the young Baron walked closer, each confident stride bringing his impressive bulk nearer to striking distance, the farmer wondered just what kind of wrath was invoked from pushing a kind person too far. He’d heard stories from generations long past about what used to happen to those who tried to defraud the Drakkis family, and they did nothing to help his nerves.
                “Is everything alright?” Abhor asked again, extending a hand and resting it on the man’s shoulder. The farmer cowered. “Goodness, this man must be delirious from the heat. He can’t even answer me!”
                “Abhor?” Malia said softly.
                “It’s all going to be alright, friend. I’ll get you some shade and water.”
                “Abhor? I think he’s scared of you.”
                “What could there possibly be to fear from me?” The young baron asked, confused. He lifted the farmer easily onto his shoulders and walked him to the shade of a nearby oak. The man squeaked as he was lowered to the ground.
                “You’re his baron for a start. That’s enough to intimidate a lot of people.”
                “Here, drink some water.” Abhor said to the man, crouching down and offering him his water-skin. Another wave of fear passed across the man’s face when he saw the silver viper’s tooth on Abhor’s water-skin. Surely it could only mean poison.
                “And then you went striding directly towards him with that thing on your chest that sucks the light in.”
                “It’ll make you feel better.” The baron persisted, trying to aim the nozzle at the farmer’s reluctant mouth as it jerked away desperately.
                “And then you picked him up.” Malia finished.
                “I didn’t mean it!” The farmer wailed suddenly.
                “Didn’t mean what, friend?” Abhor asked, lowering the water-skin for a moment.
                “The grain. I forgot I had bags of it in the house.”
                Abhor tipped his head to one side.
                “Your memory of grain bags is no business of mine. This isn’t a census.” Abhor reassured. “No-one takes censuses of grain do they?” He asked Malia.
                “No.” She sighed. “I think perhaps he hid some from the collectors.” The farmer stared at her with furious betrayal on his face. “Oh don’t give me that, you were trying to admit to it yourself!”
                “Why hide it? They would only take what you can spare.” Abhor told the farmer. “If you need to keep more of it then you only need to say so and the collectors will respect that.”
                The various folds on the farmer’s face indicated that he didn’t necessarily believe that statement.
                “Really. And if they don’t then you can come to me and I’ll sort the misunderstanding out. Alright?”
                “Er… yes, my Lord. Thank you my Lord.”
                “Please call me Abhor.”
                “Don’t think I can do that.”
                Abhor shrugged.
                “As you wish. I’d feel better if you had a mouthful of water though. That was a very extreme reaction to forgetting about some sacks of grain you just had, so the heat may still be getting to you.”
                “I saw him drink out of it himself. It’s fine.” Malia added, feeling like the baron deserved a little help in the circumstances.
                Looking nervously between the baron and the stranger, the farmer took Abhor’s water-skin and had a small sip before rapidly handing it back.
                “Good.” Abhor smiled, standing up straight. “What’s your name?”
                “Richard Fairworth, my Lord.” Richard said, relaxing a little. As he did, a twang of the countryside entered his voice.
                “Good to meet you Richard. I am Baron Abhor Drakkis, and this is my friend Malia.” Abhor introduced.
                “Hello.” Said Malia.
                Richard waved weakly at her.
                “What brought you out here today, Richard?”  Baron Drakkis asked conversationally as he put the water-skin away.
                “I… I was watching over the field, my Lord. I like to look at it for a time some days.” Richard answered. With the panic subsiding he started to actually take in the details of Abhor’s face, rather than just his dress and stature. There was something in his features that put Richard at ease.
                “You and I both. It keeps us all fed and it shines in the sunlight.” The young baron agreed with a smile. “I can perfectly well see how you might lose hours just gazing out at all of this.”
                “Yes. But, to tell the truth my Lord, there’s little work to do on the fields at the moment and I’m getting restless.” Richard admitted before he knew what he was doing. Volunteering information like having free time to work was rarely a good idea.
                “Really? Well, if you seek something to do with your time then you’re welcome to join us. We’re on an adventure to fulfil my lifelong duty.” Abhor offered.
                “An adventure? That sounds like it could be dangerous.”
                “Not at all. All we need to do is follow my compass wherever it may lead us, and then leave it on an altar.”
                “And be nice to everyone.” Malia added.
                “Yes, of course. That’s probably the most important part, in fact. Thank you Malia.”
                Richard scratched the side of his face with one hand. Opportunities to travel with the nobility didn’t ever happen to people like him outside of a war, and it would beat another day of boredom staring over the fields. The last vestiges of his previous panic dissipated away and left him feeling as if they’d never been there at all.
                “We’ve just got to follow a compass and be nice? I think I can do that.” Richard assessed honestly.
                “Tremendous! Welcome to our company.” Abhor beamed. He lifted the obsidian compass up to consult it for directions, and Malia watched with interest as Richard’s expression glazed over.
                “It looks weird doesn’t it?” she said to the farmer, desperate to have validation of her gut reaction.
                “Urk.” Was all that Richard managed by way of reply.
                “Oh come on it’s not hurting you, but you agree that it looks occult don’t you?”
                “I promise you that it’s just a simple artefact passed down by my family.” Abhor told her again. “Nothing evil about it. How would carrying an evil artefact about be considered nice?”
                “You’ve got me there.” Malia replied, more to avoid a discussion than anything else.
                “It’s like something from the old tales.” Richard muttered. He looked up at Abhor’s excited, genuine face and struggled to hold on to his reservations. “But if you say we’re safe then I’ll come with you, my Lord.”
                “That’s the spirit.” Abhor said, staring into the compass for his next instruction. Tentacles of blackness swept around its chiselled form and came together to point him off-road, towards the mountains.
                “Mountainwards we go!”
 
                The party of three picked their way between uneven outcrops of grass, dirt and stone to stay on the path dictated by the obsidian compass. Every time Abhor lifted it to check the directions Richard was unnerved by the way the shadows seemed to engulf his whole hand, like the compass was wrapping itself around Abhor’s flesh. Even in the shade it found a way to make all around it seem dimmer, an effect which was more unsettling still in the looming shadow of Gallows Rock.
                “I think we grow closer to our destination, friends! The compass’ directions are getting stronger and more enthusiastic, if I dare to say such a thing. It appears that our next obstacle is to circumnavigate this cliff-face.” Baron Drakkis called out to his companions. They matched his footsteps as the path of least resistance through loose stones and uncertain footholds, making a good showing of following directions even without a full childhood of tuition.
                A full tour of Gallows Rock didn’t fill either Malia or Richard with joy. From what the farmer had heard, from stories told in hushed whispers by the older generations, Gallows Rock was named after the decorations that the first Baron Drakkis had sited at the top, a mere few days after he acquired the Barony from its previous incumbent. It was widely taken as a message not to resist his reign, which would have been more poignant if it had been directed at any community other than the one which had helped him to take power during his coup.
                Richard looked up at his Lord leading the way across the mountainside and struggled to relate him to his ancestor. In the generations of recent memory each Baron and Baroness Drakkis had done everything within their power to improve the lives of their serfs. No-one had seen a public execution in living memory. The horror stories that children were told, about Drakkis’ men stalking the roads and punishing those who strayed from their curfews, had transformed from real warnings into myths told to stop the youth wandering away at night. All Abhor shared with the first Baron, it seemed, was a name and a dress code.
 
                The baron deposed by Drakkis had, according to history passed from mouth to mouth over the centuries, been a tyrant. Those who grew the food went hungry while those who stole it in the name of the crown thrived. When the tax collectors arrived they would leave with however much coin they could take, and if the serfs didn’t have enough between them to pay up then there was a blood debt to pay instead. The irony inherent in reducing the workforce to make it generate more coin didn’t quite reach the tyrant baron.
                Hope was a concept unknown to the tyrant’s people. It was like the promise of sunny days being made to those who lived underground; no matter what happened up there, they would be trapped in damp darkness. That had changed when a strange nobleman dressed in pure black had arrived in the outskirts of the tyrant’s lands.
                Travelling from village to village the blackened stranger had whispered that he could remove the yoke of taxation, tithes, grain tributes and execution. He made no direct promises regarding improvements to the weather, but they were heavily implied. Introducing himself as Revoltus Drakkis, the stranger performed meticulous rounds of every settlement in the barony with his words of better times to be delivered. With a small force of mercenaries already at his disposal, he would be the person to bring hope back to a land that had abandoned it years ago.
                It didn’t take long for the serfs to rally behind Revoltus’s promises. Working with the leaders of each village he hatched a plan to lead a coup against the tyrant baron and unchain the serfs from his cruelty. There were risks involved, of course. No coup could be realised without bloodshed, and the tyrant had his armed militia to stand in his defence, but that would be a small price to pay for the freedom of future generations, he’d said.
                Just as he’d said, so it came it true. Blood had been spilled by the gallon as farmers and peasants armed themselves with whatever they could and marched on the castle. Pitch forks, flaming torches, blacksmith’s hammers and particularly sharp mugs were held against the tyrant’s militia, with the promise of an ambush by Revoltus’s mercenaries to turn the tide. The details of the coup were lost to history, but after the gates had fallen and the peasantry had overwhelmed the guard, Revoltus Drakkis and his mercenaries stormed through the breach to take the tyrant.
                Standing in the throne room with a monster’s head in his hands, Vilifer had addressed his people with thanks, from behind a wall of black-clad men and women trained in the art of killing. He decreed that the serfs belonged on their turf, and should head home with pride. Their new Baron, the first Baron Drakkis, would rebuild and lift them from the tyrant’s horrors.
                It had been too late when the serfs realised that their elders had never returned to the villages with them. Messengers from the castle arrived soon after the coup, detailing how the elders were clearly treacherous revolutionaries who couldn’t be trusted to obey the wishes of a Baron. Protected by his black clad mercenaries, Baron Revoltus Drakkis laid demands on the serfs for the coin to rebuild his stormed castle, the gates of which the serfs had broken, and for grain to feed his army, who had delivered freedom to the people after all.
                In years to follow, the serfs came to miss the reign of the tyrant baron. True enough he had been a monster who did cruel deeds, but they were to consolidate his own power and comfort. The first Baron Drakkis, on the other hand, seemed to simply enjoy cruelty and making a show of his handiwork. His constructions on Gallows Rock made sure that none could forget it.
                Although it had been in a small and relatively unknown barony, Baron Drakkis coup had not gone unnoticed by everyone. The Pleasant Circle, a mysterious group that sought to promote the causes of good and justice, had been watching Revoltus Drakkis for some years, and his clandestine ambitions had them worried. Members of their order had already been living in the tyrant’s barony when Drakkis had arrived, but they were powerless to stand against him and his mercenary forces. Their only saving grace was secrecy. Revoltus knew nothing of The Pleasant Circle or their agent, and so they plotted in the safety of anonymity, desperate to find a way to stop him.
               
                Abhor whistled a merry tune in the valley beyond Gallows Rock. He commented on the variety of butterflies that swarmed the mountain wildflowers and pointed out the various species of birds that flitted from crags in the rock face high above. Malia and Richard followed along with a sense of calmness that engulfed all else, and felt like they really were the companions of a great adventurer.
                "Goodness!" Abhor exclaimed suddenly, almost walking into a gravelly outcrop in his surprise.
                "Have we stumbled across a particularly becoming beetle?" Malia asked with as much sarcasm as she dared. Richard gasped.
                "I'm afraid not, although I hold out hope that we will before the day is out." Abhor replied. "But the compass is growing tremendously excited. The arrows are almost coming out at me!" He marvelled. Malia and Richard had been able to see them doing so quite clearly for some time now.
                "I think it wants to walk directly into that wall." He said, directing their gazes to a sheer cliff face covered with thick roots and adventurous bushes from above and below respectively.
                "If you say so, my Lord." Richard said. "I'm only a peasant farmer so I don't know anything about destiny, but walking into walls isn't normally something that works out well in the mountains."
                "Ha! I have had the same experiences within the castle, friend."
                "Was the walking into walls the class between following and putting?" Malia asked.
                "Strictly extra-curricular." Abhor assured her. "Walking into wall lessons haven't been taught since my grandfather's day."
                Malia's mouth dropped open, and Abhor cracked a wry smile.
                "You're having me on, aren't you?" She accused.
                "It keeps us in high spirits, eh Richard?"
                "Yes, my Lord. Very much so, my Lord." Richard said distractedly. He was running his hands over the roots that grew down the rock face.
                "Something captured your agricultural interest, friend?" Abhor asked, bounding over like a puppy being reunited with its master.
                "You could say so, my Lord. These are hangers. They're meant to hang, not climb down a rock face."
                "Perhaps they just fancied a change."
                "Or perhaps it's not a rock face." Malia suggested. "Perhaps they've grown over a gap in the rock."
                "A cave, you mean? Now that really would make for a fun adventure. Exploring a long-lost cavern, with exciting mysteries and treasures to bring back." Abhor imagined, his eyes gleaming with the promise of what was to come. "And it'd be a far stretch better than walking into a wall."
                "You don't think it could be something... well, evil and sealed away in there do you?" Richard asked the others, trembling. It was the most scared he'd felt since fearing the wrath of Baron Drakkis as a tax collector several minutes earlier.
                "Oh, I shouldn't think so. The compass wouldn't lead us astray, and finding something evil wouldn't sit so well with being nice to everyone, would it?" Abhor reasoned.
                "The compass doesn't scream benevolence to me, though." Malia offered. "It has black smoke swirling around it whenever you hold it, Abhor. That's a lot more evil than good, aesthetically speaking."
                "Your speech is far more wise than aesthetic, Malia. There is merit in what you're saying."
                "I think you've missed the point."
                "Maybe so!" He chuckled. There appeared to be no follow-up.
                "What we're saying is that the compass could be drawing you towards something terrible. Something terrible that's inside a cave overgrown with thick roots and hidden for hundreds of years." Malia clarified.
                "That doesn't sound like the sort of thing mother would want me to do."
                "But you must have heard the stories! About the kind of thing that the first Baron Drakkis got up to." Richard said before he could stop himself. "Please forgive me, Lord! I didn't mean to speak out of turn!" He panicked.
                "Calm yourself, Richard. What stories do you mean?"
                "I... don't want to say."
                "Funny thing to do to bring it up and then not want to say. You're not scared of me again, are you?"
                "Well..."
                Abhor gave Richard a warm smile.
                "I will not harm you for speaking words about a man who has been dead and gone for hundreds of years. Besides, I'm sure you only have nice things to say."
                "Uh..." Richard gurgled, unsure of how to proceed.
                "He means the stories about dealings with demons and bloody rituals in the mountains. The stories that the children get told to stop them wandering off."
                "Oh that. Yes they're true, sadly. Messy business. But we know better than that now." Abhor said, clearly embarrassed by his ancestors.
                "Some people didn't need several generations to learn the lesson that blood sacrifices aren't really acceptable. But I suppose that's not your fault. You can't help what someone a few hundred years ago did, regardless of bloodlines." Malia conceded. "His daughter was pretty much as bad though, right? The baroness of bones?"
                "Baroness Putrepha was very slightly better, in fairness. I learned about her wickedness with bone idols and the grave-robbing situation when I was a boy, but the family histories take pains to mention that she sacrificed far fewer people than her father. They say it was her mother’s influence.” Abhor defended.
                “Really?”
                “Yes, indeed. Lady Hope Eternal was betrothed to the first Baron Drakkis and gave him his daughter. According to the records she was far less on board with the ritual sacrifice than he was, and some of that must have rubbed off on Putrepha. It happened again when Putrepha married Lord Amelioration; their twins sacrificed even fewer people between them.”
                “Baroness Putrepha married Lord Amelioration?”
                Abhor chuckled.
                “Opposites attract, I suppose.”
                “I guess so. So, do your family histories have full statistics on the number and severity of hideous atrocities they each committed?”
                “Not full. Some of them will have been conducted in private, we think.” Abhor said. Richard looked at him uncomfortably. “They’d all be frowned upon, obviously. But what we do know is that it only took four generations after Baroness Putrepha for there to be no sacrifices at all.”
                “That’s the preferred number, in fairness. But again, it shouldn’t be said as if it’s an achievement.” Malia reminded.
                “There’s a gap here.” Richard said, having turned back to the roots to ignore the in-depth atrocity discussion.
                “I’d just like it to be known that although the Drakkis family has had a dark past, we aren’t like that anymore. Every generation has sought to be better than the one before. I might never be able to be better than my own mother and father, of course, but I will try.” The young baron decreed.
                “It looks like a cave mouth.” Richard said.
                “Noble.” Malia said. “But I suppose that you have the right to be judged for your own deeds rather than those of your ancestors. And the legacy of the Drakkis in recent times has been a positive one.”
                “Yep. Definitely a cave.”
                Abhor looked over to the farmer. Where previously there had been a solid curtain of thick roots, vines and bushes, there was now an excavated cave mouth and a pile of vegetation.
                “You made fast work of that! Spectacular!” The baron congratulated with a hearty slap on the back.
                “Thank you, my Lord. I know my way around weeding.” Richard accepted with a bow, his hands various shades of green, brown and black.
                “Clearly so!” The baron smiled. He looked down at the compass, which was desperately directing him inwards. “Our adventure awaits us within the passages of this cave.”
                “I hope you have a torch in that pack, then. I don’t much fancy wandering in the dark through the ritual grounds of human sacrifice.” Malia said.
                “I’d probably prefer it in the dark myself, Lord.” Richard counterpointed. It wasn’t just a matter of not witnessing whatever profane symbols or remains waited inside; dark caves also provided better cover from tax collectors.
                “Both valid perspectives, but I feel that seeing where we’re going will be beneficial. Wouldn’t want to bump the ol’ noggin on a low outcrop now, would we?” He chuckled, taking a torch from his pack. “Onwards!”
                It was the first time a Drakkis had entered the cave in a dozen generations, and the first time one had entered blind in several more. Abhor's torchlight illuminated the dark grey walls, mottled with veins and chunks of red and white, and saw them extend farther into the mountain.
                "It's so dry in here." Richard observed, adding a layer of cave dust to his hands to keep the root dirt company as he ran fingers along the walls.
                "Maybe that's what drew the old baron to it.  Keeps things safe. Preserved." Malia wondered out loud.
                “I’d say it was the privacy, myself. We can only speculate on what he was up to in here, but I don’t think it’s the sort of thing that anyone would want someone else to see.” Abhor opined.
                “We already know it was ritual sacrifice. We’ve been talking about it.”
                “Yes, but what exactly that sacrifice entailed is unknown even to us.”
                Malia shuddered. Richard was comfortable with the situation as long as it didn’t relate to tithes.
 
                None of them were as comfortable as the old baron had been. When he’d run his hands along that same wall centuries before it had come with a rush of exhilaration.
                His own torch had burned bright and shown him the narrow passage that led to what he’d staged a coup to control. There was no apprehension or fear of what might lie beyond, just a sense of one purpose fulfilled, and another awaiting.

                Abhor shuffled forwards slowly, checking the compass almost obsessively. Like a horse tugging at the reins it tried to yank him feverishly along the passageway. Even when his torch was held low and away, the blackness of the compass’s tendrils was somehow clearly visible in the otherwise similar blackness of the dark cave.
                “I think we’re getting close to the altar. This compass is like a pack of wolves trying to drag me along.” Abhor said merrily.
                “Close to where all the sacrifices happened?”
                “We’ve made a lot of suppositions to reach that conclusion. Some of the sacrifices would have happened elsewhere, and the bodies them brought here after all. But maybe.” Abhor said.
                “I don’t think it’s a maybe, Abhor. Have you seen the walls?”
                “What about them?” The young baron asked, stopping to look closer. “There’s a lot of iron in these rocks so they do look a bit sinister.”
                “Sinister like they’re smeared with blood.”
                “Yes, but that’s what I mean about the iron. Makes the rock look red.”
                “Amazing, my Lord. Especially the way it goes into a hand shape too.” Richard said in awe.
                Abhor swivelled to look where Richard was looking. There on the wall was the long, dark brown streak of an old handprint.
 
                The old baron had dragged his bloodied palm idly against the cave wall as he pushed deeper, smiling to himself. Behind him in the blackness he’d left the body of the man he’d taken, although his heart was sitting with a satisfying wetness in the pocket of the baron’s doublet. Something wonderfully diabolical would be set into motion soon, and it filled him with baleful glee.
 
                “Bloodied walls just add to the adventure, I think.” Abhor finally decided, turning away and stepping onwards before the others could argue. “Gives it that sense of courageously wandering into a den of despair, despite the danger to ourselves, and fulfilling our duty regardless.” He recklessly romanticised.
                “I didn’t agree to walking into danger.” Malia snapped with all new urgency. “Is there a threat to our safety here?”
                “Or someone who wants to take more grain?”
                “Oh, goodness no. I didn’t mean to imply there was real danger. Just that it had the sense of it, you know?”
                “You don’t even know what we’re heading towards, so how can you be sure? That compass might be the product of whatever occult magic your ancestor worked with his blood rituals. And his daughter’s bone harvesting.” Malia chastised.
                “I… I suppose I’m not sure, but mother wouldn’t ask me to walk into a pit of snakes like that. And nor would her parents have asked her to ask me to do so. And so forth. We’re good people, and whatever we are expected to do, it will be for the good of the world and be perfectly benign.”
 
                When the old baron rounded a bend in the narrowing passage, what he found was for the detriment of the world, and perfectly malign.
                Standing in a round chamber about the size of his dressing room in the castle, the old baron could feel malice in the air and hatred seeping from the walls. Having never experienced negative emotions coming directly from rock before, it held a distinct and novel charm. Nothing, however, was quite as charming to him as the crude stone altar that stood against the rear wall.
 
                Abhor stepped into a round chamber, about the size of the charitable donation room in the castle. He could feel hope in the air and kindness seeping from the walls.
                "This feels like the place." He said huskily, the excitement taking over his chest. "There's just something... right about it."
                Richard and Malia followed him in. All they could feel was the coldness of a mostly empty chamber, as well as the unsettling dread of several suspiciously bone-coloured totems scattered across the floor. Quite what Abhor found appealing about the place, they couldn't understand.
                "It looks profane." Malia muttered.
                "The gods can't see us here." Richard added, with mixed emotions. Theft, even by withholding, was a tricky subject with the church.
                "What are you talking about? Can you not feel the warm embrace of something bigger within these walls?" Baron Drakkis asked with a chuckle. "And look! That must be the altar!"
                Abhor strode to the short, stone platform at the rear of the chamber. It was for all intents and purposes, a roughly trapezoid structure with a backpiece of sorts carved into the wall behind it. A complicated series of tentacles, teeth and eyes peered back at him from the stone. As Abhor's torchlight passed over the altar's surface, he saw dark stains much like those which had adorned the walls.
 
                Baron Revoltus Drakkis had cackled as he drew the heart from his pocket and placed it onto the altar, smearing the poor chap's blood over the stone surface. Chanting in words that had no place being spoken, even when hidden away in secretive caves, Revoltus held a roughly carved obsidian compass over the top of the heart and stared into the carved eyes on the wall. Years of research into the occult and prayers to the darker forces had brought him to that cave, and that heart, and those guttural chants, and the anticipation was welling in his chest like the spoils of a burst artery.
                "You shall be blood of my blood!" He shouted into the darkness, switching back to his human language for want of the correct profane vocabulary. "You shall be the harrowing of the land and the drying of the seas."
                Shadows had moved around him. They'd moved around the altar. The heart had beat in place and spilled blackness from its veins. It all converged onto the compass.
                "Let this be the seed of your birth. Let it carry your mark and guide my descendants to this place, that they may complete what I have started here when you are ready."
                There was wind inside the chamber, carrying the foul smell of organs, flesh and cooling blood in a vortex of pungency. Had the chamber been a restaurant at the time, there would have been many empty seats and an angry health inspector.
                "I am blood of your blood." Hissed a hoarse voice. "I will harrow the land and dry the seas. The seed of my birth is in your hand, bearing my mark. You must wait for twenty generations. Twenty generations of Drakkis will wait for my arrival. And the last shall bring my seed back here to me, binding their blood, bone and body with mine that I might be set free."
                Shadows and plumes of blackness piled into the compass, which grew colder and lighter in Revoltus' hand. And in an instant it was over. He'd not even had a chance to agree or negotiate with those terms, but on the whole he felt that the outcome was acceptable. He wouldn't be around to see the fruits of his labours but, he decided, when harrowing and sea-drying really got underway it wouldn’t be much of a pleasant sight to behold.
                Revoltus left the cave for the first time, wearing the obsidian compass around his neck. He was alone on the mountainside, but not alone in the knowledge of what had passed.
                "This bodes poorly." Said a man dressed in white. Despite a lack of easily accessible detergents, he'd done a spectacular job of keeping his linens clean. That was just one of the responsibilities of a member of The Pleasant Circle. "Baron Drakkis has conducted his rituals and threatens to bring forth terror."
                "Seems that way." His companion agreed, leaning on his crystal ball. "You can keep following him for another two gold pieces."
                "No, thank you. I've learned what I need." The man replied, viewing the soothsayer distrustfully. The Pleasant Circle did not approve of the occult arts, be they demonic rituals like those of Drakkis or simple scrying like that of the soothsayer. It was never justified to tamper with the natural order, because it gave evil a way into the world. The exception, of course, was when the Pleasant Circle themselves needed something from the realms of the magical; they maintained that when they did it using magic was perfectly alright, although no-one had ever been able to adequately explain why. But for the man in white it was a lot more convenient than walking all the way into the mountains just to find that you'd missed the Baron by a couple of days. Besides, a minor amount of dabbling in the sorcerous arts was why they'd invented atonement.
 
                “I’ve done it, friends! I’ve followed the directions!” Abhor beamed. In the torchlight his smile seemed broader and more intimidating, but just as genuine.
                “Are you really sure that you want to do the putting down bit?” Malia asked, carefully stepping around a decorated human skull. “This doesn’t seem like it will lead to anything good.”
                “This isn’t what they do to tithe dodgers, is it?” Richard worried. The others ignored him.
                “Like I said, Malia, mother wouldn’t encourage me to do bad deeds. I have to be nice to everyone, remember? But if you’re worried then I won’t force you to stay. You’ve always been free to part company with me.” Abhor told her sincerely.
                Malia looked at him in silence. There had been no hint of malice in his actions at any point of their travels, and she really believed that he wasn’t trying to complete a dark ritual. But he was just so ready to follow directions; if there was a dark purpose to this duty of his, then he might not even think twice about carrying it out as long as he was asked to do it nicely.
                “I think I should stay.” She said.
                “Marvellous! I’m pleased that we get to complete this duty together.” Abhor said happily, placing the compass down on the altar.
                What little torchlight fell on its surface disappeared in the expanding tendrils of blackness.
 
                The Pleasant Circle, although well-intentioned, were not well-equipped. Years of determinedly charitable giving and helping anyone who asked had not left them with a secure base of finances, land or capital. This put them in something of a quandary when it came to stopping the powerful Drakkis Barony, who had all of those things alongside a willingness to slaughter anyone who stood against them. They were even willing to slaughter those who stood alongside them if it seemed like it would be funny.
                No arguments raged among The Pleasant Circle, because that just wouldn’t have been nice. Gentle debate burbled between each of the members instead. A few compliments were thrown in too. Between them, after agreeing that everyone’s hair was looking lovely and no-one needed to panic about the first impressions they made to strangers, they came up with the only plan they could. Evil might have been brought into the world by Drakkis, but The Pleasant Circle, in their sickening brand of wisdom, decided that love could get rid of it. And they had twenty generations to achieve it.
                Lots were drawn to decide who among The Pleasant Circle would marry into which of the other noble families that neighboured the Drakkis Barony, and who would take the plunge into marrying Revoltus himself. A woman named Hope Eternal, drew the shortest straw.
                Although lacking influence, each of the Circle members found it easy to get along with people of all walks of life on account of how pleasant they were, so the matrimony had been swift and uncontested in each case.
                When, eventually, Revoltus and Hope’s heir came of the age to marry, the heir of one of the Pleasant Circle’s noble families was chosen to wed them. The Drakkis blood might have been poised to unleash evil, but the Pleasant Circle blood would dilute and distort it.
                Generation after generation of Drakkis heir was born to generation after generation of secretly primed Pleasant Circle progeny. Little-by-little, the good influence would chip away at the darkness.
               
                Abhor’s torch still burned. All three of them knew that to be true because they could feel its heat and hear it crackling, but the shadows of the compass had obscured and wrapped it until the glow could no longer be seen.
                “Blood of Drakkis?” hissed a voice from the general direction of the compass.
                “Yes, hello! That’s me.” Abhor replied conversationally, as if he were addressing a merchant instead of a cursed compass. “My name is Abhor, lovely to meet you.”
                “Abhor… yes. My name is Sathalan. It is also a pleasure to meet you.” The voice replied. It had a harshness that grated against the ears. “I have waited, grown, and prepared myself for twenty generations. Your ancestors nurtured me with rituals and sacrifices. They pledged your bloodline to my service and bound me to it in turn.”
                “Ah. That’s unfortunate. I didn’t realise we’d exercised such unfair practices of indentured servitude.” Abhor said with a note of disappointment.
                “I knew it.” Malia said.
                “Oh, I don’t know. It made me stronger and helped me to make myself manifest.” Sathalan disagreed. “So from my perspective, it wasn’t all that bad.”
                “I see where you’re coming from, but blood rituals and human sacrifice are really quite unpleasant. We’ve been doing our best to put that sort of thing behind us, as a family.”
                Malia’s mouth dropped, not that anyone could see it. She was lost in a sea of understatements, whilst Abhor had a respectful discussion with what she could only assume was a demon.
                “You know, I can appreciate that. Still, nothing can be done about it now.” Sathalan accepted.
                “Right enough.”
                “All you need to do now is pledge your body to join with me, and place the compass around your neck, and your duty will be done.” Sathalan advised happily.
                “I can do that!” Abhor said happily.
                “What?! No!” Malia shouted. She reached forwards for Abhor’s shoulder, but in the darkness accidentally grabbed Richard’s face. The farmer made a displeased squeal.
                “Hm? Why’s that? This is the end of my duty! Once we’re done, we can relax for a while.”
                “Why does this demon need to fuse with your body?”
                “I don’t know, but I’m sure that Sathalan would be amenable to answering your questions, wouldn’t you Sathalan?”
                “I need to join with the blood of my blood to be free from this place and walk the world once more.” He answered.
                “To what end?” Malia pressed.
                “Oh… well, if I recall from what Revoltus asked… it was for a few things. A bit of this and that.” The demon evaded.
                “Like scorching the earth? Destroying humanity? Enslaving all creatures for the good of the Drakkis?”
                “I wouldn’t be on board with that sort of thing, and neither would mother.” Abhor assured her. “There’s no way she would ask me to get involved in that kind of behaviour.”
                “But you said yourself that your family wasn’t quite so magnanimous in the past. And Sathalan here got his orders from a Drakkis a long time ago.”
                Abhor pondered. Malia’s logic was reasonably sound.
                “Alright, I’ll ask directly. Are you planning to take over, scorch, or otherwise heavily inconvenience the world as we know it, Sathalan?”
                There was a pause. Twenty generations of waiting pressed the demon into wanting action, but twenty generations of Drakkis blood being diluted by the Pleasant Circle had also taken their toll. Just as it had softened Drakkis, the blood-link between the family and Sathalan had given the demon the virtue of honesty. Or at least, guilt over dishonesty.
                “You know what? The overwhelming likelihood is yes on that one. It’s almost certainly going to be what I do, and I won’t try to hide that.” The demon answered.
                “Well, thank you for being honest with us.” Abhor said gratefully. “I would very much prefer it, as would my companions here, if you were to rein that in.”
                Sathalan muttered something under his breath, which was impressive for an incorporeal being, and then spoke again.
                “Sorry, Abhor. That’s not something I can promise you. I was summoned with a very clear purpose.”
                 “Ah. A shame. I think we’re going to give releasing you a miss on this occasion. It’s nothing personal, you’ve been very polite to us, but having the world scorched would put something of a crimp on our ongoing plans for the future.”
                “And those plans are what, exactly?” Sathalan asked with innocent curosity.
                “Well… mostly for there to be a future.”
                “That’s a disappointing outcome for me. Very much so. I’d even go so far as to say that I would like you to reconsider that position, Abhor; that’s an indication of how much it goes against the outcome for which I was hoping.” Came the demonic hiss in reply.
                “Totally understood, Sathalan. Totally. But I’m afraid we’re pretty well convinced by our own argument here. The world should be allowed to live.” Malia answered, feeling that when a debate carried such high stakes, it was worth supporting the person on your side.
                “Right. Well, that’s a pity. It does sound like a nice idea for there to be a future though, I won’t deny that. Would you at least consider giving the obsidian compass to someone else when you get outside again? Maybe to one of your descendants on your death bed or something so that you can get all the use you want out of the world, and then give me another shot at getting out? That would be a real favour to me.” Sathalan asked, doing his best at compromising within the constraints of their situation.
                “I’ll definitely consider that.” Said Abhor amiably. “It wouldn’t be very pleasant to take the chance of compromise away from you.”
                “Thank you.” The demon replied.
                Silence filled the chamber.
                “Well, we’ll get out of your hair. It’d be cruel to flaunt all this corporeal freedom we have in front of you any longer. Have a good day Sathalan.” Abhor said, turning away from the altar.
                “Sure, sure. You too, Abhor. And both of you two as well. Think about me and bear my request in mind.” Said Sathalan.
                “Yeah. Bye.” Malia said uncertainly.
                “Goodbye my Lord’s demon.” Said Richard.
                A rushing of black smoke towards the compass signalled Sathalan’s return to whatever space he occupied, and once again the chamber was illuminated by yellow flame. In silence, the three companions walked back out of the cave and into the sunlight.
                “That certainly wasn’t what I’d expected from my duty. Mother will be surprised to hear what happened, I’ll bet.” Abhor announced, putting the compass into his pocket. “I’d better be getting back home now, to be honest.”
                “Thank you for not letting Sathalan destroy the world, Abhor.” Malia said.
                “Aye, my Lord. Thank you. Much appreciated.” Richard agreed.
                “Ha! You’re welcome. It’s all in a day’s work. I’d be a poor baron indeed if I let you all get annihilated by a demon, even one as polite as Sathalan.” Laughed Abhor. “Would either of you like to join us for dinner?”
                “I’d better not. Need to get back to the family myself.” Richard declined.
                “Right you are, friend. Malia?”
                “You probably need to have this conversation with your mother in private.”
                “Probably right. But you’re both always welcome whenever you fancy dropping in. Thank you both for sharing in my duty.” Abhor said.
                Richard and Malia watched as Abhor strode away happily, gripping his backpack straps with both hands. By the end of the day he would be in the castle once more, with his duty fulfilled.