The Mournful King

VII. Before Baphomet

I am King no longer.

The words echoed around the quiet of the small camp, caught in the crackling fire and spun by the small breaths of breeze. The sun was setting on the narrow path towards Baphomet's lair and they had stopped for the day. Fionn seemed somehow relieved to be rid of his crown and the life it represented, though his steps were still heavy with an invisible weight. Currently, he was carrying wood over for the fire while the Silent cooked and Andraste took care of the horses. It was strangely peaceful and almost companionable considering they were all virtually strangers.

They were three days north of Tamaris now, into the Argent Forest. Fionn and Andraste had talked, but they were more concerned about Naris-sent pursuit than Baphomet at this point. Now that it had not materialized, they could finally relax a little bit and not ride so hard.

"How has Baphomet terrorized the east?" Andraste asked once she'd finished and they were all around the fire. "He would not act as a black knight, or at least it seems unlikely."

Fionn sighed. "There was a small town where he now makes his home, Lansbriga. Brave souls to make their home there, where help cannot easily reach. Moving an army through the Argent Forest is impossible, particularly in the hills where the ground is rough and broken, unsuited for any but the most surefooted mounts and even then only when they do not bear a rider. Baphomet arrived, a giant hunched figure shrouded in rags, as a prophet of doom. When the village militia tried to drive him out, he butchered most of the town. A few made it to safety. Ever since, knights have ventured forth to try and slay the beast, and none have returned. Their squires have made it back on occasion, and all talk of horrible deaths at his claws, their lips pale and quivering as they speak. From the heart of the forest, he can strike at the roads that lead north to Deva and Ros with impunity, dragging caravans and traders into the darkest part of the wood. He does not strike often, but enough to inspire fear. Some of the minor lords in the area are rumored to be paying him tribute so he does not burn their holds and slaughter their people wholesale."

Andraste frowned slightly. "Baphomet is an elder fiend. Wealth and the fear of men would not be enough for him. He has some kind of purpose. There is something he wants."

"I shudder to think what it might be."

The Silent was in perfect agreement with Fionn when it came to that reaction. He could feel his mark burn at the mention of even Baphomet's name. He had heard that in the west, the demons worked together. In the east, they were usually bitter rivals. Gader'el and Baphomet seemed to be no exceptions.

"Perhaps he is using the mirror," Andraste said thoughtfully. "If its properties are as you say, that would be a great boon to him. I wish I had the libraries of the Arcanum at my disposal. A relic like the mirror would be known to my people and with them, perhaps I could divine more of its purpose and abilities."

Fionn shrugged. "I know enough to desire a chance to gaze into its depths."

"Why the past?" The western woman was watching the former king carefully as she spoke. "I would think that you would worry about the fate of Yssa in the growing darkness."

"My son will do what must be done. He will be a good king, better than I was, and that is what Yssa needs," Fionn said. He laughed, but there was no humor to it. "I am a selfish man. I have always been selfish. It is my flaw as much as pride, Lady Andraste. I held too tightly to the thing I felt was my own, to the thing I loved, until I crushed it. I lost what I treasured most. Now my future is bitter and empty, just fleeting dark days before a lonely end. The mirror would allow me a glimpse back at what that mattered to me most, as it once was. A vision of happier days. I hope you will not begrudge an old man that."