Chapter I : Pale Horse

« At my door, the Pale horse stands

To carry me to unknown lands. »

-John Hay

A wet fog was falling over the Hamlet, dulling the last dying lights of the day. Gesmas shivered at the chill bite of the evening's air, burying himself further under the fur collar of his old coat. As far as he could remember, the Malemort estate always had seemed to him to be forever draped in that sleepy fog, tinted with faded gold and copper accent, like the weak light of a flame behind a blurry glass. He leant against the pedestal of the Ancestor memorial, decrepit but still standing proud at the very center of the small town. The stagecoach had returned empty to the Hamlet today, and he saw no unfamiliar face among the usual suspects strolling around. He could feel the statue's disapproving eyes of stone on him, as he rolled a cigarette. As if the rasp kiss of the smoke would warm him up. He set tired and craving eyes on the tavern, as its faded clamors and laughers troubled the quiet of the dusk. He wouldn't have refused a drink. The ale they were serving here was cheap and bitter, but the warmth of the alcohol was still more welcoming to him than a whore's cold and loveless embrace. But his pockets were empty, and he still had some tobacco left.

He lightened his cigarette, glancing at the eerie, grim hill upon which sat the ruins that towered over the Hamlet. A year had passed since Gesmas had bound himself to these lands, under the shadow of the imposing and once opulent manor. Its vestiges had kept the secret of its horror since the Ancestor passed away and an unnamed heir had claimed their rights on the Estate since, never to be seen. He knew only little about the Ancestor. All that was left from him was this crumbling memorial, and the burden of his mistakes. Some adventurers had tried to uncover what was laying beneath the foundation of the Darkest Dungeon. They never came back. This cursed manor was a pit of damnation, and from its open gates, the Evil had unleashed the abominations that now haunted the lands surrounding the Hamlet. He nervously drew the smoke into his lungs, but his suddenly tight throat made him hack.

The distinct sound of hooves stomping hastily on the muddy soil nearly startled him. It couldn't be the Estate stagecoach, parked near the tavern… that crooked wagon was the only -almost- safe way to reach the Hamlet. Malemort gathered the desperate, the humble and the devoted. Colonies of Lepers seeking refuge, disowned Crusaders and Sisters of Saint Martha, following the shadows like a flight of crows to seek the light in this hopeless place. Wanderers from all sides, carried by an ill wind, bringing bad news, or a spark of indigent and the faithful came in numbers, banding together to brave the perils of the journey. The fools who tried to reach Malemort on their own were never seen again. Until now, apparently.

Amidst the mist, appeared the haggard silhouette of a lone traveler, mounted on a pale dappled horse. The rider was hiding their face under a wide hat with a plume and a musket was hanging at the right side of the steed's saddle.

The voyager's mount was knocked up, panting, white foam drooling from his bit to its neck, glistening with sweat. The grey horse bit on its snaffle as a dry jolt of the reins steeply braked it. Its legs were damp with wet, dark mud and Gesmas could see a tray of blood, dripping from a nasty gash on its rump. Maybe a wolf or a gnasher… Or worse.

There were very good reasons nobody sane dared to wander unaccompanied on the torturous path to the Malemort Estate… Gesmas could still clearly remind himself of his own journey to the Hamlet. He remembered the bumpy rugged road and the creaky stagecoach with its shabby seats full of bugs and how dense was the fog surrounding the infamous equipage. He barely shared a word with his travel companion -a young arbalester, who died in the year- and when he heard, through the dimness of the night and from the depths of the forest distant plaints and bizarre noises, so odd that he couldn't put a word on it, Gesmas would just pretend it was the wind. And still, before his very eyes, there was this rider who made it alone through the Old Road. The Highwayman couldn't tell yet if it was a brave or a foolhardy soul, hiding under that wide feathered hat.

The stranger dismounted, splattering their leather boots with mud as their feet touched the ground. The silhouette was gracile, feminine, Gesmas noticed, and he saw the blaze of long copper strand of hair falling down from under the hat, like embers glowing through the ash of the lifting fog. Her outfit looked worn out and her riding cloak was torn here and there. Her buck hide doublet was stained, and the deep blue silk of her sleeves had lost its luster. The rider probably noticed Gesmas' stare as she turned her face to him. Her cheeks were pale and her eyes darker than the blackest and treacherous waters of the Cove. He saluted her, slightly tilting his ratty tricorne and she silently nodded back, the feathers of her hat lightly bouncing at her subtle gesture. She had something in her manners, by the way she was standing and how her gloved hand reached for a wild strand of red hair to tug it back behind her ear that made him think that she was -as Dismas, his fellow Highwayman would say- a ''Lady of quality''. She had the unreachable grace and discreet elegance of those who know their worth and nonchalantly feign to not display it.

He knew only too well this kind of temperament from Boleyn, the local Grave-Robber. She was as criminal as he was… or even worse. For Gesmas, the dead should rest undisturbed… but this unspoken rule was the least of Boleyn's problems and she had little scruple on the question. Yet her life hadn't always been this miserable, filled with dirty deeds and desecration. She once was a noble lady, and he could still see it in her demeanor. Grief and bitterness had tarnished her beauty, but she kept the gestures, the stance and the elegant hypocrisy… However, every and each of her words was filled with poison and the most courteous smile on her thin lips could turn into the most unpleasant smirk, chilling Gesmas to the bones. But the stranger's presence was more intimidating than unsettling.

She unbuckled the musket from her horse's saddle, throwing its baldric around her shoulder and shoved the reins in the Caretaker's hands. He welcomed her venue with exaggerated bowings and a crooked yellow smile as she handed him a letter. They exchanged a few words Gesmas couldn't catch the meaning of, and she headed off to the direction the Caretaker pointed to her, her steps light and swift, heels clattering on the wet mud of the path.

Days had passed since the stranger's arrival in Malemort and rumors started to spread in the Hamlet like a disease. She arrived in the blind, mounted on a pale horse and nobody knew her name nor where she was coming from. She was secretive, wandering in the town, waiting for orders to keep her in motion. Sister Boissel and Sister Alma, the two Vestals of the Hamlet often saw her retiring in the Cathedral cloister. Sometimes she could be seen in the transept, lighting candles and counting the beads, beseeching the Lord and whispering his words.

Gesmas heard that she was a Musketeer. Inquisitive eyes had noted the faded crest embroidered on her cloak, igniting even more gossips and whispers about her. Musketeers were wellborn champions, the elite of some foreign royal court. They found their marks in the competition field and on the hunting-ground. They hit targets, graceful stags and stubborn boars with deadly precision, for the beauty of the gesture. A lavish life of challenges and refinement. They didn't chase after nightmares, boots in the muck and fear in the enthrails… And thus the Highwayman caught himself wondering how she could have ended up in Malemort.

''… Maybe it's just for the thrill of adventure? Who knows.'' stated Gesmas nonchalantly tapping on the stained wooden table. He took a sip of ale, raising his eyes to his comparse Dismas, sitting in front of him.

The air of the tavern was barely breathable and he had to raise his voice to be heard over the tumult of the inn. Tonight's was the Inkeeper's special treat to the Hamlet, and the ale was free for a night, gathering nearly all the villagers in the small establishment.

''Bet it!'' blurted Dismas, violently putting back his own tankard on the old table, spilling liquor on it. ''Pretty sure she came here for the very same reason as you and I.''

''You mean to run away from problems maybe?'' inquired a distant and slightly mocking voice coming from under Reynauld's helm. The Crusader took a seat at their table, candlelights flickering in the dull reflection of his visor. Dismas gave him an irritated look.

''You're a fine one to talk Reynauld, you are an arrant thief and maybe twice as criminal as I am…''. He took a sip of ale, cloaking his annoyance behind the heavy tankard. ''At least they didn't threaten to hang me for the same reasons as this guy.'' He thrown a look behind his shoulder to the Bounty Hunter sitting alone at a back table. ''You know… deviant tastes.'' Dismas sneered and Gesmas couldn't help but imagine Reynauld displaying a disapproving frown under his helm. He snorted in his scarf to conceal a smirk.

Dismas waved his hand as he picked up the conversation. ''So, back to that Musketeer… She must have got into deep troubles to end up in Malemort. Nothing good to get or to take from this godforsaken place. The ale here isn't even close to good and you get more disease from a visit to the brothel than from a raid in the Warrens!''

''When someone new arrive in the Hamlet, one shouldn't ask any question.'' Reynauld said. ''She probably have her own reason and nothing to left behind… Or no one.'' His voice wavered a bit. '' Does she even have a name?''

Dismas shook his head. ''None that anybody had heard from her. She barely speak a word.'' He sighed ''Anyway, enough headlocks for tonight,'' he stretched his back before throwing a couple of bone dice onto the table. ''who play dice with me?''

Gesmas raised a polite hand to refuse ''Thanks but my mind isn't at it…''

''Mine neither,'' added Reynauld ''don't beg me for it..''

''No one ever play games with me!'' groaned the Highwayman, with visible indignation.

''Maybe it's because you cheat like… every time. By the time you got them everybody in town know that these dices are piped.''

''Bullshit! Come and see Reynauld and I'll show you if they're piped or not!'' Dismas champed at the bit. ''You never play games, never drink, you don't even shag, for God's sake! Why are you even in tavern for?''

''Do not speak blasphemy!'' the Crusader barked, thumping the table with his gauntlet.

Gesmas watched the two as they were arguing, snickering under his scarf. After a moment he took a long look at the bottom of his tankard, as if the bitter ale would provide him some answers. A week had passed, or maybe two and she wouldn't give her name. Another strange folk to the Hamlet he told himself.

He drank up his jug.